Visions of the Dark

It was a bright Saturday morning in Greenwood, Alabama and Mike Gambrelle decided to use this morning to repair a hole in his roof.  The previous week he had noticed a small wet spot on the ceiling of his bathroom while a rainstorm beat down outside.  He made the decision to wait till Saturday, his day off, to track down the leak and repair it.  And now, he scaled the ladder with a hammer and a bucket of roofing tar in tow.

Mike scoured the roof until he finally found the root of the problem.  A nail had punctured one of the shingles and had finally rusted out leaving a tiny hole which had allowed water to make its way through the wood underneath.  He got the hammer and removed what remained of the rusty nail.  It was while he was in the middle of daubing the thick tar into the hole that he first heard the little voice.  It came quite unexpectedly into his head.  There were two very strange things about the voice.  The first thing was that the voice sounded like a coarse, raspy voice.  It was completely separate from his own inner voice.  The second and far more bizarre thing about the voice was what it said – “Peavine Falls”.  

This was not totally mystical to Mike, however.  He knew quite well what Peavine Falls was; it was just that Peavine Falls wasn’t a place he thought about very often.  Matter of fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had thought of it, much less visited it.

Peavine Falls was the name given to a waterfall located in the woods at Oak Mountain State Park.  It was a popular place with a lake for swimming or boating, a park for grilling out and picnics, trails for hiking or horseback riding, and the long road that lead to the top of the mountain where the trail to Peavine Falls began.  It was a winding gravel road that seemed to go on forever.  Eventually, after passing some gorgeous glimpses from high atop the mountain, it ended in a small gravel parking lot.  Just under the stretching trees was the beginning of the mile long trail that descended gradually to the top of Peavine Falls.  It was really just a creek that cascaded down the mountainside to fall the sixty or seventy feet to the pool below the rock shelf.  It was still a beautiful, serene place to go and wade through the cool pool or just sit on the rocks and enjoy the peaceful sound of Peavine Falls.

Where the name came from, Mike didn’t know.  He had visited Peavine Falls probably a dozen times during his life, mostly during his childhood.  He remembered that there was a small wooden bridge that had been built over the creek right near the mouth of the falls.  Mike thought briefly about his memories of the place and the strange manner in which the little voice had come into his head.  Then the thoughts were forgotten as he resumed his hole-patching job.

That night Mike sat watching T.V.  Mike was not a very handsome man, had never been married, and worked in the computer business.  By most accounts, he was the stereotypical nerd.  He did have a girlfriend for a while, but he hadn’t dated anyone for several months.  All in all, his social life was in a rut.  After repairing his roof he had gone to his parent’s house to watch football with his mom and dad.  Now, he was back at home and bored.  While he sat watching T.V. he heard the little voice again.  It was the same raspy voice he had heard earlier in the day.  The voice said, “Go to Peavine Falls”.

Mike was caught so unexpectedly that he actually looked around the room for the source of the voice.  But there was no mistaking; it had originated within his mind.  He sat wondering if it had originated out of his own mind or if it were only manifesting itself in his mind.  Either way, it sure was a peculiar thing to say.  He could only assume that it was some aberration of his own subconscious mind.  But why would he be suggesting to himself to go to Peavine Falls?  Of all places to go to that was one of the last places he longed to visit.  Not that it was a bad place but because he just never really was that big a fan of hiking through the woods.

These things crossed his mind as he sat trying to understand the nature of such a strange phenomenon.  Eventually, his mind returned to the T.V. program he was watching and he completely forgot about the voice and Peavine Falls.

The next day Mike awoke to a beautiful Sunday morning.  He rose and showered and then went out for breakfast.  His plans for the day included very little.  He did, however, plan on going to the mall to do a little shopping.  Mostly, he just needed to kill part of his boring day.

He ate at a local restaurant called Mamie J’s Café, which served a very fine country breakfast on Sundays.  He took his time eating, drinking coffee, and reading the Sunday paper.  After about an hour he decided it was a good time to head out to the Galleria.  Just as he got into his car the voice spoke again.  But this time the voice was more pronounced and lasted longer.

“Go to Peavine Falls, Mike,” It said.  Mike froze upon hearing the return of the little voice.  He began to wonder if some malady was affecting his brain.  The thought also crossed his mind that he was going crazy.  He began to sweat profusely and warily looked around.  Then he decided to try and “talk” to the voice.

“Who are you and why do you keep telling me to go to Peavine Falls?” Mike thought.

“Why, Mike, I’m just a little voice in your head.  Rather like your conscience, you might say,” the little voice said.

“My conscience, huh?  Well, why do I need to go to Peavine Falls?  What’s there?”

“It’s not what’s there.  It’s who’s there?” the little voice corrected.

“Alright then, who’s there?”

“Well, that I can’t tell you.  It’s not because I am being vague or mean or anything.  It’s that I can’t see the answer just yet.  Maybe I never will; but I do know that there is someone there you must meet.”

Mike was really sweating a storm now.  He looked around hoping that no one saw him sitting in the car acting in a somewhat jittery manner.  He decided to crank the car up and get on the road.  He didn’t want the conversation to end so he kept thinking to the little voice.  “Why is it so important I meet this person?”  But this time the little voice didn’t respond.  It had apparently left.  Mike tried several more times to conjure a response, but it wouldn’t answer him.

Mike pulled the car over at a gas station and went in to wash his hands and face.  He returned to his car and slowly managed to regain his composure.  After thinking about it for several minutes he decided that it was just a weird manifestation akin to daydreaming.  “Maybe my life has become so boring that my fantasies are attempting to compensate in some way,” he thought to himself.  He finally departed the gas station and headed for the mall.

The Galleria was in Hoover.  It wasn’t a far drive but it was far enough to allow Mike’s thoughts to wander to other things.  He drove for a while and then it struck him; it wouldn’t be much further down the road to go to Peavine Falls now.  But just as he thought this, the little voice returned.  “No, Mike, you don’t need to go to Peavine Falls today,” it said.

“Why not today?” Mike thought.

“Because the person you need to meet is not there now.  But don’t worry, they will be there real soon.”

“How soon?  And why do I need to meet this person?”  Mike began to sweat again.

“Calm down, Mike.  You’re not going crazy.  There’s the little voice that tells you when something is right or wrong and then there is the little voice that tells you when something feels right or wrong.  I’m the second type of little voice.”

“What do mean?” Mike thought as he wiped the sweat from his face.

“You know, you’ve heard of people hearing an inexplicable little voice just before they get on an airplane that’s about to crash.  And they listen to the voice and don’t get on the plane.  Or they play the lottery and win all because there was a little voice telling them the winning numbers.  It’s like the voice ensures that you meet your destiny.”

“How soon will I meet this person and why is it so important that I meet them?” Mike asked.

“I can’t say exactly.  These things haven’t been revealed to me yet.  But as soon as I know I will let you know.”  And with that the voice was gone.

Several days passed without Mike hearing the voice.  He pondered a great deal about the strange little voice and his conversations with it.  He was really at a loss to explain what exactly was going on.  Finally, he thought he understood the nature of the meeting that would take place.  The best explanation he could come up with was that he would finally meet the perfect woman and that they would fall head over heels in love with each other.  This was the person that he was destined to meet at Peavine Falls for sure.  This only served to fuel his imagination with all manner of romantic fantasies over the next several days.

And then, late Wednesday night while he slept, the voice returned to rouse him.  “Mike, it’s time to go to Peavine Falls,” the little voice said.  It took Mike a few minutes to get his bearings but he realized what the voice had said and he looked at the clock – it read 12:26.

“What?” Mike said confused. “It’s after midnight.  Surely I can’t get in the park at this hour.”

“Oh, but you must, Mike.  And you must hurry.  The time to meet your destiny is at hand.”

“This is insane!” Mike said more to himself than to the little voice.  “There is no way I am gonna get up and drive out to Oak Mountain State Park at this hour.”

“You simply have to Mike,” the little voice countered.  “It’s your destiny Mike and your destiny can’t be ignored! Besides, if you don’t get up right now and go, I will not leave you alone.  I will become so annoying that you will wind up going just to be free of my voice.”

“What about after I meet this person?” Mike said.  “Will I be rid of you then?”

“Most assuredly so.”

So Mike got up and got dressed and left to go to Peavine Falls.  He knew that it was crazy but it really wasn’t any crazier than the events of the previous week.  Once he was in his car and driving down the road he asked the voice about the person.  But the voice didn’t respond.  So Mike stopped the car and made like he was going to turn around and go back home.  It worked.  The voice appeared almost immediately.

“What are you doing, Mike?” it said.

“I thought that would get you to come back,” Mike said smiling at his victory.  “Now, you either stay with me and keep talking or else I go back home.  Got It?”

“Fine!  Just as long as you hurry up and get there.”

“You said that it hadn’t been revealed to you yet about the person.  What about now?”

“I still can’t see the person but I know that the time is here.”

“You may not know but I bet you it’s a woman!  And not just any woman, but the woman!” Mike said excited at the proposition of meeting the right woman.

“Maybe so, Mike.  You never can tell with these kind of things,” the little voice said.

“Oh, I’m sure of it!” Mike said.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at the entrance to Oak Mountain State Park.  The ticket booth was empty and a metal pole blocked the entrance.  “Now what?” Mike said.

“Go around it,” the little voice said matter-of-factly.

“I’m not gonna go around it,” Mike protested.  “What if the rangers catch me?”  Mike got out of his car and began to call.  “Hello!  Anybody around?”  But there was no reply.

“Oh well, I guess you’re right.  But if I get caught what do I do?”

“Mike, you won’t get caught,” the little voice reassured.  “Remember, it’s your destiny to get to Peavine Falls!”

So Mike pulled through the grass around the pole and drove on through the park.  No one was around and no one saw him.  Soon he arrived at the gravel road that wound its way up Oak Mountain to the trailhead that lead to Peavine Falls.  As he got close to the top of the mountain the voice began to grow agitated.

“Oh my God!  Mike, you gotta hurry!  I see something bad.  There’s blood!  I see blood!  Someone’s hurt very badly!” the voice screamed and wailed.

Mike got out of the car and began running down the trail.  “Somebody’s in trouble!  That’s what this is about, isn’t it?  I’m supposed to be the one to save them!” Mike said to the little voice as he ran.  But the voice wasn’t listening to Mike.  It just kept on shouting for Mike to hurry because of the blood.

The trail was about a mile long but it was all downhill.  Mike ran on thinking that someone was obviously injured and in need of assistance.  Maybe they had fallen from the top of the falls.  It all made sense to him now.  His destined encounter wasn’t with the right woman.  Peavine Falls would be a rather silly place for such a thing.  But this made sense now.  The location was preordained all along.  His destiny was to save someone who had somehow suffered an injury at Peavine Falls.

Mike ran on and the voice kept on spurring him to run faster.  And then he knew he was close to the falls.  He could hear the sound of water as it fell from the top of Peavine Falls to the pool below.  The little voice was saying, “I see the person who is bleeding!  I see the person now!  I see who it is, Mike!”

Mike crossed a small wooden bridge that heralded that the end of the trail was indeed near.

“Who is it?  Where are they?  What is wrong with them?”  But just as Mike thought this he arrived at the big bridge that crossed over the top of Peavine Falls.  And there, standing in the middle of the bridge, was the figure of a person.  Mike stopped running and called to the person, “Hey!  Are you alright?”  No answer came.  Mike stepped out onto the bridge.  He suddenly realized that the little voice in his head had quit talking to him.  The figure on the bridge made no move or sound.  Mike walked cautiously forward.

“Hey buddy, are you hurt?”  Mike was now only a few feet from the figure and he could now see that it was a middle-aged man.  The man was looking down over the falls.  Upon hearing Mike’s footfalls on the wooden bridge he looked up.  Suddenly, Mike felt like something was wrong.  That is when the man pulled a gun out from beneath his jacket and pointed it at Mike.

“Wait a minute!” Mike said as the realization of what was about to happen dawned upon him.  “Please, don’t do it!  Please, God, no!”  Mike screamed and pleaded but the man just looked at him completely expressionless.

“I’m real sorry, mister,” was all the man said before he pulled the trigger.

The next day the top story on the front page of The Birmingham News read:

MAN KILLED AT PEAVINE FALLS

Authorities are scratching their heads at the events that lead to a shooting shortly after midnight last night at Oak Mountain State Park’s Peavine Falls.  Thomas Miller, 34, of Hueytown shot and killed Mike Gambrelle, 31, of Greenwood at the top of the waterfall.  The connection between these two men and the reason they were at Peavine Falls remains a mystery.  Sources so far are saying that the two men were strangers to each other.  Thomas Miller turned himself in at the Hoover Police Station at about 2:20 this morning.  He was reported to have been calm and cooperative with police officials.  When asked why he shot Mr. Gambrelle, his only reply was that a little voice had told him to do it . . .

In medias res. I am running through the forest, fear coursing through my body, limbs tearing at my face, and an uncertain darkness behind me. The cave was there, despite the hopes that it was all a farce of reason. Not a big cave; just a void in the rocks. A blotch of the world that portends doom. A hole in the universe that cannot truly be empty. The Murklor lives there. As I stood pondering the veracity of my senses before the blank space of the rocks, I heard a chittering followed by a deep moan. I staggered backwards and then heard a sickly, wet slithering. Now, I’m running from madness.

****

Backstory of my life. From an aspiring artist to broken man in 8 easy steps. 1. Choose to have a passion as a sculptor – that is, a guarantee of poverty and obscurity. 2. Meet a girl and fall in love in art school. 3. Get married and realize that your welding skills are only useful for earning money by getting a construction job. 4. Have children and place all of your time and passion for art in the remotest corner of your life. 5. Fall off of a scaffolding and shatter your pelvis and five vertebrae. 6. Get addicted to pain pills while you suffer through three surgeries and eke out a living from worker’s comp payments. 7. Augment the pill addiction with alcohol and chain smoking to help drown the sorrows of your pathetic life. 8. Push your wife to the edge with your self-loathing, addiction, and poverty until she divorces you and takes your kids.

That was three years ago. What we like to call “rock bottom”. The last three years weren’t exactly sunshine and candy canes either. But that is really where the path to the Murklor begins.

****

What does rock bottom look like? Let me show you while Jim Morrison serenades us.

Well, I’ve been down so goddamn long that it looks like up to me 
Well, I’ve been down so very damn long that it looks like up to me 
Yeah, why don’t one you people c’mon and set me free

Sloppy drunk in some hole-in-the-wall bar off the side of the highway. Some redneck trucker sits beside me as we both try to outdrink each other way too early in the day. Most of the conversation is inane blather about sports or women or crude jokes that are full of machismo and a show of masculinity that would give two bulls in a standoff a run for their money. I make some errant comment that questions his boasting manhood and things spiral quickly out of control. The next thing I know, I’m out in the parking lot and we’re cursing each other while he rolls up his sleeves above his trucker’s tan. My drunken mouth continues full barrel even while a part of me knows I ain’t got a chance in hell against this behemoth of a guzzler. He swings a haymaker and I feel like I dodge it but the whiskey ensures my reflexes are as thick as mud. Bam! To the ground I crumple and he throws in a few kicks from his pointy-toed cowboy boots just to make sure I get the message. A few onlookers snicker and escort the burly trucker back inside while I curl up and bleed.

I said, warden, warden, warden won’t you break your lock and key 
I said, warden, warden, warden won’t ya break your lock and key 
Yeah, come along here, mister c’mon and let the poor boy be

Drunk, high, and feeling like being alone is the last thing I need, I decide that it’s a right genius idea to go see Jess and the kids. It’s been weeks and for some reason, I’m 100% sure that she is missing me and ready to welcome me in and have a good time. As I come careening into the driveway, a wave of confusion washes over me as I try to figure out whose blue Dodge is parked at my house – well, I believe it’s still my house regardless of what some ten-dollar-word-spouting judge might say. As my liquor-addled brain grapples with this new information, I come to the obvious conclusion that Jess has herself a new beau. My mood goes from a horny green to a red stick of dynamite in zero to sixty flat. What follows is a blur of screaming, door pounding, window punching, Jess screaming, kids crying, sirens wailing, hurled slurs, scuffling, a police baton, and off I go cuffed and stuffed to spend the night in the slammer.

Baby, baby, baby won’t you get down on your knees 
Baby, baby, baby won’t you get down on your knees 
C’mon little darlin’ c’mon and give your love to me, oh yeah

I’m crawling across the bed of some shit-hole, seedy motel towards the hooker whose about to give me the best night I’ve had in weeks. She takes a long drag of her cigarette and goes over the terms of our business deal one more time. I assure her that I’m good for the money. She reiterates the terms so I pull out my wallet, pull out the bills and fling them across the bed. Satisfied, she gets up to get a drink from the bottle that I’ve already knocked a considerable dent in – the second bottle, I should say. She knocks back a swallow and comes to the bed. Heavy handed and a little too aggressive, I try to help her undress. Later, after growing furious with embarrassment and frustration, I scream at her to just take the fuckin’ money and get out even though I was too drunk to get it up.

Well, I’ve been down so Goddamn long that it looks like up to me 
Well, I’ve been down so very damn long that it looks like up to me 
Yeah, why don’t one you people c’mon, c’mon, c’mon and set me free

****

The long slow road out of Hell is not a straight climb. It entails a lot of backtracking and false roads that lead to dead ends. For every five steps gained, there is another three steps back. It entails such pride-eroding things as hearings before a judge, jail time, court ordered addiction treatment, supervised visits from the Department of Human Services, divorce court hearings, and, my personal favorite, mental health sessions. Dr. Lisa Carlson had been my counselor for the past several years while I slowly and painfully put the broken pieces of my life back into some kind of semblance of normalcy. And so now we come to the real part where our story begins. The part I’ll call the “first session”. Of course, it wasn’t our first session together; but it was the first session where she used hypnotherapy to try and see if it would yield favorable results for my struggle with addiction.

The goal was to have me enter a relaxed state where she would ask a series of questions about the root causes of my addictions and then give me a series of subconscious commands that would, over time, help me to overcome those urges. I listened to her soothing voice as she talked me through several exercises designed to slip me out of a conscious state and into a deep trance-like state. It was truly relaxing and I felt as though I were being drawn into a warm cocoon of bliss with layer upon layer of silky wrappings enfolding me one atop the other. Deeper and deeper I fell into warm, cozy nothingness. And then the next thing I remember is waking violently as the tentacles of the Merklor began to dig through the shells of the cocoon trying to reach me.

I found myself writhing and screaming upon the couch in Dr. Carlson’s office as if I were trying to throw off the grasp of some unseen foe. As I gained my senses and realized where I was, I looked at Dr. Carlson and froze in terror. She sat looking at me with the exact same expression upon her own face.

****

“Mr. Fox, sometimes experiences are so traumatic that we lack the ability to cope with them. The mind can’t adequately process the trauma and pushes the experience into the far corners of memory and down deep in the subconscious. It’s a survival technique that humans have evolved. But even though these memories are repressed, the trauma still exerts a negative influence upon our psyche. They create an imbalance, or pressure, that must be relieved through other avenues of the mind. They manifest in thought patterns, bad habits, self-destructive beliefs, dysfunctional behavior, nightmares, or feelings of guilt.

“Many times, the root cause of alcohol and drug dependency can be found in trauma that has been repressed within the subconscious. In many studies of veterans of war and survivors of car wrecks, the subjects had completely blocked the memories of the traumatic events. Like I said, it’s a survival mechanism that we inherited through our evolution. An artifact of the mind.

“When I placed you in a hypnotic state, I had a straight line to your subconscious mind. I could converse with the part of you that is no longer hiding behind the wall of self-preservation. Usually, the subconscious merely reports the details of traumatic events with no emotional attachment and this allows the therapist to gather information that can be directed in a controlled manner during regular therapy sessions.

“But, your case is different. The other day when I hypnotized you, you encountered a trauma so raw, so visceral, that it shocked you out of your hypnotic state. Whatever your trauma was, it was bad. Honestly, I’ve never seen someone react to their repressed trauma the way you did. It was if you were reliving the experience.

“I don’t even know exactly what is was, either. It was like you were being attacked by someone or something. Mr. Fox, you were screaming at it. You called it The Murklor. Does that mean anything to you?

Mr. Fox, are you alright?”

****

Murklor. The word crept around the corners of my brain for days since the first session. A gnawing, ever-present word that transformed and changed. Knowing the name had unlocked something deep within me. It had set things in motion. It inspired, bewildered, and left me feeling nauseous and mentally drained. It alluded to too many unpleasant ideas. It twisted the chains of thought back upon themselves and turned them into dirty, filthy non-sense. It “told” me strange things in many strange ways – like why is the root of terrible and terrific the same but one means fearful and the other means exhilarated? Terror lives even in the good times. It was deep and full like sub-bass groans that resonated in your chest cavity. It was flitting and sneaky like insects within shadows. It was mocking and irreverent like buffoons or jesters. It was downright evil like a serial killer with a high IQ. It was tall and grim like the undertaker of a dark, Western town. It was all that is wrong with the edges of a sinister world. Grimy, shadowy words latched onto the word Murklor leaving slime trails throughout my brain. I knew there was a struggle brewing. A dark storm building in my life. But somewhere deep down in the bowels of the tempest resided a grotesque and misshapen mollusk with a pearl within it. And as I pried my way into that glimmer of light in the oceanic depths, the name hummed and thrummed like a chant of the Black Mass. Designed to instill fear, it was atomically just a word. Just a name. And I clutched onto that pearl of knowledge because my only true hope to escape the leviathan was to believe that by knowing the true name of something, is to possess the key to its power. Little did I know at that time that the Murklor knew my true name much more intimately and thoroughly than I could ever know its true name. In short, I was a damned, doomed fool.

****

The Nightmares are to be mentioned now. It is their turn to take the stage in this tragedy. The play would not be complete without their little number. And what a motley cast of performers they are, too. You’d think their costumes would be dark grays and blacks, but, no, they are actually an eclectic play of houndstooth, paisley, Jacobean, argyle, plaid, and herringbone, just to name a few. The Nightmares, with their skeletal faces, do bring things that are dark and gray and black and rotten and then the performance turns from burlesque to horror in no time flat.

The cave is a recurring motif, for sure. I mean, it wouldn’t be the Murklor’s handiwork if the cave weren’t a prominent feature of the plotless plot that is a bad dream. Most times I’m outside of it gazing at its limitless darkness. Other times, I’m just inside the mouth struggling to make my eyes adjust to something that is felt but not seen. And on a couple of occasions, I’ve been a feature of the wall – like a fly wrapped in a spider’s sticky web.

The groping appendage is a favorite of the Murklor, too. Most times, it’s a sickly, wet tentacle. Sometimes it’s an insect-like feeler with stiff hairs and pointy, bifurcated claws. It could be dead tree limbs, knotty roots, or thorny brambles. One time it was curling, elegant wisps of fog. The effect is usually the same, though.

Finally, there’s the voice. Not really a recognizable voice, but a sound of something inhuman, alien, and foreign. More of a sound that shouldn’t be. A language of madness. The communications of something so strange to the human idea of language that one is left feeling insignificant and frail before it. The best way I can describe it is what a human voice sounds like to an ant as the human crouches over the ant and narrates the act of squashing it.

I never see the end of their performance. I never get the plot, just the story arc. I never get a coherent whole. Just flashes, snippets, images, and vague feelings. I wake violently and then proceed to sit struggling with the demons of addiction. For it is at those times that I could use a good drink or a calming drug the most.

****

Dr. Carlson: “Ken, I want you to close your eyes and relax. Turn loose now, relax. Let a good, pleasant feeling flow all across your body. Let every muscle and every nerve grow loose and limp. You feel warm and soft like melting chocolate. Beginning from your head, your face, your neck; every muscle is relaxing. Continue down your body, your arms, chest, and back are sinking into the couch. Your legs and feet are going limp. All your weight is being supported by the couch because all of your muscles are completely relaxed.

“Now just concentrate on the flow of your breathing. The rhythm of each inhalation and exhalation is deep and relaxing. Let your mind slip into the stream of the rhythm of your breathing. Droopy, drowsy, and sleepy. Calm, relaxed, and peaceful. Whatever happens you will not be harmed. You’re in a calm, safe place and your emotions are at peace. You’re detached from anything that happens like a disembodied spirit watching with no fear of being touched or harmed.”

~Later~

Dr. Carlson: “Ken, when you were younger, was there somewhere close to where you lived that had woods and a cave?”

Ken: “Yes, we lived close to a state park. There were lots of woods that all the neighborhood kids played in. And there were lots of hills and rock formations. The deeper into the park you went, the more mountainous the woods became. I wasn’t allowed to go too far into the forest, but I did it anyway. That’s how I discovered the cave. It was a scary place and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dr. Carlson: “You don’t have to talk about it, but I think it will help. You’re in a safe place and there is nothing in the woods or the cave that can hurt you now. Was there someone in the cave that hurt you?”

Ken: “Yes. The Murklor. But I don’t like talking about him.”

Dr. Carlson: “And who or what was the Murklor?”

Ken: “He’s the darkness. The mouth of madness. He’s the personification of the abyss. The voice in your head that poisons your soul. He’s the one who wraps his long, thin tentacles around your body and makes you create. He’s the demon muse that drives you to the heights of artistic beauty and then demands that you repay him with blood and misery. He’s the conductor. He’s some strange entity that came down from the oceans of oblivion to lurk and wait for the moment to infect like a malignant tumor that will spread over the minds of its hosts. He’s the morphing, changing face of evil that is always nearby. He’s the creature in the labyrinth who is just around the corner while you run frantically like a mad rat. He’s insanity incarnate! He’s the face of hell – “

Dr. Carlson: “Mr. Fox! Calm down, Mr. Fox! It’s alright.”

Ken: “He’s manipulation and malicious misery! He’s the creature under the bed, the troll under the bridge, the spider in the web – “

Dr. Calrson: “Mr. Fox! Wake up, Mr. Fox! You are awake!”

Ken: “He’s the voice in the killer’s head! He’s . . . He’s . . . Oh, God! Where am I? What is this place?”

Dr. Carlson: “It’s alright, Ken. You’re in my office and everything is alright.”

Ken: “I’m alright?”

Dr. Carlson: “Yes, Ken. Everything is alright. You were re-experiencing a bad memory. But it’s just a memory.”

Ken: (laughing crazily) “Oh, Lisa, don’t you see? He is real.”

****

It was obvious that Dr. Lisa Carlson was in over her head. I was next referred to Dr. Seamus McGrath. He wanted me to go into an inpatient program that he would oversee. Great, another 21-day program that yields nothing but frustration. Let me tell you how these things go. The staff is so busy that they have no time to talk to you one-on-one. They medicate you to calm you down and you’re basically just a walking zombie whose moods have been so chemically neutralized that you don’t really care that you’re being shunned by the staff. They put you in the company of other people who are equally medicated but you find just as irritating as the overburdened staff. You’re expected to participate in group sessions where you have no good reason to talk about yourself with complete strangers and when you are forced to answer a question you feel isolated and unfairly exposed. You don’t really care what others are going through because you don’t know them and you’re dealing with your own crap. In the end, you just tell the staff what they want to hear so you can get the hell out of the program. But Dr. McGrath was different.

He actually spent time with me one-on-one. He asked the right sorts of questions. He actually listened to my responses. He was keen. He was good at what he did. He approached my case as if he were trying to solve a great mystery. He knew the methods and tools to access the deepest reaches of the mind without having to use hypnosis or other crude trickery. Where Dr. Carlson was doing psychotherapy with a mallet, Dr. McGrath was doing it with a laser scalpel.

Which is to say that he managed to gain access into the lair of the Murklor. It was a place he had not bargained for. It most certainly was a place I never wanted to return to. I had repressed it from all of my conscious memory. What he uncovered there was twisted, dark, and disturbing. Things that he never expected to encounter. Things that would haunt his dreams as well. The Murklor would do its damage on his psyche as well before things were done. In essence, Dr. McGrath was in over his head too. But we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?

****

“Did you ever take anyone else to see the cave where the Murklor lived?”

That one simple sentence was like opening a floodgate. Dr. McGrath posed it and then just sat back and waited while I reeled from the bombardment of childhood memories that swarmed through my brain.

We waited till after lunch to meet up at the edge of the woods on the trail. Our parents wouldn’t expect us home until dinner time so that gave us a good five hours to make it to the cave and back. I was the one who discovered the cave; Eric and Nate hadn’t been there yet. I had actually been to the cave several times. I didn’t tell them about the Murklor. The Murklor had told me that he wanted to introduce himself in his own way. Left to his own devices, Eric would have never gone for this excursion. The only reason he was going was because Nate and I had insisted. He had voiced all manner of reservations and reasons why it was a bad idea, but, in the end, we drug him along. Nate, on the other hand, was all in. He was the most rebellious one of us and when I had brought it up, he was ready to leave immediately. I was the one who had to convince him that we should wait till after lunch so that our parents wouldn’t get suspicious.

Eric, always the thinker, had brought a backpack with a bottle of water and some snacks. He acted as if we were going on a two-day journey. The only thing Nate brought was a small radio. He was the music lover of the group and liked to have his rock ‘n roll wherever he went. I brought a hatchet and a flashlight. The two looked at the hatchet questioningly as I met them at the trail head. “The cave isn’t on any trail,” I explained. “The woods get pretty thick leading to it and we’ll need to clear a path.”

“Then how did you find it?” Eric asked.

“I was lost. I was trying to get up the rocks to get a better view of the park so I could find the trail again when I stumbled across it,” I lied, but it sounded good enough to keep them from prying further.

“Well, then, let’s get going,” Nate said turning on his radio.

We walked and talked and joked and sang and the afternoon was warm and pleasant. When we got to the place where we left the trail I deliberately took a path I hadn’t taken before so I could keep up the ruse of using the hatchet to clear limbs from our path. As we got close to the cave there was a change in the atmosphere. Suddenly the aura became somber. A shadow passed over the forest and things felt chillier and the trees pressed upon us more. The strains of Pink Floyd’s Careful with that Axe Eugene filled the air giving the scene a surreal vibe.

We stood before the cave opening and the Murklor hissed. I sensed Eric’s unease but Nate kept up a show of bravado. The Murklor stirred its appendages and a sticky, slithering sound escaped the darkness. I think Eric would have run at that point but I stood behind him urging him forward. Banded together, our fears were harder to act upon. It’s odd how the company of others will do that. Our trio edged into the cave mouth with the flashlight thrust before us like a mighty sword. The Murklor was not the least bit intimidated by us. If anything, he found us amusing.

A low, rumbling chuckle flowed down the passageway as the Murklor came to greet its new guests.

****

The music starts with the bass guitar playing a D note in octaves. Then the organ enters softly. The drums and guitar are so soft as to barely be heard. Richard noodles around with the Phrygian mode on the organ while Roger occasionally inserts strange sound effects from his mouth that are reminiscent of some primal, haunting animal.

June 15^th, 1975. Two boys have been reported missing in the Pine Bluff Forest National Park. The two boys, Eric Thompson, age 12, and Nathan Williams, age 12, were last seen Thursday, June 12^th, after leaving their nearby houses around noon.

As the guitars become more prominent, David begins to accompany several notes with his voice adding to the growing mood of anxiety and surrealism. Roger continues to make breathing and crying noises interspersed with whispers of the title’s warning phrase.

A third boy who was with the two missing youths in the forest has said that they became separated while playing in the state park after lunch. Local police and park rangers have made several searches with no results thus far.

Suddenly, Nick’s drums erupt into rolls that usher in the wild screams of Roger and then the piece charges into a franticly haunting, psychedelic groove.

Authorities and volunteers of local residents are putting together a larger search that will canvas the entire park. This search will take place tomorrow, Monday, June 16^th, at 10:00 a.m.  Anyone interested should contact the Teller County Volunteer Hotline at 1-800-855-3220.

****

After Dr. Carlson’s failed hypnotherapy attempts and before I went into Dr. McGrath’s inpatient program was when I made the trip back home to visit Pine Bluff Forest. I drove by my parents’ old house where I had grown up. That was a rather melancholic experience. I didn’t stop there; I just slowed down and looked at it as I drove by. Too many emotions were tied up in that place to acknowledge. I had enough negative emotions to deal with by going to the forest.

Why did I do it, then? I really can’t say. It was like an instinctual drive. An urge that needed to be satiated. Like the Murklor, having been named and remembered, was exerting its call again. All of that was an unconscious beckoning.

I think on the conscious level I rationalized it all away. I would go there, attempt to find a cave that probably didn’t even exist, and realize that it was all a fabrication of my deep, dark psyche. A phantom story that played some dark part in my addictions. Just a made-up story that contained symbolism and no substance.

Oh, how wrong I was! I parked and entered the park upon the trail. My feet walked it as if they had just done so yesterday, taking me far into the woods to the point where I needed to leave the path and begin my climb up to the cave. There was no deviation, no hesitation, or no confusion of the route. I didn’t even question this until I began to pick my way through trees, scrub, brambles, and stones. As my progress slowed I asked myself what the hell was happening to me. Why did I know this route so well after so many years?

I must have blacked out. My consciousness hit a zone of bizarre time warping and blurriness. The next thing I can distinctly recall is when I found myself standing outside the cave mouth and hearing the Murklor chitter, moan, and then move. That’s when I ran like a tortured animal escaping its prey.

****

Kennedy. It is time to come see me again.

Oh, God, no! Please, Murklor, just let me be.

You know that’s not possible now, young Kennedy.

Why?

Because I have a gift for you. But you’ll have to bring me a gift first.

I don’t want a gift.

Oh, but you do, Kennedy! This gift will be of such value that you’ll thank me for the rest of your life.

What is it?

I can’t tell you until you bring me a gift first.

Really, I don’t want to. Can’t we just be done with this and you leave me alone?

KENNEDY! I don’t think you understand. If you don’t bring me this gift, then I will do horrible things to you and your family. Hells beyond your dreams await my command!

[sobbing] Oh, Murklor, please, NO!

Don’t spurn me, Kennedy! You will bring me what I ask for!

Please, Murklor, what is it? What is this gift?

I want you to bring your two friends to behold me in my full glory.

[through tears and sobs] No. Why, what are you going to do to them?

I will do nothing but show them my immensity. But you will bring an ax for a little game.

Murklor, what kind of game?

YOU WILL DO THIS! Or this is what hell awaits you!

[nightmares rack the child’s mind]

[crying] Oh, God! Noooooooooooooooo!

****

I didn’t tell Dr. McGrath about my visit to the cave just prior to entering his program. Thankfully, the Murklor wanted it that way; we had entered a very complex cat-and-mouse game, you see. According to the Murklor, Dr. McGrath was of the mind that I was on the verge of confessing to the killings of Eric and Nate. The Murklor made me another offer in exchange for bringing him another gift – Dr. McGrath.

With little real freewill in the matter, I was left to the bidding of the Murklor. He was orchestrating the show now. So, while I danced with the crazily-robed, skull-faced nightmare clowns, the Murklor set to plotting an end to poor old Dr. McGrath.

The next few sessions were all a setup that played into Dr. McGrath’s plans to draw me out as the confessee. Of course, I didn’t actually confess. I just insinuated a great deal.

Then the Murklor told me to drop the question that would lead to the climax of the show:

“Dr. McGrath, do you think Exposure Therapy would help me? Do you think we could go to the cave?”

****

[Day Room of the East Ward, 3^rd floor of Rathbone Asylum. Patient Fox and Patient Dithers sit by one of the barred windows. Patient Fox is regaling Patient Dithers with a story. Patient Dithers is near comatose and does not comprehend Patient Fox. Undaunted or unaware, Patient Fox talks to Patient Dithers as if he were an equal party of the conversation.]

“The Murklor told me that Dr. McGrath had contacted a Forest Ranger by the name of Peterson to accompany us. McGrath told me it was because Ranger Peterson knew the area and would be assisting us. In reality, Ranger Peterson was there to take me into custody should we happen to find the suspected remains of Eric and Nate.

“Oh, the remains were there, alright. I knew that too. But the Murklor had everything under control. He wanted two more gifts.

“The tricky part, you see, was taking another ax without the Doctor or Ranger knowing it. Fortunately, it was chilly that day and I strapped it to my torso underneath my coat. I just had to pretend to be a nervous wreck about the whole thing to keep them from getting suspicious.

“I ain’t gonna lie to ya, though, I was still very much afraid of the cave and, of course, the Murklor. He just exudes terror.

“Anyway, we made it to the point where we left the trail. I had to really ham it up that I couldn’t exactly remember. There were some false starts and backtracking and whatnot. All in all, I made a good show of forgetting exactly how to get to the cave. But we finally made it to the cave.

“I really laid it on thick then. At one point I was even cowering behind a rock. They bought it hook, line, and sinker. You could tell that Ranger Peterson was itching to get in that cave and have a look around, too. But he didn’t want to leave me for fear that I’d take off should he find something in there.

“Finally, I reluctantly allowed myself to be escorted into the cave on the arm of Dr. McGrath. And that’s when the fun started.

“The Murklor is a master of drama, let me tell you. He didn’t make his presence known until they got far enough into the cave to see the two “X’s” still standing there. I guess you could say that they were my first two sculptures. Two big “X’s” of crossed timbers – both of them still had the skeletal remains of Eric and Nate on them.

“I have to tell you that the sight made me sick. Even though I was expecting them – the Murklor had told me, ya know – I still wasn’t prepared for the sight. All these years and it was like I was back in my childhood again. Terrified, shaking, and wretchedly sick.

“Dr. McGrath and Ranger Peterson were the ones that the show was for, though. Dr. McGrath let out a sound that might come from a little girl. It was actually a little funny. Ranger Peterson handled it a little better. He was just angry and disgusted. He turned to me and said, ‘What did you do, you nasty little shit?’

“I said, ‘It wasn’t me! It was Him!’ That didn’t really register until He came. The Murklor groaned a deep growl that echoed from somewhere deep within the cave. There was just a bunch of confusion then.

“All around us things in the shadows started moving. They moved with a sticky, wet sound. It was the arms of the Murklor cutting off their escape.

“Then the Murklor spoke. It welcomed them into its lair and then it told me to take the ax and go. Go and find the timbers to begin the erection of two new sculptures for his new gifts!”

Professor Wentfield burst through the door of the lecture hall cursing under his breath about his own tardiness.  Hardly any of the students scattered about the hall even raised their gaze to acknowledge his late entrance.  He made a beeline for his prodigious podium and flopped his overflowing, leather satchel on the top before rummaging out a few pieces of paper that he set aside.  Then he deposited the satchel on the floor by the podium and prepared to address the class.

Professor Wentfield was a frail man of average height.  His hair was disheveled and a tad too long.  He had a little gray running through his hair and showing in his scruffy beard.  His nose was angular, but his eyes were bright blue and intelligent, although tinged with a trace of cynicism.  He wore a corduroy beige jacket with brown leather patches on the elbows, a wrinkled white shirt, brown tie, khaki pants, and brown two-tone shoes.  Just before he spoke, he realized that his briar pipe was still protruding from his mouth.  He set it down on the podium and cleared his throat.

“Today we will continue our study of ancient Egyptian burial practices by discussing the sarcophagus.  A sarcophagus is an ornamental receptacle where the corpse or mummy was placed.  The name – sarcophagus – is derived from the Greek sarx meaning ‘flesh’ and phagein meaning ‘to eat’.  The reason is that it was believed the limestone ate the flesh of the corpse instead of the natural processes of decomposition.  In ancient Egypt the royal mummies were usually placed in sarcophagi made of alabaster.

“Mr. Dutton, what were some other common materials used to make sarcophagi?”

Keith Dutton was caught off guard.  He stammered something inaudible as his face flushed red.

“Thank you for that eloquent answer, Mr. Dutton.”  A ripple of giggles traveled across the lecture hall.

*

Ross Wentfield was an anachronism.  A man born into a world moving in fast-forward.  A man who cared not for electronic gadgets, pop culture, shrinking circuitry, the multi-colored glow of high-density pixels, instant communication, or the ability to cross the world in mere hours.  Ross would have been more at home in a historical era before the industrial age.  Furthermore, Ross loathed the fact that God cursed him to endure the mad, chaotic world that whirred by around him.

For twenty years of his adult life, he had struggled to find his niche in the world of light speed, all the while feeling like a tired tortoise amidst rapid rabbits.  As might be expected, those elder times were the natural place where he sought solace.  Ross devoured ancient history as if his mere knowledge of those times would somehow transport him back there.

Affecting the role of the archetypal college professor, Ross hoped to create an artificial island of the ancient world he so longed to inhabit in the midst of the rampant technological future he so despised.

But as each new class of post-modern students with MP3 players and cell phones attached to their bodies like cybernetic appendages drifted through his classes with their trancelike stares and android expressions, Ross began to not only hate the modern age, but its modern inhabitants too.

These weren’t eager minds looking to study the vast history of their race; they were mechanical and uninteresting boors operating on a rote program like a robot set on autopilot.  Sure, they talked, laughed, and made intelligible speech, but it was all feigned, phony, and worst of all, so very shallow.

While Ross’s interests spanned all of ancient history, his special interest was in ancient funeral practices.  From the ostentatious pyramids of Egypt to the grandiose flaming longboats of the Vikings, Ross was a renowned expert on the burial practices of most ancient cultures.

Ross had written many journal articles on the symbology and pageantry entailed in the act of sending the dead to the hereafter.  But his dream was to finally write a comprehensive book chronicling the many similarities, differences, procedures, and rites of the more prominent civilizations in just how and why they performed such majestic and intricate funerals – some individuals even spending their entire lifetimes constructing elaborate tombs in which they hoped to secure their immortality in the afterlife.

His teaching schedule at Florida State University was brutal and even more demoralizing to such a man as Ross, who saw the world as an incredibly chaotic blur.  It was during one of his gloomier moods when he was feeling the overwhelming weight of the modern world upon his back that he finally determined he had to do something to fight back against his growing cynicism.

And so it was that Ross decided to take his summer vacation in full – something he had rarely ever done – and complete his lifetime’s masterpiece – the most extensive and definitive text on ancient burial rites.  But there was more to his plan.  Not only would he take this time to write his book, but he would also need the perfect work environment in which to do so.

Ross decided to rent a secluded house in the country and officially declare himself on sabbatical from teaching – at least until the fall session began.  The only things he intended to take with him were a couple of suitcases of clothes and toiletries and several boxes of lecture notes and scholarly articles from which to compile his book.

After acquiring the services of a real estate agent and spending a couple weekends of virtual house hunting, Ross finally found the perfect little cottage.  Once all the paperwork was in order it was just a matter of a few weeks before the spring semester was over, and he was able to leave.  At the end of April Ross packed his run down 1961 Austin Healey with his bags and boxes and set off for his summer hermitage.

The house was a Cotswold Cottage nestled in the woods not far from Marianna, Florida.  The property it sat on was well-wooded and tucked away from the country road that ran by it.  Ross turned onto the gravel drive and paused to take in the view of his new summer home.

The cottage was a two-story, asymmetrical house with casement windows.  It had a large stone chimney in the middle of the house and a steep gable roof of deep red shingles.  On one side of the upper floor was a small dormer window.  On the opposite end of the house was a bay window overlooking a large flower garden – a perfect place to take a break and enjoy the fresh air or a toke of his pipe.

Ross let a tranquil smile spread across his face before continuing down the drive and parking.  He retrieved the key from an envelope the realtor had sent him and let himself in.  The interior turned out to be even better than the exterior.  The living room was the center of the house and from it, doors led to all areas of the house.  The ceiling was vaulted, and the fireplace dominated the wall.  Although there would be no need for its services during the sweltering Florida summer, it still provided an atmosphere of down homeness.

The kitchen was quaint, but the bay window provided the illusion that the kitchen was bigger than it really was – plus, the view of the flower garden was perfect.  Ross could already see himself drinking coffee, eating breakfast, and watching the birds and insects roam the flowerbeds still damp with the morning dew.

The master bedroom was on the ground floor and Ross immediately fell in love with the possibilities it afforded for his work.  On one side of the bedroom was a small alcove with a desk nestled inside.  This time Ross let a huge, toothy smile break across his face.

Everything about the small cottage was perfectly cozy.

*

The next morning Ross enjoyed his breakfast and coffee just as planned.  He then set about the task of unloading the Austin Healey and unpacking.  Having done this, Ross showered and stepped outside to enjoy the flower garden and smoke his pipe.  It was only late April but already the thermometer read 92 degrees.  The worst part about the Florida heat was the oppressive humidity, but the flower garden was shaded by several palm trees, a magnolia, and a tall cypress tree.  In the middle of the garden was a small wooden bench supported by cast iron legs.  A welcome breeze swept through the garden as Ross sat on the small bench to pack his pipe.  Now this is perfect.  I’ll set up my writing area on the desk in the bedroom and in no time, I’ll have a daily work schedule.

And that’s exactly what Ross attempted to do.  His routine would consist of waking at 7 o’clock and making coffee and cooking breakfast.  He would enjoy his breakfast at the bay window as he caught the morning news and drank coffee.  He would then shower and set straight to writing at the desk in the bedroom.  Depending on how well the writing was going for the day he might take a break at 10 o’clock to have a pipe in the garden.  He would pause for lunch at noon and return to writing after an hour.  His “work day” would end at 5 o’clock.

Ross tried to settle into this routine quickly and efficiently except there was one unusual hurdle.  On his first full day of his routine, he paused from writing a passage on megalithic tombs.

The term megalith means large stone.  Megalithic tombs are tombs that are usually built above ground and are constructed so the tomb is encased by large stones – usually slabs.  Many cultures would cover the tombs with earth or smaller stones and the practice of decorating the tombs was common.  Much archaeological evidence has been found to support the theory that burial rites such as feasts and funerals were common among many megalithic cultures.

Ross paused because the temperature of the room had noticeably fallen.  He had goose pimples on his arms.  This place has a hell of an air conditioner.  He rose and went to find the thermostat.  After a few moments of hunting, he found it in the living room and was surprised to see that the thermostat was set at 78 degrees.  The thermometer on the thermostat was reading 65 degrees, though.  Confused, Ross fiddled with the controls and, having satisfied himself that he had shut off the air completely, he returned to writing.  But the temperature remained cold.  Ross returned to the thermostat and fiddled with it some more, but the temperature continued to hover at 65.

On Saturday Ross decided to make a trek into Marianna and buy some groceries and several items he had jotted down.  He never would have predicted to need the last item on the list – a sweater.

The sweater helped to fend of the chill but the problem with the air still persisted.  No matter how much Ross attempted to finagle the thermostat, the whole house remained downright cold.  Ross placed a call to the realtor and explained his dilemma.  The realtor promised to contact the house’s owner and get back with Ross.

The second week drew to a close and Ross still hadn’t heard from his realtor.  His writing was coming along swimmingly, but the chill was becoming a huge aggravation.  Ross began making frequent trips out to the garden just to warm up.  On Saturday morning Ross phoned the realtor again and she explained that she was unable to reach the owners since they were in Europe vacationing.  She promised to send out a maintenance man to investigate.  Ross, not feeling very reassured that this would happen in a timely manner, decided to once again drive into Marianna and purchase, of all things, a space heater.

*

On Monday things took an even more unusual turn.  Ross had his space heater running beside his desk and was in the middle of writing an introduction to crypts.

In medieval times crypts became common burial choices for prominent people.  The crypt was traditionally built beneath churches, chapels, or castles.  By the 1800’s the building of crypts had become traditional practice in family estates of wealthy families.  These family crypts were incorporated as either freestanding mausoleums or included in the main structure of the estate – either in the cellars or as attached portions of the main structure.

At this point Ross paused because the chill was still encroaching upon his desk.  The space heater had definitely improved the situation; it was making a valiant effort in the local battle but was failing to make much progress in the war.  This house feels like a crypt.  The thought had no sooner passed through Ross’s mind than a decidedly sinister wave of dread spread through his body.  It was as if a transformation had taken place.  Suddenly, the house took on a new aspect to Ross’s perception.

To shake away the funk he was feeling, Ross decided to step out to the garden and have a smoke.  The day was a brilliant day with not a cloud in the sky.  The heat of the sun felt refreshing to Ross, and he stood in the sun for several moments while he packed the bowl of his pipe.

As he sat on the bench and lit his pipe he regarded the house.  It repulsed him somehow.  Like suddenly finding out a person you share close proximity with has a highly contagious disease.  Ridiculous.  I’m being completely ridiculous.  There is nothing queer about the house other than a faulty cooling unit.  Hell, I should be thankful that it’s overcooling rather than not working at all.  I wouldn’t even be able to stay in it at all if the air conditioner didn’t work.

Ross finished his pipe and continued to convince himself that his feelings toward the house were completely irrational.  Having steeled himself to return to his book, he decided to try and help the space heater by shutting the bedroom door.  Surely the space heater can manage to heat just the bedroom.

So, Ross closed the door and sat down at the desk to pound away at the chapter he was writing.  His goal was to work until lunchtime.  He typed away and the heater did a superb job of heating the room.  Ross even shed his sweater.  He worked for a solid hour and then he paused from his typing.  The chill had returned.  Turning, Ross froze in horror at the sight of the door standing wide open.

*

That night Ross awoke to the sound of footsteps crossing the upper floor.  He had only been upstairs once and that was when he first arrived.  His inspection of the upstairs had shown it to be only a couple of rooms and empty except for the sparse furnishings typical of guest bedrooms.  He had no reason for going back upstairs after that.

Now he was sitting up in bed, his heart galloping in his chest as he listened to the slow creaking crossing the ceiling.  His mind swarmed trying to figure out what the sounds could be.  The idea that there could really be a person upstairs was ridiculous.  Yet, his eyes played across the bedroom looking for something that could be used as a weapon.  The only thing he saw was an umbrella.

The creaking could now be heard descending the stairs.  Ross slipped from the bed and retrieved the umbrella.  He was a frail man and certainly no fighter.  He crouched behind the dresser trembling in fear, trying to control his breathing, and weighed his options.  Is it really someone in the house?  What if it’s no one at all but just my imagination?  The creaks are too faint.  It could just be noises that houses make.  But what if it is someone?  What if the door opens and they find me?  Do I stand a chance?  Should I run for it?  Should I try and reach the car?

And then Ross realized that the creaking had ceased.  Somehow this made the entire situation worse.  Now he was faced with the dilemma of whether he should go and investigate.  He was terrified and deep down he knew that he had not the fortitude nor the courage to open the bedroom door and walk into the living room.

How long he sat crouched beside the dresser he didn’t know but it seemed like an eternity.  The house remained deathly quiet and eventually sleep overtook Ross.  He awoke in the wee hours of the night, his muscles cramped from sleeping in such an awkward position.  His fear had passed, and he groggily rose and slipped back into bed.

He awoke later than usual the next morning to the disturbing sight of the open door.

*

Ross was paid a surprise visit by the real estate agent later in the day.  He was sitting in the garden having finished a bowl from his pipe when the large silver Cadillac pulled in the driveway.  He knew it was the realtor by the large placards adorning the sides of the car.

Ross rose and walked to greet the real estate agent who he had only known through phone conversations.  He was pleasantly surprised to see that Mrs. Jenkins was a very attractive woman.  She looked to be in her early thirties.  Her hair was brownish-blond, stylish but not overly done.  Her pantsuit was beige with matching high heels.  The blouse beneath the jacket was white satin, cut just low enough to be stylish and sexy but still smart and business-like.  Her makeup was conservative for she didn’t need much to enhance her natural beauty.  She removed her large sunglasses and walked over to intercept Ross.  Ross noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring as he smiled and stretched forth his hand as he greeted her.

“Ah, Ms. Jenkins I presume?”

“Hello, it’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. . . . I mean, Professor Wentfield.”

Ross was temporarily at a loss for words as he took in her large, white smile and deep green eyes.  “Please, call me Ross.”

“And you can call me Annabelle,” she replied.

“Very well, Annabelle.  By the way, that is a lovely name.  I don’t think I’ve ever met an Annabelle.”

“Oh, it’s from a poem by Poe.  My mother was a huge fan of his poems.”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite familiar with it . . . so sad but romantic too.”

“Well, that’s my mother for you.  She always was attracted to things that were melodramatic and a bit morbid.”

“So what brings you out here?”

“Oh, yes, I spoke with the owners about your cooling problem.”

“Great.  Come on in and we can talk in the, uh, ‘igloo’ as I like to refer to the house.”

Annabelle accepted Ross’s invitation to sit and have a cup of coffee while she explained that the owners had told her that the problem with the house was with the thermostat.  They had had a problem with it before and had it fixed but apparently it needed to be completely replaced.  They had promised to have a fix-it man that they knew to come out and replace it.  Annabelle had no idea how long this would take.  Ross had no real reason to doubt the owners but something in the back of his mind told him that it was all a lie.  He sensed that there was a darker explanation lurking underneath it all.  Of course, he didn’t want to admit this to Annabelle. He was too entranced by her beauty and was too busy trying to affect the role of a man that she would be interested in.  Was he actually flirting?

As he watched her car retreat down the drive, he felt giddy.  Fool!  I was acting like a damn schoolboy.  Look at how gorgeous she is.  She would never go for someone like me.  She was just being polite and here I am acting like an idiot.  How embarrassing!

*

Ross dreaded the oncoming night.  While it was still daylight, he at least had the courage to thoroughly explore the upstairs and ensure himself that it was quite empty.  Then he checked the downstairs and made sure everything was locked up tight.

That night Ross had the most unusual dream.  He had never had a dream so vivid in his life.  He ran across large rocks that fell away to the crashing waves of the sea.  Ahead, higher up the rocks, fled the slender form of Annabelle.  She wore a long white gown that the wind threw into an ethereal flurry behind her.  He ran after her calling her name over the pounding surf and the howling wind.

Cresting a rock, he saw her disappear in what appeared to be a gray mausoleum built into the façade of the cliff.  Arriving at the mausoleum, he looked inside to see Annabelle reposing on the marble slab of the tomb in the most seductive and sultry pose.  She tilted her head back and beckoned him to have her as she pulled her gown up.  Overhead the winds shrieked, and angelic air spirits cavorted in wild ecstasy.

Ross entered the mausoleum and approached Annabelle.  Suddenly he was on her and the rapture of their union was washing over him.  The surf pounded the rocks, the air elementals howled, and Annabelle sang out in pleasure.  Her cries turned into a hideous scream and Ross looked down to see he was embracing a decimated corpse and that it was he who was screaming.

The sea was roiling and churning, and the air spirits were fleeing.  Something ominous was approaching the mausoleum.  Ross turned to the open doorway, and he could see that the raging sea was spitting up demonic faces of death and decay.  The cold arms of the Annabelle corpse were wrapped tight around him, holding him in place as he stared at the open doorway waiting to see what hateful creature would appear there.  He sensed the harbinger of doom getting closer and closer and then he was waking up, crying out.

*

Two weeks passed with no unusual occurrences.  Even though Ross didn’t have the nightmare again, the memory of it continued to haunt him.  On several occasions he caught himself daydreaming about Annabelle and would frequently take out her business card and toy with the idea of calling her, but he never summoned the courage to go through with it.

The chill in the house persisted and he continued to run the space heater as he wrote his book.  The door remained shut and Ross thought that maybe the strange things he had experienced with it were just the fancies of his imagination.  But ultimately, it was just the calm before the storm.  One day Ross was writing about the history of King Mausollos, the Persian satrap of Caria.

Of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, two were constructed for purely funerary purposes.  The only one left standing, and by far the most famous, is the Great Pyramid of Giza.  The lesser known tomb was built to house the remains of King Mausollos, the Persian satrap of Caria.  It is from this structure that we have acquired the name of the mausoleum.  A mausoleum is traditionally a free-standing structure that serves as a monument and housing for the dead.

The original Mausoleum of Mausollos was the idea of his sister and wife Artemisia after he died in 353 B.C.  Artemisia, losing her beloved brother and husband, wanted to build him the most stately and elegant tomb as a commemoration.  The Greek architects Satyrus and Pythius were commissioned to design the tomb.  The structure stood 135 feet tall and each of the four sides was adorned with sculptural reliefs.  Four Greek sculptors were hired – Timotheus, Bryaxis, Leochares, and Scopas of Paros, each to contribute their artistic skills to one side of the tomb.  The tomb was so majestic that it was considered by Antipater of Sidon to be one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

Suddenly, a strange sensation overcame him.  It was a feeling of being closely scrutinized.  As if someone were trying to read his thoughts.  Ross had a vision of someone watching him flash through his mind and then a chill breeze swept across the back of his neck.  Ross jerked forward and spun around.  The door was standing wide open.

Ross fled the house.  He grabbed his shoes, his wallet, and keys and ran to the Austin Healey barefoot.  He fumbled with the keys and dropped them as he tried desperately to crank the car.  It roared to life, and he slammed the gears as he kicked up gravel in his haste to flee.  He decided to drive to Marianna in an effort to put distance between himself and the house, but as he drove, something unexpected happened.  The feeling of being watched didn’t diminish.  Instead, the feeling grew!

This is insane, he thought as his eyes quickly darted looking for the source of the watcher.  Now I feel even more vulnerable than I did in the house.  Was that someone in the field?  That car – is it following me?  It’s not just isolated to the house!  This is nuts!  I’m nuts!  I’m losing my mind.  It’s ridiculous that there could be something that’s watching me – that’s after me.

It was in the back seat.  Now it was crawling over the headrest.  His throat constricted in a spasm of chokes and coughs.  It was tearing at his lungs.  Tearing at his mind!

My God, it’s just my mind imagining that something’s there!  But I didn’t imagine the door!  Oh no, there’s no way in hell that I imagined that the door opened.  I know I closed the door.  Whatever opened the door is the same thing that’s doing this – that’s after me right now.  It wants me to return to the room!  No!  Wait!  It’s just the opposite!  It wants me to come out of the room because it can’t enter the room!

And then Ross was slamming on the breaks and lowering the gears.  Tires squealed as he threw the car into a turn and raced back to the house.  He struggled to decipher the feelings, all the jumble of sensations and events that were twisting his mind and nerves.  He gasped for air and struggled to remain as calm as possible.  For whatever reason there was a presence that was after him.  Whether it was just a fancy of his mind or a real force outside of himself was irrelevant.  All he knew was that when he was in the room it couldn’t enter.  It could only open the door and watch him.

*

Thirty minutes later Ross nervously paced the room as he puffed his pipe.  The door was securely closed but, unfortunately, it didn’t have a lock.  Ross feverishly wracked his brain for a solution to his dilemma.  Everything’s unraveling.  My plans for my book.  All I wanted was to have a quiet summer writing my book.  But this thing had to corrupt it all.  What is it about this room?  Wait a minute!  It is the book!  The thing is because of the book.  I have to finish the book to vanquish it!

So, Ross attacked the typewriter like a fiend.  He typed without pause for at least an hour before the tell-tale chill wrapped its icy fingers around his neck announcing that the door had opened.  Ross rose cursing and screaming at the presence in the next room.  Before closing the door, he yelled into the empty living room.

“I know you’re there!  I can sense you!  And I also know that you can’t cross this door!”  Then a maniacal laughter erupted from Ross’s throat as he slammed the door and returned to the typewriter.

It was only minutes later that the door flew open again.  Ross tried to ignore the presence and kept on typing. As he typed, he could feel the presence invade his mind – as if it were glaring right into the heart of his soul. Still, he forged ahead and did his best to concentrate on his work.  No matter how hard he tried, the assault on his sanity was too much to block out.  The only solution was to ensure the door remained closed.

Ross decided his course of action and bolted through the living room.  Immediately he felt the dreaded sensation of something menacing on his heels.  He knew what a person being chased by a wild predator must feel like.  The fear that forced his heart to accelerate and his adrenaline to surge propelled him on.  He was at the front door and frantically twisting the knob.  He flung the door wide and shot towards the car.  Then a hard swipe across his heel made him stumble and he was falling into the gravel of the driveway.  He instinctively put his hands out and went sliding.  He didn’t take the time to nurse his scraped and bleeding hands.  He recovered and kept running.  He could feel it bearing down upon him.  He arrived at the trunk of the car and quickly attempted to slide the key into the lock.  There was the brief sound of metal scraping metal and then the key was in, and the trunk was opening.  Ross felt something slam into his back and fell forward into the yawning trunk.  He struggled and flailed.  His hands locked around the small toolbox he kept in the trunk, and he twisted trying to fend off his assailant.  Ross gnashed his teeth and squirmed free of the trunk.  He felt the icy grip on his throat again.  But it wasn’t enough to prevent him from scrambling back to the house, the toolbox clanging and his hands bloody.

He made it into the bedroom and collapsed panting and gasping for air.  He had made it!  He slammed the door and then he shoved the dresser in front of the door.  He knew it would take more than that though.  He opened the toolbox and rummaged through it until he found the hammer.  He turned to the large armoire.  It took only a few moments to empty it of the clothes.  Next, he began slamming the hammer into the armoire, ripping pieces of wood off.  As each piece came free, he used it to nail over the door.  After several strips were secured over the upper part of the door, he moved the dresser and continued dismantling the armoire.  Finally, there was no free space left around the door frame on which to secure another strip of wood.  He had done it!  He had completely closed off the doorway.

Ross let the bloodied hammer fall to the floor and then he used the bed spread to wipe away the blood from his palms.  It was time to finish his book.

*

An ossuary is a repository for human bones.  The receptacle can be a hole, a box, or even something as large as a mausoleum or church.

Probably the most elaborate and infamous ossuary is the Sedlec Ossuary in the Czech Republic.  It is located beneath the Church of All Saints, a Roman Catholic chapel and popular cemetery.  The cemetery’s rise to popularity was due to the piety of one of the abbots named Henry.  He made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land at the behest of King Otaker II of Bohemia in 1278 and returned bearing soil from Golgotha.  The consecrated soil was spread over the abbey cemetery.  This made the cemetery become a desirable location for people all over Europe to want to be buried.

When the Black Plague swept through Europe the cemetery was overwhelmed with the bodies of the dead.  The cemetery was expanded.  In the 1400’s a Gothic church was built on the site.  During its construction many remains were unearthed and the first designs of the ossuary were incorporated into the church.

In 1870 the ruling Schwarzenberg family commissioned an artist and woodcarver named Frantisek Rint to tackle the task of sorting and ordering the stacks of bones.  No one was prepared for the outré results of Rint’s work.  The grotesque artistry of Rint is astounding.  He created ornate chandeliers of bone with skulls prominently incorporated.  Long garlands of skulls snake across the ceiling, sconces of bones support candles, and monstrances of bone flank the altar.  The Schwarzenberg family crest was completely rendered in human remains.  Rint even signed his work by leaving his autograph written in human bones.

Ross stopped typing as the space heater fell silent.  Immediately the temperature of the air inside the room began to plummet.  There was a sudden change in the presence.  It was no longer hovering outside the door.  Now it was in the room!  It had all been an elaborate trick – just a demonic game of cat-and-mouse.  Ross stood and the room spiraled madly around him as the truth of his predicament dawned upon his addled mind. The presence was swirling around him like a maelstrom now.  A dour sense of doom spread through Ross’s body.  Professor Wentfield collapsed against the door of the bedroom cursing under his breath about his own foolishness.

June 10

I had a visitor today. Looking back on it, I should’ve just hid and let him believe that no one was home; but I didn’t know what he wanted and it could’ve been important. In the end, he was only a door-to-door salesman and I wound up mumbling apologies through the cracked door before shutting the door back and locking it. And now I have become obsessed with checking the locks.

I phoned Dr. Kaplan – of course, he was with another client and didn’t call me back right away. When he finally did, we talked about the salesman and the distress that it caused me. It was his idea to start keeping a journal so that at the next session, we could address the frequency of my calls to him. You see, he thinks I call him way too much, but I don’t think so. Sure, I call him from time to time, but it certainly isn’t an abnormal amount.

Since the salesman left I’ve checked the locks and cleaned the door eight times. I know that is too much. I know that. I can judge what is too much even though I can’t stop myself from checking. Dr. Kaplan is just a busy man and any interruption from a silly woman with OCD is too much for him and his busy schedule.

June 11

I miss having a pet. I used to have a cat named Ajax, but he was too dangerous. I don’t mean that he was aggressive or anything of that nature; he was just too much of a risk to my health. Cats – well, any animal for that matter – are either carriers of disease or attract other vermin that carry disease. Jeff was kind enough to find Ajax a good home, but I still miss having someone else around – even if it is just a pet and not another human.

Dr. Kaplan assures me that my Hypochondria is all in my head just like the OCD is, but I don’t care. I know my body and I know when unclean things in the environment affect my wellbeing. When Jeff took Ajax and I cleaned the house, I felt better almost immediately. Still, I get so lonely here with no one to talk to. I wish it were easier to just get out and go but the world is so fraught with danger and disease. It takes all of my courage just to make it to Dr. Kaplan’s office for therapy. And after I get back safe and sound to my apartment, I’m so exhausted that it takes me days to recover from the venture.

June 12

Angela used to call me at least every other day but I’m afraid that her mother’s illness has consumed her. Jeff is certainly a good brother and tries his best to keep tabs on me, but he never called as much as Angela. I’m really glad that Jeff found such a good girl as Angela to marry – she and I really became close until her mother found out she had cancer. When she called and told me, I became obsessed with her mother’s symptoms. I was only trying to help. But, eventually, it led to me becoming obsessed with seeing the symptoms in myself and all I wanted to talk to Angela about were the similarities between her mother’s illness and mine. I mean, I believed I really had breast cancer too.

Then I got the call from Jeff. He was nice about it but I figured out that Angela couldn’t talk to me about the cancer. It was too hard on her. I went to the doctor and demanded all the tests that could diagnose breast cancer but they didn’t find anything. I’m still not convinced.

The point is, I guess, that I miss having Angela check in on me and I miss having someone to talk to. It’s not like I don’t have anyone at all, just not someone who is regular. That’s all.

June 13

I have an appointment with Dr. Kaplan in four days and I’m already preparing myself for the trip. It’s not far; the office is only ten blocks away. Still, it might as well be across the Brazilian rain forest as far as I’m concerned. There’s just so many things out there that are waiting to attack me – germs, filthy hand rails, infested door knobs, diseased beggars, street  urchins, ruffians, people jostling me on the street, the riff raff of society all spreading their pestilence. All it would take is one miniscule bacterium to do me in.

I know it is irrational, but that doesn’t change the way my mind works. Hypochondria is not a rational disease. Actually, Dr. Kaplan has requested that I call it Health Anxiety – that’s the new term for it. I still like Hypochondria, though. Did you know that Hypochondria originally meant “below the ribs”. It was a reference to tummy aches. Over the years it became synonymous with symptoms that a doctor can’t cure.

Even though I’m freaking out about the trip to my appointment, I’ve refrained from calling Dr. Kaplan. See, I don’t need to call him every time I have a suspicious looking mole or some door-to-door salesman comes by. I can fend for myself.

June 14

Today I’m going to write about my daily routines since this is something that Dr. Kaplan wants to focus on at our next appointment. To begin with, I must explain that my number is five. This only makes sense to a person with OCD. Everything I do ritualistically, I do in fives. I wake up at 7:05. I should clarify that I set my alarm to 7:05 and that’s when I get out of bed. It’s not like I ever have a full night of uninterrupted sleep. I toss and turn and worry all night long. Many nights I will just lie awake in bed for hours at a time. Nevertheless, I get up at 7:05 regardless of the amount of sleep I actually got during the night.

When I get up I immediately brush my teeth and clean my bathroom – not a thorough cleaning like I do later in the day, but just a cursory cleaning so I can use the bathroom, brush my teeth, and shower. I brush my teeth five times throughout the morning while showering and getting dressed. I do not shower unless the tiles are sparkling clean and the whole bathroom smells like chlorine.

During my shower I perform a thorough examination of my body for any lumps, lesions, or changes to my skin. Anything new, I’ll document on a piece of paper so that later I can research it on the internet.

After I shower, I wipe down the shower and begin to wash whatever clothes or towels are dirty from the previous day. I never have dirty laundry sitting around. After that, I go and check the doors and windows to ensure they are locked. I’ll do this routine throughout the day at certain times. Then, it’s time for breakfast.

My food intake is exclusively Vegan. I will not eat cooked meat because it can lead to disease, especially if improperly cooked. Animals are disease carriers anyway, so I just avoid them. I also refuse to eat any processed food. Again, it just leads to illness and disease. I realize that vegetables are risky too. I subscribe to a whole foods delivery program so that I don’t have to leave the house to shop. The company delivers all my fruits and vegetables and any other Vegan foods I need to my house once a week. Still, I soak all of my fruits and vegetables in a solution of vinegar and grapefruit extract that naturally removes and chemicals or bacteria that might be on them.

Anyway, my breakfast is mostly an acidic-based meal and then the rest of my meals for the day are generally rich with vegetables. For breakfast I’ll have a glass of purified water with lemon, a half of a grapefruit or oranges, a bowl of grapes or raspberries, and an English muffin with jam.

I wash my dishes and utensils before and again after I eat. This can turn into a ritual cleansing quite easily and many days I wind up cleaning the kitchen five times.

After the kitchen is spotless and has a nice chlorine smell, I turn on the T.V. and catch the latest news. After the news I like to listen to a talk show on the radio on homeopathic medicine. I know Dr. Kaplan will not approve of this – nor, especially will my Primary Care Physician Dr. Ramsey. Still, I enjoy the callers’ questions and Dr. Weiland’s philosophy.

If I’ve discovered any unusual bumps or blemishes, I’ll take the time to research what they might be on my computer. This typically turns into a lengthy bout of reading about diseases all the way up until time for lunch. Before lunch, I’ll clean the kitchen and then usually have a salad with a side of potatoes or rice. After lunch, it’s time to clean the apartment.

Once the apartment is thoroughly clean, I’ll work out, shower again, and then take a nap. My workout usually consists of Pilates or Yoga with some type of aerobic video – I have several that I’ll rotate through. Exercise is very important to good health.

After my nap I’ll have a snack and watch a movie or T.V. show. It just depends on what I’m currently into at the moment. I pretty much spend the evening after dinner either watching T.V., reading, or surfing the internet. I’ll do that until 11:00 or 12:00 at night before finally going around and checking all the windows and doors at least five times before finally going to bed.

So you see, my daily routine is not that out there even though I know that some of the things I do might be considered a bit eccentric.

June 16

My Health Anxiety began with my mother’s illness. I was only 8 years old when she found out she had Lupus. The disease affected her in numerous ways and she battled it for a long time. I was 17 when she died. When she passed away, I felt a ton of guilt. A part of me believed that it was partially my fault. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it was how I felt, nonetheless.

I became so familiar with her disease that I began to believe I was suffering the same symptoms. A rash on my face, fatigue, painful joints, headaches, hair loss – the lists goes on and on. And each time one of those symptoms popped up, I immediately knew it was the worst case scenario. I had my mom’s genes that meant that I, too, was destined to die of Lupus.

As each test came back negative, I refused to accept it. I just deftly attributed it to either the doctor’s error in accurate diagnosis, or the fact that I really had another disease.

Even today, I still believe that I’m carrying some new strain of a debilitating disease that leaves doctors baffled with how to categorize it. Logically, I know this is crazy. In reality, my days are consumed with worry and despair over my health.

June 19

I’m finally getting around to writing about my doctor’s visit the day before yesterday. I meant to do it right afterwards, but it has left me so exhausted that I’m just now feeling like writing about it tonight.

I made it to Dr. Kaplan’s office without incident. Even with the heat of summer, I still put on a thin wind-breaker and hold it tight about my neck as I dart to the doctor’s office trying to avoid any contact with the throng of humanity on the sidewalks and streets. Still, I managed to navigate my way there without brushing into anyone.

It wasn’t until I saw Dr. Kaplan that things went south. He was the worst and I don’t care if he reads this next time, although I don’t think I’ll be going back to that horrible man! We began with small talk, which was alright, and then he asked about my journal. I handed it over and waited while he read the entries. Then, he removed his glasses and hit me with the most condescending look. From then on it was horrible. He’s so judgmental it just gets right under my skin!

He began by telling me how I pushed Angela away by making her mother’s condition about me. The nerve! I did no such thing! And then he had the audacity to critique my daily routine and tell me it was unhealthy and abnormal! He has no idea!

Oh, there was more. More than I care to vent and fume over. I shut down after we had strong words and let him go on lecturing me while I just sat there seething. In the end, I walked out of there with a script in my hand for some medication called Lexapro that he wants me to try out. I don’t think so. Just some more crap to pollute my body and alter my mind.

But all that wasn’t the real bad part; I mean it was bad, but not bad in the same way. The thing that has really left me shaken is the man from the alley I encountered on the way home.

As I rounded Pikes Peak Avenue headed towards the park I passed an alley and heard this homeless man playing his guitar. Even though I was walking at a brisk pace, I found myself slowing down. There was something about the tune he was playing that was so captivating. It’s hard to describe now, but I just remember that it was so melancholy yet somehow soothing.

What happened next is really beyond my faculties of reason. I literally fell into what I believe to be a state of hypnosis. Somewhere deep in my mind I still had some type of awareness, but I was lost as if in a dream landscape.

The melody continued to wash over me as I stopped and retreated to the alley’s opening. Soft, dark waves of gloomy notes flowing one into the next lulled me into a trance. God knows how long I stood there and my eyes closed as I descended into the music. It was so sad, yet so beautiful. How could such a creature as this make such music?

I had the impression of floating high into the air – maybe it was an out-of-body experience; a dream-state roving composed of bits and snatches of sensations. Whatever the case, I beheld the city from high above as a hive of activity moving at high speed in blurry pandemonium while directly below me in a tiny circle of calm slowness I saw me and the guitarist alone with the music.

I began to descend ever so slowly while I watched myself walking towards the man. He was so engrossed in playing that I don’t even think he saw me. The music still came in soft, undulating waves as the haunting melody pulled me along. Closer and closer I descended still mesmerized by the song and watching the entranced me walking in a languid gait towards the filthy guitarist.

And then I saw, to my horror, that the real, physical me below was intent on approaching and touching the vagrant! But the part of my consciousness that was displaced – the rational me – was not going to re-enter my body in time to stop my hands from touching the horrible creature spinning that wicked, diabolical tune!

I strained with all my willpower to reach my body before it happened, but it was no use. Just as I reached my body there was a mad mix of sensations. A chaotic swirl of noises and images and feelings all churned up into a quick torrent that sent a shock through my soul. As I came to myself, the first thing that hit me was the sadness in my heart. The song still swirled in the air about me. Through the hazy blur of my tears I saw that I had reached my hand out and was caressing the man’s face!

The most horrible part of the whole thing slammed into me then. The man quit playing and turned his face up towards me with the most saturnine smile I have ever seen. It was then that I beheld his face. He had four long scabs running diagonal across his face and my hands were caressing those grotesque, encrusted sores!

I screamed. I ran. I made it home, locked the doors, and then I must have showered and scrubbed my hands for hours. Even after that, I returned to the bathroom at least every hour to scrub my hands again and again and again. Just writing this makes me want to wash again.

As if that all wasn’t bad enough, now I have that cursed melody sounding in my brain over and over.

June 21

I’ve made a concerted effort to quit washing my hands at least every hour but it’s so hard. The urge consumes me. It’s so bad that I feel I have to wash to release the pressure.

I found myself humming the melody to that damn tune while I was cleaning the kitchen and when I realized it, it scared me. I don’t know what happened or how to explain the incident in the alley, but I think it might have just been a dream. It’s so unlike me that it couldn’t have been real.

I started researching memory lapses and blackouts and I’m relatively sure that’s what happened to me. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

June 22

Last night I had a strange dream. At least I think it was a dream. I think it was like when you awaken in the night and you’re in that zone between sleeping and waking where you mix reality with your dream. I must have been dreaming about a mold or some other type of discolored spot on the wall that just wouldn’t come clean. This makes sense because I have such a fear of disease and filth that my nightmares tend to be about my inability to be clean enough or be healthy enough.

Nevertheless, when I awoke I instinctively looked to the wall where the spot was located in my dream and saw, to my horror, that there was in fact a spot on the wall. Groggily I arose and went to inspect the spot but it was only a shadow!

It was so weird because then I lay in bed and watched the spot wondering if I saw it in waking and unconsciously incorporated into my dream, or if I dreamed it first and then it just so happened that the shadow took on the shape of the spot in my dream?

June 23

Jeff came to visit today. At first I was so glad that he had made time to come by. Having my brother visit is such a rare thing that I was quite literally giddy. As it turned out, though, he’s about as much of an ass as Dr. Kaplan.

I knew the visit was bad the moment I let him in the apartment and he said, “Jen, you look terrible, are you getting any sleep? And this place smells like a swimming pool!”

I mean, what kind of greeting is that and how am I supposed to respond? Did he really expect me to be all cheerful and happy after he waltzes in here and starts in on me?

Things didn’t get any better from that point on, either. All he did was chide me for being such a recluse and obsessing over how clean everything is. He has no idea what I’m going through.

To be honest, I don’t even know why he came by. He claims that he was worried about me after he and Angela hadn’t heard from me in so long. He acts like it was my doing but it was he who put an end to Angela’s and my relationship. Does he really think I don’t remember that? And do you show your concern for someone by barging in their home and berating them about their lifestyle?

I was so furious by the time he left that all I wanted to do was work out. I figured a good sweat would burn off some of my anger. I went up to my room to change into my workout gear and noticed something strange. The place on the wall where the spot was in my dream was really discolored. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but as I got closer, I saw that it was true. There is something odd about that patch of wall.

I never did my workout. I wound up venting my anger into cleaning the wall.

June 24

Awoke again last night hearing that tune in my head. While I hate the song, I find myself humming it as I clean. I tried to go back to sleep but it was useless so I just watched the wall. As I watched I noticed that the shadow seemed to move. It wasn’t anything startling or even very specific. It was more like breathing. A pulsing to the rhythm of the tune playing in my head and my own breathing.

Now that I’m fully awake I know that it was the tune playing in my head that caused my own breathing to match it and that the shadow only appeared to be pulsing to the rhythm of my own breathing – just an optical illusion, right? But at the time I was certain that it was the shadow leading the whole thing.

I’ve become obsessed with the shadow on the wall and I actually caught myself just staring at it as I was sitting on my bed putting my shoes on.

June 27

I spent the last several days researching memory lapses and became quite overwhelmed with all of the information. I’m sure that the incident with the homeless guitarist wasn’t real. I believe I had an episode of dissociative amnesia brought on by the stress of my doctor’s visit.

I also believe that the hallucination with the man in the alley was of a dreamlike nature – a waking hallucination dredged up from my subconscious. The part that really has me perplexed is the tune he was playing. Did my mind concoct that too? Is the repeated playing of it in my head because I created it, or did I hear it somewhere else?

There’s now another shadowy spot that commands my attention. I can’t say if it’s a completely different spot or if it’s connected to the other spot on the opposite corner of the wall. I spend what seems like hours in my room cleaning the walls or just sitting on my bed humming that melancholy melody.

June 28

Angela called last night to see how I was doing. I told her about Jeff’s visit and how irritated it made me. She claimed to have no idea but I’m not so sure.

She seemed to be pleasant but now I distrust her and Jeff. I tried to be nice back to her but wound up making an excuse to get off the phone. I’m just so confused these days. I miss the times when we were close and could talk.

I had all of these conflicting emotions about the whole thing so I went to clean the wall and became so engrossed in the scrubbing and humming that I began to hear a chant. It had to be a figment of my imagination but it seemed so real.

The lyrics to the weird song were frightening to me too. But now I’m beginning to see Jeff and Angela for what they really are.

July 2

I now spend the majority of my day caressing the walls – they are so clean that the shadows roam freely over them. I just sit and hum, and sing, and listen to the things they say.

The wisdom in their whispers is earth shattering. I see so many things that I never saw before. I’m beginning to realize that this illness wasn’t something that originated in me, but was planted in me by the ones out there.

July 8

I can only paraphrase their messages to me. I now see that one must sometimes pass through the fire to emerge on the other side as a new creature. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes after being burned alive. Like a butterfly awakening from a cocoon after a long period of transformation.

I see now that my life encased in this place, encased in my neurosis, my disease, my isolation, was all meant to be a cathartic process. Now, thanks to the shadows engulfing me, I have been purged. Leached of my sickness and given a clear path out of here.

They showed me worlds that shimmer and places of abundant peace where my new form will roam free. Free to wander those other lands only hinted at in their dim, ghostly visions. I know now that my flight above the guitarist was but a prelude to a journey I’m now ready to take.

Across the vast gulf of space and time there are worlds waiting to be seen. But before I can mount up with wings, I must set right the wrongs leveled on me by Dr. Kaplan, Angela, and Jeff. My preparation for tonight’s dinner has been meticulous but I must not falter. I must face this last obstacle with resolution and a steel will. My new friends have counseled me and taught me and opened my eyes to so much new knowledge that I sometimes feel an amazing sense of awe at the things the shadows say.

“Once upon a time, I, Zhuangzi, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Zhuangzi. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.”

~ Zhuangzi

“Every night, I, Morgan, dream I am a prisoner in an asylum, ambling hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a prisoner. I was conscious only of my misery as a prisoner, unaware that I was Morgan. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man having a nightmare that I was a prisoner, or whether I am now a prisoner, having a nightmare that I am a mercenary of the Wasteland.”

~ Morgan the Escort

__________________________________________

Every afternoon Morgan played the same game as he crested the last hill that led down to the gates of Dolmrung. From atop the sandy hilltop the view of Dolmrung actually betrayed the squalor of the city. From this vantage point, the city looked almost majestic. From this far away the motley juxtaposition of scrap metal, wood, and various other flotsam and jetsam of a decayed society blended together to form an impressive walled city sheltered to the west by the looming cliffs of the Malaheim Desert. Beyond that, nothing thrived.

Morgan stopped and had a small celebration of another successful crossing of the Wasteland by wiping the sweat from his face and finishing the last of his water in one, large celebratory chug. Having thus been satiated, the game ensued.

The sun was blazing – as usual. The weather out in the Wasteland never varied. It was always a blistering hell. From atop the hill Morgan looked at the shadow cast by the large walls with an almost palpable hunger. Its shade was a welcome oasis. And then he said a number aloud to no one in particular: “Five hundred and three.”

And then he began to walk and count each step aloud that it would take to reach the wall’s shadow. It was a game that he had gotten pretty damn good at. Not good enough to hit the number exactly every time, but good enough to be within ten almost like clockwork. On the few occasions that he did hit it, the celebration was really no different than when he missed his mark, for Morgan was a loner in a broken world.

****

The guards at the gate knew Morgan by sight and, after so long, just let him pass without so much as a pause. Morgan returned their nods and passed into Dolmrung. He made his way straight to the Mumford Inn. Caspus, the proprietor, greeted him upon entry and proceeded to pour Morgan a cup of mead.

“How’s things out there today, Morgan?” Caspus said indicating the general direction of the Wasteland. It was the same routine every evening – more of a greeting than a genuine question.

“Not much happening out there today, Caspus,” Morgan returned. Morgan took a long draw off of the mug and then remembered something.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I did come across something you might be interested in.” Caspus wiped his hands on a bar towel and came closer. It wasn’t often that Morgan brought the old innkeeper treasures from his ranging. To most of the people who lived in Dolmrung, journeys outside the city were a novelty. Most people imagined a dangerous world out there, but with treasure to be found in all the nooks and crannies of the ruins. Of course, this was the romantic version of Morgan’s treacherous life. But still, occasionally, Morgan did come across artifacts from a bygone era.

Morgan reached into his bag and produced a wad of cloth. Carefully unwrapping the cloth soon revealed a shiny, golden Christmas tree star. It was dusty and the gold had flecked off in many places, but it still drew a gasp from Caspus. Several patrons close by also craned to see it.

“It’s gorgeous!” Caspus exclaimed. “What is it, though?”

“I have no idea besides a gold star. I mean, I don’t know what it was used for other than maybe decoration,” Morgan ventured. “It’s hollow inside. When I saw it I thought it would look great atop the bar.” Morgan pointed to a spot on the top shelf behind the bar. The shelf was decorated with other odd items: a toy car, a bowling trophy, a pie tin, a Monopoly board, and an egg beater. All things that these people assumed were meant for display but no one quite knew what their original purpose might be.

“Cool my hide and bless you, Morgan!” Caspus said as he took it gingerly in his hands to inspect closer. “It’ll go perfect on the shelf.”

****

As part of Morgan’s agreement with The Council he had a room at the Mumford Inn paid for so long as he was an escort in The Council’s service. This included an evening meal, too. Caspus threw in a couple of mugs of mead at no extra charge.

Most evenings, Morgan sat quietly and drank his mead until dinner was served. After dinner he headed over to the bath house to clean away the day’s grime from the Wasteland before heading up to his room. Today was no different.

The room was tiny but it was Morgan’s haven. Growing up he had lived amongst the children and young adults in the Skutter like rats. Each night was a scramble for the choicest nooks to sleep in and there was no place to remotely call a space of your own. Compared to that, his small room in the corner attic of the Mumford Inn was like a palace. Barely eight-by-ten, but those 80 square feet were his throne room. Morgan sat down on the bed cushion – for he had no bed frame – and pulled his backpack across over between his legs.

Rummaging through it, he pulled out another prize he had found in the Wasteland earlier that day. It was a book; a thick, hardbound book that was still in fair condition. Morgan ran his finger over the raised letters on the cover and then opened it to flip through page upon page of the magical symbols printed row upon row of each page.

Morgan couldn’t read. The Readers had died out hundreds of years ago and, as far as Morgan knew, those magicians were extinct. But still, he was fascinated by the old books and parchments that still existed. They were very rare and most people didn’t hold the same interest in them like Morgan did. Pointless was the main opinion expressed by most when the topic arose. A dead magic that had disappeared from the world.

Morgan held the book for several minutes as he flipped through it and studied the lettering. How did the magic work? What sort of knowledge was contained within those magic runes of old?

Having finished inspecting his knew treasure, he placed it beside the three other books on the small, make-shift shelf beside his bed. Of the four, this one was by far the best preserved. One book was barely a book any more, having been burned and mutilated, it now was only a quarter of its original girth. One was a paperback book that had deteriorated so bad that the letters were barely present any more. The third one was his favorite. It was a torn, thin book, but it had pictures on the few remaining pages. From these pictures Morgan was able to venture guesses as to the meaning of the runes. One picture showed a Pre-Cataclysm woman running. Morgan guessed that the knowledge conveyed through the runes were a magic spell for speed. In reality, it was a magazine ad for running shoes; but Morgan had no concept of any of this.

****

Morgan lay in bed and fought the exhaustion from the day as it washed over him. His nights were always a battle of will: physical exhaustion from the Wasteland fought against his mind’s will to escape the recurring nightmares. Inevitably, though, the body won. And then the nightmare came. It was always the same – or at least similar enough to be the same theme.

Mostly, Morgan dreamed he was a prisoner in an alien place. He was held in a room with cushioned walls on three sides and large mirror on the fourth wall. He knew, somehow, that there were Readers on the other side of the mirror watching him. If he pushed his face against the mirror he could see their shapes on the other side; not anything definite, just the vague shapes of them. He assumed they were the wizard Readers of the Pre-Cataclysm because he sensed it. There was no proof, just an impression of knowledge.

He was helpless to struggle or attempt to free himself because they had him bound in a strange coat whose sleeves buckled behind him. He was left with the only option to scream and cry and plead and wail. And that’s how most nightmares transpired.

Every so often, there were other versions. Versions that were not as horrible as this common one. Sometimes, his nightmare took him to a room in the same prison where he was tied to a bed. Sometimes the Readers walked into the room in their white robes and told him strange things that he didn’t understand. These things infuriated him. He didn’t know why but they did. These nightmares usually ended with him gnashing his teeth at them and cursing them as he struggled to free his bound arms and legs.

This particular night was different. In this nightmare he was tied to a chair in a room with several other prisoners. One of the wizards stood beside him silently while Morgan watched the other prisoners. For some reason he couldn’t speak or summon the strength to move. He tried desperately to speak to the other inmates, but it was useless. His mouth just wouldn’t cooperate. Every ounce of effort only yielded a slurred mumble.

Morgan woke suddenly and said to the darkness, “Why am I here?”

****

Morgan awoke at his usual time and made his way down to breakfast. The morning always began with him eating a light breakfast supplied by Caspus as well as stuffing enough supplies in his backpack for the day’s journey to Kishmurg and back to Dolmrung. These were only supplies of sustenance; The Council provided the supplies of weaponry. Morgan had a slender sword slung across his back and a bow. The Council strictly regulated the number of arrows that were given out to the citizens of the city. More importantly, The Council also regulated the grenades that Morgan was allowed to carry into the Wasteland. This was mainly because the ingredients were hard to come by and only the Alchemists held the knowledge of their manufacture.

On his way to the Council House, Morgan would stop by the Shadow Church if he had the time – and most every day he did. He liked to go receive a blessing from Brother Humphrey before going into the Wasteland.

Church wasn’t in service at this early hour, but Brother Humphrey was always up preparing the church for the day’s services.

“Good morning, Morgan!” Brother Humphrey called from the front as Morgan entered the sanctuary.

“Good Morning, Brother,” Morgan returned.

“Any ill’s for the day?”

“No, Brother. Just a blessing for the road, please.” By this time Morgan had made his way to the front. Brother Humphrey poured water into two glasses and handed one to Morgan.

“Very well, a toast to hydration and to shadow!” the priest said and they tapped their glasses together and drank. Having finished the drink, they both began to recite an old prayer that was only known these days through oral memory:

“And he gathered them all together and spake saying, ‘I say unto thee children of the shadows, behold the Sun.  For the Sun doth scorch thine land, thine skin, and thine eyes.  It is because of the Sun that this land is barren and bleached.  It is because of the Sun that only the strangest of plants live in the desert.  It is because of the Sun that only the sneakiest of animals live in the desert.  It is because of the Sun that only the stupidest of people live in the desert.  But I cometh to deliver thee from thine ignorance.  Behold thine enemy the Sun!’ And the savior spread his arms and said, ‘Now make a wish!’  And then he blew out the Sun. Nightshade chapter 13, verse 7. Amen.”

“Thank you, Brother,” Morgan said handing the glass back.

“You’re welcome, Morgan. May the Prophet Nightshade bless your day’s journey and deliver the child unharmed,” he said smiling.

Morgan smiled politely back and left the church to head over to the Council House.

****

The Council House was the largest building in Dolmrung. It was a large concrete building that had been repaired multiple times over the years; but since the knowledge of concrete construction had fallen into the distant past, the building appeared a mottled hulk and was crumbling in places. The front of the building had many windows but the other three sides were devoid of such niceties. Morgan made his way to a side door and navigated his way to the room where he would retrieve the child.

When he walked into the room two men were in the process of pouring buckets of water on the naked child in the corner. The small boy was only 9 or 10 and he cowered in the corner spluttering as soap and water were liberally dumped upon him. The men then began to scrub him with two large scrub brushes.

Morgan took a seat in a chair and waited. Shortly thereafter, a woman entered the room. She was an older woman but still possessed an energy and attraction that marked her as a natural leader. “Good morning, Morgan”, she announced as she took a seat beside Morgan.

“Good morning, Maggie,” Morgan said.

“The boy’s name is Pegan. How are you on weapons?”

Morgan took a quick inventory of his arrows and grenades. “I’m good,” he said.

“How were things out there yesterday?” Maggie said turning from the cleansing to look at Morgan. 

“Did you see any Peepskins or Derrydrugs?”

“No. And, frankly, it concerns me. It’s been a little too quiet out there of late.”

“Quiet is good, though. Maybe they have migrated to new territories. Or maybe a sickness has hit them. Who knows? But it’s better than their numbers growing,” Maggie offered.

“Yeah, maybe. Still, I like to know what they’re up to. When I know what they’re doing, I can avoid them. It’s the not knowing that puts me on edge. It’s like the calm before a sandstorm.”

“Morgan, this is why you are the best escort in the Wasteland. You are like a taut string ready to release. A complacent escort is as good as a dead escort, no?”

Morgan turned to look at Maggie and let a small smirk touch the corner of his mouth. “And this is why you make such a good politician. The words pour from you like sweet milk.”

Maggie feigned insult and said, “I am not a politician, Morgan. I am just a servant of The Council just like you.”

By this time the child had been cleaned and dried and the men were assisting him in dressing for the desert. Maggie rose and spoke to the child. “Pegan, this man is Morgan and he will be taking you to Kishmurg. You are to stick to him like a shadow and heed his every instruction if you want to survive the Wasteland; do you understand, child?”

The boy Pegan was in a state of shock. He had been plucked from the Skutter where he had likely never had a bath or descent clothes before. He was still marveling at the clothes. Maggie grabbed his jaw in her hand and wrenched his face to look at her. “Did you hear me, boy? If you don’t listen to this man today you may die!”

The boy’s eyes widened in fear and he shook his head in comprehension. Morgan stepped up and took the boy by the shoulder. “Come on, boy, we have a Wasteland to cross.”

****

It was just after 8 o’clock in the morning when Morgan and Pegan left the protection of the city walls and began trudging up the huge sand hill. The desert morning was already heating up.

The boy had never been beyond the wall and he looked around this new world as if in a daze. Morgan was used to this reaction. “Hurry up, kid!” Morgan called back to the boy. “Stay close to me or else we’ll never get there.”

The boy mumbled something that sounded like a “yes” and shuffled faster to catch up.

By 9 o’clock they had reached an area of red rock formations. Morgan chose a path that he knew like the back of his hand. The path led to the edge of a cliff that overlooked a canyon. As they approached the edge of the canyon Morgan halted and pulled the boy close.

“Alright, kid, listen up,” Morgan said in a low voice. “Down in that canyon are the ruins of a Pre-Cataclysmic city. Sometimes creatures roam the canyon and lurk in the old buildings. These creatures are very dangerous. They’ll kill you as soon look at you. You need to stay right beside me and not go off into the ruins no matter how curious they might look. You got me?”

The kid shook his head.

Morgan stood at the edge of the cliff and surveyed the canyon for several minutes. Nothing in the canyon stirred. “Let’s go, Pegan,” he said and the two headed down a trail that switched back and forth as it descended into the canyon.

By 10:30 the two had navigated through the canyon, the old city, and emerged back into open desert. Before they left the canyon, however, they stopped in the shadow of a rock to rest and rehydrate before tackling the vast expanse of sand dunes that would bring them to the city of Kishmurg.

It was a long, slow, hot walk in the burning sun. Morgan had to teach the boy how to wear his clothes properly to protect his skin. He also had to keep pushing the boy to walk faster as the sand harried his tired feet.

It was around 12 o’clock when the city finally appeared in the distance. Unlike Dolmrung, which was made of the detritus of a lost civilization thrown together against the rocks, Kishmurg was built of the stones of the desert out in the open. It looked more natural than Dolmrung and blended with the ocean of sand all about it.

Morgan and Pegan arrived at the large stone entryway to the city at half past 12 and were let in just as easily as Morgan was let into Dolmrung – the guards knew him by sight all too well.

Once inside the city they made their way underground. Most of the city of Kishmurg was subterranean. Morgan led the boy to a room where a swarthy looking, muscular man was waiting. He rose when the two entered and greeted Morgan. “Let’s have a look at today’s child,” he said eyeing the boy.

“His name is Pegan,” Morgan said. “Good luck, boy. And good day to you, Rorick, I must be on my way.”

“Of course, Morgan,” the man said, but he was busy looking the boy over as if he were inspecting a thoroughbred.

Morgan made faster speed on the return journey because he wasn’t slowed down by any child. Morgan knew many routes home and it was the return journey when he took time for exploring; but today yielded nothing.

His day ended as most of his days did.

****

That night Morgan dreamed of the prison again.

This time he was strapped to a bed and a Reader was standing over him talking to him.

“Mr. Bishop, we’re – ”

“I told you, my name is Morgan, not Mr. Bishop!”

“We’re going to take you down the hall,” the lady continued, ignoring his comment. “We’re going to be doing a procedure that we feel might help you.”

Morgan strained against the leather straps and continued to scream at the Reader. Two men came in and then they began to push the bed, which was on wheels, out into the hallway. Morgan continued to struggle but he still managed to notice that long lights adorned the ceiling and everything appeared so white and sterile.

At one point he turned and saw above a doorway letters that said RATHBONE ASYLUM. The realization that he actually saw and understood the meaning of the letters was overwhelming. He quit struggling and tried to understand the nature of the act of reading the letters and how it was that he was able to perform such magic.

As he lay pondering all this, the Readers attached things to his body and placed a thick, hard device into his teeth. Morgan took all of this without struggle because he was still wrestling with the notion of being able to read.

Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through his head and made him arch his back and bite down on the thing in his mouth.

Morgan awoke with tears streaming down his face.

****

The next morning Morgan arrived at the Council House room before the child was brought in. He sat waiting for several minutes until the door swung open and Maggie, the two guards, and the child came through. The child was struggling and demanding that she be let go. It was the first time Morgan had ever seen a child put up such a resistance. It was nothing new that she was a girl – those came in fairly equal measure with the boys; but, a girl with such spirit was unheard of coming out of the Skutter.

The two men ignored her demands and proceeded to strip her and douse her with soap and water. Maggie came over to Morgan and sat down.

“This feisty little kitten is named Aja. Good luck with her.”

Morgan watched the proceedings with curiosity and said, “What if she flees?”

“Then she’ll probably die,” came her curt response.

After the girl was bathed and dressed, she stood before Morgan and Maggie in a defiant pose. “Aja,” Maggie said. “This is Morgan and he will be escorting you across the Wasteland today.”

“The Wasteland?” she said haughtily. “I don’t want to go out there.”

“Well, you have no choice, child. And if you try and run, then Morgan won’t be able to protect you and you’ll most assuredly die out there. Do you understand?”

“But where are you taking me?”

“To the city of Kishmurg.”

“What is –“

“Aja! Quiet! The Council has decreed that you be taken to Kishmurg and that Morgan escort you there. No more questions and no more resistance. If you try and flee, you’re dead. Now, Morgan, take her out.” Maggie was halfway out of the door by the time she finished and the two guards followed her leaving Morgan and Aja staring each other down.

Morgan, not so much as making a sound, grabbed the back of her arm and began to walk her to the exit.

****

As Morgan and Aja trudged up the great sand hill outside of the gates the girl began to chatter again.

“How long will it take to get to this town of Kishmurg?”

“Four hours,” Morgan said.

“What are you going to do with me there?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“A man named Rorick will take you and then I’ll leave, so I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

“You don’t know. Are you kidding me? You seriously don’t have any idea why you’re taking me just to hand me over to some guy?” she said incredulously. “What if he’s going to hurt me or feed me to some monster or something?”

Morgan glanced at the girl in annoyance and said, “Well, that’s none of my business.”

“None of your business?” she cried. “What kind of horrible, mindless stooge are you?”

At this Morgan stopped and turned to the girl. “Look, I have a job to do and it’s none of my concern what The Council does. As long as they are keeping me equipped, fed, and housed, I’m happy to escort you little brats across this stretch of rock and sand with no questions asked. So why don’t you just shut up and keep up with me?”

Aja looked into Morgan’s eyes and there was a tense moment of silence before she said, “You’re a bad man who has no honor.”

“What?” Morgan said perplexed.

“You are a coward, aren’t you?”

“I am not a coward, little girl,” Morgan retorted and began to walk again.

Aja hurried to catch up and continued to badger him with questions and comments while Morgan tried to ignore her with cold silence.

At the top of the great sand hill Morgan stopped and surveyed the sky. Aja was in the middle of rattling on about running away when Morgan said, “Sandstorm.”

“Huh?” Aja said thinking he was answering her comments.

“There’s a sandstorm coming. Hopefully, we’ll make the old city in the canyon before it hits.”

Aja turned her gaze to the distant sky and beheld the storm in the distance. A vast blob of darkness obscured the horizon. “Why don’t we just go back to Dolmrung?” she said gesturing back down the hill to the city.

“That’s not an option. Come on.” Morgan said grabbing her arm and starting to walk again.

“Why isn’t that an option? Because your master Council says so and you’re too much of a coward to disobey?”

Morgan tried his best to ignore the yipping girl, but she was relentless.

****

By the time they reached the canyon lip the wind had begun to intensify. Aja actually was quiet as the sand was beginning to become an irritation to their faces and she was forced to close her mouth and shield her face from the stinging wind.

Morgan led them down into the rocks and by the time they reached the first traces of the old buildings, the storm was beginning to roll over them. Morgan took out a coil of rope and tied one end around Aja’s waist and then fed the other end around his own waist.

By the time they reached a structure that was mostly intact, visibility was virtually gone. The wind was howling down the canyon and Aja clung to Morgan’s back using him as a shield.

They entered the building and were instantly relieved from the assault of the wind and sand. Morgan struck a torch and they looked about them surveying the old building.

“How long will the storm last?” Aja said.

“Several hours, probably,” Morgan replied.

A quarter of an hour later they sat in a basement room made of concrete and Morgan hauled scraps of wood and metal to barricade the door.

“Why are you doing that? It’s not like the storm can reach us here.” Aja observed.

Morgan continued to work and merely said, “There’s more out here than just sandstorms.”

“Like what?”

Morgan stopped exasperated and looked at the girl. “You’re a real piece of work, you know? All the children I’ve escorted for all these years and you’re the first I’ve ever known to ask so many damn questions. I’m surprised no one didn’t kill you in the Skutter a long time ago.”

“Maybe that’s because I didn’t come from the Skutter,” she retorted.

Morgan arched his eyebrows in surprise and said, “Then where did you come from?”

“Oh, so now who’s the curious one?”

Morgan huffed in amusement and turned back to his work of barricading the door.

“Was that a smirk? Why, curiosity and humor; there might just be a real human in there after all,” she said chiding him.

Morgan finished his job and came over to sit by the light. “We can’t leave the torch burning in this enclosed space; we’ll have to just wait out the storm in the dark. I’ll make a deal with you, jabbermouth, I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine. Deal?”

“You gotta deal,” she said triumphantly smiling.

****

And so they sat in the dark for a couple of hours talking while the sandstorm raged outside in the canyon. Aja told Morgan of how she was orphaned as an infant and was taken in by a kind couple in the town of Mandabrun. Morgan had never heard of such a town, though. But then the town was attacked by ruffians and wastelanders and her adoptive guardians were slaughtered. She had been enslaved to the raiders and sold in another town that she had forgotten the name of. Passed from one abuser to another thug over and over until she had lost track of them all. Eventually she escaped when one of the caged caravan wagons she was on was assaulted and overturned. She managed to slip out and hide in the rocks for days.

Those days in hiding in the desert took their toll on her and she finally collapsed from lack of water and food, famished and weak, she was sure she was as good as dead. But someone had found her and brought her to Dolmrung. She was nursed back to health by people in the Council House but she still had gaps in her memory.

Morgan told Aja about his childhood in the Skutter and how the children lived like vermin in filthy packs, scavenging whatever they could find to survive. It was a constant struggle of survival of the fittest and constant fighting and scraping to establish alliances and dominance over the various packs of marauding children. Finally, Morgan had positioned himself as a captain of a ruffian faction through his cunning, his age, and his fighting prowess. He had actually staged a bold raid into the higher city and this had caught the attention of The Council.

His faction was soundly put down by the more organized and better equipped soldiers of The Council, but his life was spared. They saw in him a purpose that made him stick out from the other children. He was brought to the Council House for re-education and given the offer to become an escort of the children.

“You really don’t care to know why The Council sends one child to Kishmurg every day?” Aja asked after Morgan had explained his daily duty to her.

“No. It’s not my business to care. Hell, I figure it can’t be any worse than the Skutter for them.”

“Yeah, but aren’t you just a little bit curious?” she pressed.

“Nope.”

“This is all you want out of life? The same thing day in and day out, over and over until you die? Don’t you have any dreams? Don’t you want to do what you want to do?”

“The only dream I have is the same nightmare I have every night,” Morgan retorted.

“Wait a minute. Are you serious? You have the exact same dream every night?”

Morgan hadn’t expected her to seize on his confession with any seriousness, but now that she had, he was caught off guard. He tried to steer the conversation in another direction but she was relentless. Finally, Morgan broke down and told her all about the dreams and his experience of being captive as a Mr. Bishop.

“Have you ever tried to just go with it?” she said.

“What?”

“Instead of resisting; why don’t you just accept your fate and go along with what they want you to do? You know, be Mr. Bishop.”

Morgan started to protest but stopped as he thought about it.

Aja continued saying, “After all, it is just a dream. What’s the harm of it?”

The storm no longer raged outside but their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of grating metal.

“What the hell -” Aja started to say but Morgan cut her off.

“Hush,” Morgan barked. Then whispering he said, “Shut up and don’t move.”

****

They sat quietly in the dark listening to the scraping outside of the makeshift barrier that Morgan had erected. Morgan realized that there was no use trying to wait them out. Somehow, the creatures knew that Morgan and Aja were inside.

Morgan struck the flair and light stabbed their eyes causing Aja to cry out. She realized that it was just Morgan lighting the torch and not the creatures attacking.

“It’s okay,” Morgan said. “There’s no point in cowering in the dark; we’re going to have to make a break for it.”

“What the hell are they?” Aja said as she crawled closer to Morgan. The sounds of clicking and metal on metal were quite distressing.

“They’re Peepskins and Derrydrugs,” Morgan explained.

“And what does that mean?” she said now clinging to his back.

“Peepskins are like giant, metal sand spiders with long needles and Derrydrugs are their riders. After the Peepskins inject you with their venom, the Derrydrugs latch onto your face and fill your insides with poison.”

“Seriously! How in the name of Nightshade are we going to get past them?”

“We bomb the bastards and then we run like hell. They don’t like direct sunlight; they keep to shadow and darkness. If we can get back outside and if the storm has completely passed, then we should be able to get away.”

“Geez, Morgan! That’s way too many if’s for me to feel like this is going to work. Is that the best you got?”

Morgan pulled one of the grenades from his bag and handed the torch and the grenade to Aja. “Kid, that’s all I got. I’m going to pull the debris from the door and when I tell you to, you have to use the torch to light the fuse. Don’t let the flame light too much of the fuse, though. Just touch the tip to the flame and then you toss it through the hole I make. Make sure you get it out there and not in here. Got it?”

Aja nodded her head as she looked warily at the flame in one hand and the round bomb in the other.

Morgan took a deep breath and said, “After the bomb is dropped out there, get against the wall over there. The explosion is gonna be huge and you don’t want the debris hitting you. But right after the explosion, we’ve got to run like hell. You stay between me and the wall all the way up.”

Aja’s face was etched with fear. Morgan placed his hand behind her head and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry, Aja, just keep the torch in your hand and they won’t attack you,” Morgan said. It was a lie but he needed her to believe that there was a fighting chance of getting out.

****

Morgan worked at freeing debris from a small section. It was nerve-wracking work as the Peepskins and Derrydrugs continued to scour the room beyond trying to find a way into the small room. Time was running short and Morgan feared they would breach the room before he could put his plan into play.

Finally, Morgan removed a slab of metal big enough to reveal a hole. Immediately a sharp, metallic claw filled the hole and Morgan barely withdrew his arm in time.

“Now, Aja! Now!”

Aja stepped up and placed the bomb’s fuse close to the flame. It took a tense moment but the fuse erupted into a hissing glow of sparks. Aja hesitated a moment not wanting to approach the hole with the claws frantically scraping for purchase through the opening. Morgan seized upon her hesitation and grabbed the bomb from her hand and violently shoved it through the hole forcing the claw back. He withdrew his hand and a stream of blood ran down his arm.

“Take cover!” he shouted jerking Aja by her shirt and forcing her under him against the wall. A moment later the blast rocked through the building. The debris obstructing the door was blown clear and slammed into the back wall of the room. The concussion assaulted Aja and Morgan’s senses leaving their ears ringing. Morgan was pulling Aja to her feet and yelling for her to run but she couldn’t hear him. It didn’t matter, though. Aja knew that she had to run.

As they burst from the room the chaos of the bomb’s destruction was everywhere. Aja caught glimpses of fire and wreckage all around. Here a mangled spider-like creature that she knew to be a Peepskin by Morgan’s description, there a charred, ape-like body of a Derrydrug. Even though the face was burned, there was still the sight of the proboscis where the mouth should be. Aja didn’t have to use too much imagination to know that it was what Morgan said would snake down its victim’s throat after they had been paralyzed by the Peepskin’s venom.

They ran like mad and Aja was relieved to see that none of the creatures seemed to be able to give chase. Apparently, they had all been just outside the room when the bomb went off. Up and up they clambered until they arrived on the main floor. Aja and Morgan navigated debris making for the entrance.

And then Morgan was falling. With a hard crash a Peepskin landed atop Morgan just several yards from the entrance. Aja turned back in horror to see the creature’s long tail tipped with a huge needle bearing down on Morgan. Morgan struggled to get free but it was no use. Aja ran to help Morgan but he screamed at her, “Don’t, Aja! Go and save yourself! Go!”

As he was yelling this Aja watched the long needle sink into Morgan’s chest.

“Noooooooo!” she cried.

Then the Derrydrug raised its head from somewhere atop the Peepskin’s back. It made a hideous cackle and began to climb down onto Morgan.

Tears were streaming down Aja’s face as she backed away from the melee. All she could manage to say through the sobs was, “Oh, Morgan. Oh, Morgan.” Over and over again. 

The last thing she saw before running out into the wasteland was Morgan looking her in the eye’s, raising his arms, and saying, “I’m not Morgan; I’m Mr. Bishop. Now make a wish!”