Kipner's Boon - Preview

He felt the cold steel of the pistol's barrel against his chin, the sharp edges of the trigger against his finger, and the comforting leather from the gun's grip.

He had hoped to have the strength to go through with it, but his eyes kept wandering around his office with a peculiar distraction. There was the small, white clock on the wall to his left, which had a habit of stopping at exactly 11:17, the same time he had been notified by the hospital of his passing mother.

Three fingers of amber colored whiskey looked tempting in a crystal glass nearby, which had been a gift from an old college roommate. It had a tiny fracture at the base his friend had overlooked. There was a small round of jokes on the irony he had graduated by slipping through the cracks, but smiles vanished when a droplet escaped through it and made an eerie, slow wail. Over the years, he had tried patching it, but the horrific sound continued through the same fracture with each drop. He couldn’t for the life of him remember why he had not thrown it out.

Draped over the chair in front of his desk was the suit he had bought at a secondhand store. There had been a matchbook from an unknown laundromat inside one of the pockets with his name hastily scribbled across it. The address and phone number had come up empty without any records of it ever existing.

He had plenty of other odd and downright spooky things lying around his office and back at home that had come into his possession at one point or another. Each somehow felt connected in a supernatural way that had always made him wonder if there was more than meets the eye in life. Despite his eyes delaying him on past relics of memory, they weren't helping his current decision to blow himself away.

The pistol began to shake in his grip as he contemplated his next move although he knew he couldn't do it. After what he had witnessed earlier, a seed had been planted in his mind that empowered his curiosity more than his fear and foreboding. No matter how hard he tried, he knew he had to find out what he had seen – what it had been.

He allowed the haunting memory to be recalled even though it caused him to shudder at the thought. Rain had been falling for most of the morning in London earlier that week. If there had been a break in the weather he had been oblivious to it. He had been cooped up in his office wearing out his binoculars as he gazed onto the street below. It hadn't mattered to him that he had lost track of the time. He knew he had seen it before among the people as they went about their busy day, and he was sure he would spot it again sooner or later.

It had been repulsive. Entirely unnoticeable by the pedestrians on the sidewalk, the source of nightmares crawled among them. Long projections of tendrils jutted from most of its central body, each coated with dozens of swollen lesions that puckered and sucked as the arms slithered across each person. He stared in almost catatonic horror as they would lash out and wrap around people’s bodies, using them as its locomotion as it weaved through the throng of people, and tugging at their skin like a bottom feeder fish. Yet they were oblivious to its touch.

It had been only for a moment, but he was sure as the bottle of booze was nearly empty on his desk that something had surfaced from a gutter and slithered into a crack between two buildings.

But there had been no further sightings of the creature since then; he had been locked to his binoculars for days at the narrow alley. By now, he was familiar enough with the area to know the two buildings that formed the alley met in the back at a tall, brick shed that prevented progress. He had been waiting for days for it to retreat back out - barely sleeping or eating to avoid missing sight of it again.

Hours before he drew his pistol to his chin, he failed to notice his secretary enter his office. She was a young lady, barely in her twenties, with bundled blonde hair and soft blue eyes. Before she had worked for him, her only job had been helping her mother clean houses. While lacking in many secretarial skills like proper filing and efficient typing, her continued efforts to keep him functioning and alive by making sure he ate and slept occasionally were what he was most grateful for though he neglected to ever acknowledge her about it.

“Mr. Kipner? Are you okay?” she asked. He thought he heard her soft voice though it sounded far away. He didn't bother turning around, nor did he look at her after she tried again for his attention. It wasn't until the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder did he finally look away from the window.

“What is it, Natasha?” he said perhaps more tense than he wished for, but she was distracting him from seeing the creature if it returned. He tried to retract the harshness of his voice through a softer expression, but it went unnoticed by the young woman.

She quickly retracted her hand from his shoulder and took a half step back. He was shocked to hear his own tone as he had never lashed out to her before. Even during the most stressful cases facing a tight deadline, he never had raised his voice.

“Natasha, I'm....I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. My mind was on something else that caused it,” he said, and although she seemed to regain herself, her voice revealed she was still shaken.

She stammered a bit then composed herself and said,”Mr. Kipner, Sir, I am heading home for the evening unless there is anything you need me to do.” She was answered by a hasty shake of his head, and he began to turn back to his binoculars when she added,”Oh there is a letter for you from a Mr. Delven Montgomery out of Cairo. I left it here on your desk this morning. The postman informed me there was an urgency behind the delivery by Mr. Montgomery as postage was paid at thrice the cost. Goodnight, Sir. Have a great weekend.” He never heard the door close with a pleasant bang from an unappreciated lady nor did he discover the letter until hours later and deep in the night.

Frustrated from a lack of sighting all day, he rolled his chair away from the window and finally saw the letter from his old mentor.

The letter was brief, devoid of small talk and cut right to the chase. He wanted Robert to lead an expedition into the Belgian Congo to determine why all communication had stopped from a remote medical clinic. Montgomery had financed the construction of a hospital deep in the jungle in an effort to aid natives against foreign diseases from the increase in explorers, but routine contact from the hospital staff had unexpectedly stopped. The letter mentioned an initial expedition, but they were long overdue.

Inside the envelope, a rough sketch fell out with Montgomery's handwriting on the back. “Native scribbling from the jungle – familiar to you.” To most anyone, it would have appeared as harsh, heavy strokes from mad man’s etching. To Robert, it was the same creature he had witnessed just outside his office. There was no mistake from the tendrils jutting out from a central black body. It was no octopus; this was a creature of unknown origin.

*

It was in the early Spring of 1868 when a young Delven Theodore Montgomery III was walking along the boardwalk of what eventually became Lower Manhattan. The day was coming to an end, and he had been feeling a sense of urgency to return home before sunset though he didn't know why. For several blocks, his ears had perked to a reoccurring sound that he could not identify. Each time he investigated the sound's direction, perhaps it came from an alley nearby or behind a napping horse that was tied to a post. Yet each time he searched the spot he was certain the sound originated there had been nothing.

As he picked up his pace, the sound grew closer, from every direction at different intervals. It was as if people had been synchronized with noise makers to pull some childish prank. Finally as he turned down an alley in hopes of cutting his walk home shorter, he was struck with a vision he would never forget. A homeless man was the victim of some horrendous crime as a dark shapeless mass was latched onto him and feasting on his flesh. It had numerous arm-like extensions that were holding the man in place, each one pulsating and causing ripples against the man's skin. All the poor man could do was gasp for air in silent shock as the creature finished and dropped him lifelessly onto the cold, wet concrete.

Delven had witnessed the entire encounter, frozen in place as he stared at the grotesque act. There were no visible eyes on the beast, but Delven saw it motion in his direction. For a moment, he feared he was next, but the creature slithered off almost spider-like to a nearby drain and fit its way through despite its sheer size being far too big for the hole.

The phenomenon didn't end that day either. Several years later, when he found himself traveling with his parents south to Maryland, he caught a glimpse of it once more. They were taking a carriage ride through the country a few miles outside of Baltimore when Delven began to hear the noise again though his parents didn’t notice.

It was the same creature as before. It was like a spilled pool of oil lying motionless at the base of a tall oak tree. But then it moved. It wasn't the speed so much as the method it chose to use locomotion that bothered Delven. It lurched up almost to the loose shape of a person though devoid of any features or appendages. The top then listed to one side like a wave beginning to topple onto the beach. Just as it seemed gravity was about to take over and send it collapsing down on itself, numerous tendrils sprouted with such quickness it was as if they appeared out of thin air.

These tendrils, he thought close to a dozen in number, reached out to nearby foliage and pulled itself through every branch, leaf, and stem like water flowing over smooth river rock. It was hypnotic from the eloquence and grace of the entity, yet it was terrifying that it was certainly not a terrestrial animal. While he was no zoologist, he felt confident no expert could categorize the species among the animal kingdom.

As an adult, Montgomery was eccentric to most of his close colleagues, and to the general public he was thought to be quirky in his interests. His estate was a museum of antiquities and oddities that would give anyone a reason to pause if viewed. To the uneducated, his collection appeared to have no connection or theme, sporadically decorated from different eras and geographical places throughout the world. It wasn't uncommon for the skull of an ancient mastodon from far northern Russia to be next to a blood stained sacrificial dagger from Peru. However, he believed passionately there was, indeed, a common theme among every piece he collected. They all related in one form or another to something that was not originally a part of this world.

So there was no doubt or confusion from Delven, decades later, when he received scribbles of a mad man from the Congo jungle. He had seen it before – the black blob-like creature with tendrils reaching out in all directions, moving so methodically through the countryside undetected by all but himself.

He knew he needed help beyond those he had sent on the original expedition to the hospital. It required people like himself who had experienced seeing things not a part of this world. Experts on the occult, the supernatural, and forbidden secrets were the type he needed. Experts like Robert Kipner.

*

The private detective finished off the last of the booze as he leaned back in his chair and, less than gingerly, tossed the revolver back in the drawer. At this hour, the office was only illuminated by the full moon outside shining in through the blinds. He craned his neck to the side to peek through without his binoculars, watching the evening traffic move up and down the street below. His head hurt from drinking too much that day, but the liquor was needed to cope with the anxiety. Seeing sights like he did rattled his consciousness, challenging it not to collapse on itself and make him point a gun to his head. There had been times he felt it would, especially in the earlier years of his career when he hadn't seen as many things he should have.

The brightness of the moon tonight reminded him of the first time his eyes fell on something not of this world. He had still been an investigator, but his cases were what anyone would expect from his profession: missing women, blackmailed businessmen, cheating souls. His living had been good back then as those jobs paid well.

One evening, he had been following a gentleman across several blocks, expecting the man to lead him to the brothel his wife had suspected him of disappearing to every Tuesday between 9 and 10. Kipner was confident the man hadn't detected his presence although the street was virtually deserted save for a few drunks passed out near garbage cans.

Half a block from the brothel, the man suddenly side stepped into an alley and disappeared.

Robert paused for a moment. The man had given no sign that he knew he was being followed, and Robert was certain he had not given up his location. Besides, they both were using the route most took.

He crept up slowly to the alley being careful to avoid crunching too much gravel on the sidewalk. It was a particularly narrow gap between the buildings, just wide enough for a man to walk through without turning sideways. He didn't have a light source with him, so peering around the corner was fruitless, and the nearby streetlamp wasn't any help.

He couldn't hear the man in the alley. The sounds of the city were far off, leaving nothing but a stray cat and a piece of rustling paper to be heard. No sound came from in between the buildings. He knew the man must not be far inside.

He stood motionless for what seemed like hours. No one else came down the street. How could someone stand still for so long? The area might be rougher than others, but homicides were not really known on this street. There was no need to be that paranoid.

His ears heard movement faintly in the alley that caused his hair to stand on end. It was difficult to notice at first but he quickly realized it was bone on bone crackling. His mind filled with terrible visions of fractured limbs and necks as the subtle but distinct sound ricocheted off the walls. It came from perhaps a dozen or more feet into the alleyway, but Robert was finding it difficult to take a step into the darkness. He wasn't worried about being jumped by muggers – he had faced plenty before. His confidence in a fight had kept him in business and gotten him out of sticky situations. But something was wrong. The sound was grotesque and bizarre. What could cause such a sound? Fear had crept in his mind and was spreading quickly.

The crunching sound of bone continued for several minutes, and while its location remained in the same spot, it rattled downward like a relieved spine by a chiropractor.

Before he could muster enough courage to investigate further, a long, scraping sound escalated from within the darkness against the brick walls. The movement was slow and steady with a high pitch as each scraping sound became closer than the last.

Robert found himself backing up slowly from the opening, almost stumbling off the curb's edge and onto the street. He clung to the bathing light of the streetlamp like a child to a blanket. Not bringing his revolver was an immediate regret, but the case had indicated a nonviolent solution. He wasn't sure what was about to emerge, but he would have felt more relieved protected.

Nothing prepared him for what he saw that night. It changed his lifestyle, his profession, and his philosophies. It wrecked the truths that he held that led him down the paths he chose day to day.

The first bone-like finger that pierced the thick, black darkness sent chills down his spine and found his mouth open in shock. With each extended piece of bone that reached out and curled around the lip of the building pushed Robert back another step before realizing he had left the comfort of the street's light.

It was some monstrosity that pulled itself out from the alley, a mixture of bone and thick black ooze-like tissue. Its movement was unnatural as it toppled over itself with sudden jerking motions. Numerous spider-like appendages reached out in all directions, each one exposing bone within the oily black membrane.

Terror filled Robert to plant his feet firmly to the ground and not run despite his instincts screaming at him. He could only stare at the behemoth as it crackled out from the alley and onto the sidewalk. Up to this point, it was impossible to tell if it was actively moving toward anything in particular, specifically Robert, but once it had fully freed itself from the tight alley, it quickly made for a nearby gutter drain and, despite it’s proportion and with great ease, it slipped through the bars of the grate and into the sewer below.

Suddenly Robert was very alone to the sound of absolute silence as he stood there for a moment longer, frozen in fear, before his conscious mind broke the barrier. He fell to his knees shaking and sobbing uncontrollably as a soft warm mist began to fall. There was no evidence the creature had past before his eyes, but he could not eliminate the vision from his mind. He tried to disbelieve the idea and blame it on a few swigs of whiskey earlier, but by morning he was still terrorized.

Later the next day, he had contacted his client, dropped the case, and leased a small apartment up above the street where he had witnessed it. He knew he must be crazy to want to be so close, but he couldn't resist knowing what he saw wasn't his imagination. By the end of the week, he had a truck bring his office furniture to the new location where he planned on staying for quite some time.

Although he would spend weeks staring out of the window in hopes of seeing the creature again, it wouldn't be until years later when he saw it the second time, emerging from the sewers and enveloping the people on the sidewalk as it slithered into the same alley it had once came from. By then, he had given up traditional cases and focused more on strange macabre and supernatural mysteries. During his findings, he had seen things that would be as traumatic as was seeing the dark behemoth creature crawling into the sewers, but his mind had grown thick skinned. Whether he was suppressing the fear or truly unafraid anymore, he was able to better withstand the sights of things he was not meant to see.

But when the creature had squeezed itself back out from the sewers earlier that week, he knew he wasn't imagining things any longer. There had been a moment his fear of the creature mixed with the curiosity of seeing it a second time had led to that dangerous moment with his revolver and himself. Even his thick skinned mind, after seeing horrific sights and unanswered secrets, had trouble tolerating the notion he and it shared the same world.

Short Story: Senior Is The Demon

SeniorIsTheDemon

.pdf

Download PDF • 55KB

She was jolted awake with such force from her dream she gasped. It had been such a lovely dream, too, with emerald grasslands and a morning glory sky. Grasping at the last strand of her vision was pointless as she rapidly awoke to a heavily bearded man standing over her. There was a quick smack across her cheek, and she was wide awake.

“Nah time fer sleepin' Miss P'nelope! Needin' a li'l jingle in mah paw'kets.” The grizzled man spoke with such a hard accent, understanding him would be difficult to the common man, but Miss Penelope knew exactly what he and the four other men standing nearby came for.

Before she could answer, another slap across her face was felt as the rest of the men chuckled. She reached for her old, wrinkled cheek to soothe the sharp pain as she closed her eyes for a moment. There was a brief flicker of hope that she was still in a dream having shifted darkly to a nightmare, but he grabbed her arms and shook her.

“Alright, alright. Let me up and I'll get you your coins,” she said in between wheezes, trying to catch her breath. These days, she was relieved her cottage was so small as her legs didn't appreciate being used too much. The pain in her joints screamed each time she took the ten steps down into her root cellar.

The giant of a man stood up and let her get off the pitiful excuse for a bed. Much like her other possessions, it had seen its prime decades ago and was now on borrowed time.

The floorboards groaned and squawked under her feet as she slowly shifted across the room to the hearth. Shame on her for napping, she thought as she strained to reach up from inside the chimney to the hidden ledge holding her coin purse. The fire had died down to coals, and it would be hell on her knees working it back up. The cold days demanded the fire roaring constantly, but the old woman felt beyond her years, which led to more naps and longer nights dreaming of emerald grasslands and skies of morning glories.

Toothless grins suddenly appeared throughout the little shanty cottage as the men grew with excitement watching the coin purse present itself from its secret location. It, too, was barely holding together with old stitching and threadbare fabric. The coins within, mostly copper with one silver, was all she had left from her late husband.

He had worked prominently as a cobbler for much of the nobles in the Highborn district, the heart of Keldia. His work was almost magical between his extraordinary craftsmanship and the alarmingly short time to complete each shoe. Nobles remarked how they walked an inch off the ground feeling not a single curve of cobblestone beneath them.

How quickly, however, did they dismiss the tragic news of his death to tuberculosis as other cobblers suddenly appeared shortly thereafter, mysteriously equal to his talent and twice as fast. The small fortune he had acquired was passed on to his widow, Miss Penelope, which was then passed on, forcefully, to a small band of petty criminals whose source of income was through intimidation.

“There, that's the last of it,” Miss Penelope said as she emptied the pouch into the man's awaiting hand. From his expression, he didn't seem very pleased.

“It do't jingle ver' loud, Miss P'nelope,” he said as his fat, sausage-like finger pushed a few of the coins to one side. “Yer gon' haf' ta do betta than tha' nex' week.” A chorus of grumbles and laughter followed as they departed with a few of her brick-a-brac possessions. The only thanks she received was a final shove against the hearth from the hand that held the coins.

She leaned against the mantle for some time after the men departed until she could gather her old self, waddle to the front door, and latch it from swinging wildly in the cold night air. Closing her eyes again, she wished for her dream to immediately return, but all she felt was the chill against her skin and her sore feet.

Her husband had left her with several pairs of shoes to wear, but she outlived them all considerably. There was no way of knowing just how old she really was. Her interest of keeping track had long since faded with the blonde in her hair. It felt like a cruel trick upon her: she couldn't seem to die of old age, and she couldn't live the rest of her life in peace without harassment. Each week, the same group of young men, foolish in their ways and little sense about them, would force themselves into her humble hovel and threaten her until she gave them coins. Regardless if the coins were resting on the table beside the front door, she would always receive a slap of a hand or a violent shake just to remind her of what they could do otherwise.

It simply wasn't fair, she thought to herself as she made her way to the door to the cellar. She shivered as unusually colder air blew up from the dark depths below and swirled around her. It was the only place in the house that felt tolerable during the harsh winters in Keldia, but tonight seemed to disregard that truth.

An oil lantern hung on a twisted iron hook that guided her down the ten steps to the dirt floor cellar. She managed to barely keep it maintained with bags of vegetables, which was all she chose to eat. Her husband had been nearly a carnivore to her, often bringing home large cuts of meat gifted to him by the noble families. The sight of a steak dripping with fat while cooking reminded her of boils and leprosy as it darkened and sizzled. It had been difficult to dine with him nightly, but she found tolerance with each purse he brought home that overflowed with coins.

Someone was in the shadowy cellar with her. The walls were lined with shelves, and in the middle were three tables. From the glow of her lantern, everything cast heavy shadows everywhere, yet she had a peculiar feeling that she was not alone. With her lantern raised, she peered around each table with trepidation, but each one yielded no one in hiding. It didn't take long to cover the enter cellar as it was half the size of her house, which wasn't large to begin with.

Finding nothing, she shrugged her shoulders and went to gather tonight's supper of potatoes and carrots when another strange, cold gust of wind whirled about her and blew out her lantern. It startled her too much to notice it had not come from upstairs. The darkness was rich black to her unaccustomed old eyes as she stood still staring about her, listening for the slightest sound.

As her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, there was the vague outline of animal perched on one of the shelves against the wall. Its back curved higher than its head. It sat motionless in the dark and pressed its body against the shelf as if to pounce.

“Good evening. You have a lovely cellar,” whispered a voice from the dark object. The old woman could begin to make out its features more. It was more or less cat shaped with very little neck to join the body to the head. It appeared to have no arms or legs and was covered in coarse fur that more closely resembled quills from a porcupine but considerably longer in length. The face was too humanoid to be ignored. Its pronounced nose was narrow with significant length and moved about in a slow, methodical pattern. Two sets of eyes rest above its nose, one pair above the other, that gave off a soft, red illumination.

Miss Penelope gaped in horror, her mouth a silent scream from the sight as she stood frozen. It was a thing not from this world although many bizarre and wondrous creatures dwelt throughout it. This beast must be from the demonic abyss, she thought, as it was far too grotesque and sinister to exist elsewhere.

Taking a few swallows to wet her throat, she asked, “Tha-thank you. Wha-What do you want from me?” Her fear gave her very little strength to speak although her curiosity helped a little. She had seen nothing more than a few famous magical beasts in Keldia's zoo when she was very young, but never in her life had she seen a creature of demonic blood.

“I am in need of food, old woman, and I smelled your lovely cellar,” the beast shifted on the shelf, and she could see it did, in fact, have legs tucked underneath like a cat. All four eyes seem to look about the room curiously. “Although these are only garnishes.”

“What food do you like to eat?” she asked, finally finding her voice again. She was far too tired to be tormented again this evening. If she could avoid getting hurt by making a quick meal, she would prepare a feast.

The body lifted off the shelf, revealing four backwards jointed legs, leaped off the shelf with great dexterity, and landed on the table next to her. It leaned slowly towards her, closing to within a few inches of her face. Its eyes flickered as its long nose, like an elephant's trunk, slowly slithered across her face with a gentle caress. Closer still, a triangular mouth was at the end of its nose, which it used to whisper into her ear.

“I desire fleshhhhhhhh,” it extended the word out with a hiss. Her body shivered at both the unnerving touch of its trunk-like nose and the sound of its voice, a smooth, low pitched quality that reminded her of a baritone humming.

“But I don't have any me-meat. I only ---” she said and was quickly silenced by a firm tightening of the nose around her head. With greater force than the bearded bully, the monster pulled her close enough to feel its clammy, leather-like skin.

“I don't require animal meat, old woman!” it sternly said with a clear sign of impatience, but it quickly calmed itself and loosened its grip. “No, I want flesh of a humanoid, raw and still warm to the touch. Its blood should still pump or not long since.”

Feeling the tension loosen around her face, she recoiled a bit though dared go no further than where she stood. It was pointless to look at the garden sheers she had hanging on the wall. There was a feeling that they would not harm this creature.

Visions came to her mind from the request of the beast. It wanted human flesh, which she barely comprehended the notion of anyone wanting something so revolting. The creature twitched with impatience from her hesitancy, but she quickly nodded in acceptance and felt the grip loosen entirely.

There was the sound of a long, slow sigh coming from the black entity as it retreated smoothly across the cellar and back into the corner. As it melded with the darkness, it whispered one last time, “I need fleshhhhh.” Its voice faded into silence as it drew out the word.

Later that night, after the fireplace had been lit again and she had laid down for much needed rest, she couldn't help but dwell on the strange notion that the beast's voice sounded almost like her late husband.

---

She didn't hear or see any signs from the creature for several days, and soon she had all since forgotten the ghastly experience. Down in the cellar, it had remained unusually cold each time she went to retrieve more vegetables. The night the beast returned startled her, sending a clay jar shattering against the hard dirt floor.

“You delay my hungerrrrr,” it whispered to her from the shadows of the room. Although she looked to where the noise came from, she couldn't make out the shape this time. It was as if the monster spoke to her from some distant location, sending messages to her mind.

“My teeth long to tear the fleshhhh you promised to fetch,” it said again. The whistle that followed nearly each word raised bumps on her skin. Her thoughts returned to the first evening when she thought the sound was a close likeness of her husband's. This time, she was certain it was the same but with a varying tempo and exaggerated pronunciation.

“Bernie?” she asked timidly as she tried in vain to spot the origin of the voice again. She could feel its presence was close, as if it rested its claws on her shoulders and whispered into her ear from behind. “I don't understand how you sound just like...” she trailed off as the absurdity overcame her words.

The soft sound of a gurgling chuckle answered her. When it finally tapered, it said, “It is not of your concern. Feed me fleshhhh.” There was more structure to the creature's speech. “By tomorrow, flesh or your fleshhhh.”

Its last words jolted her back into a sense of endangerment, and she shuffled back upstairs as quickly as her old bones allowed. She was convinced now the problem would simply not go away, so she sat near her hearth in the morning flicker of flames. There was no doubt about it now that somehow her husband's voice was being used by this creature of terror downstairs. Whether it was somehow him or some callous spirit that was sent to frighten her was unclear. Either way, her fear overcame her frustration of yet another harassment in her life.

Glancing outside the window, a slow, steady snow was falling onto the ground, covering the frozen mud of Bellow Street. A few horse drawn carts were slowly trudging through the growing drifts. The flakes were large and crisp in shape, tumbling over themselves as they drifted down. Her thoughts fell with the snowflakes to the demands of the monstrosity downstairs. At her age, she questioned the potential consequence of disobeying the beast. For years she had been mentally prepared of death, welcoming it even to a degree. If that would be her punishment, she had no intention of helping it.

Suddenly her mind was convoluted with visions of her husband being tortured. He laid half dead, restrained to an inclined table surrounded by tools, devices, and weapons of horrific means. He was not alone in the room covered in dark ash. Human shaped grotesque beings, each one more gruesome and terrifying than the last, were bent over him in observation. Each one had some form of torturing structure made of black iron strapped to their face. Hooks, anchored to the back of their head, were sunk into the lips and peeled forcefully back beyond the face's tolerance, revealing a bloody mess of gums and teeth. Slowly one by one they turned their heads toward her, their permanent smiles casting a devilishly sinister expression.

She woke with a start, having dosed off to the doldrums of the silent snowfall, leaving her gasping for breath from the horror. She sobbed for hours; although her nightmare was over, she couldn't stop reliving the experience. She somehow could feel a reality behind what she had seen. Somehow her husband, long past his death, was being harmed endlessly, or would be, if she didn't follow through.

It was a day before her weekly brute visitors were due when she had tricked a traveler passing by to enter her poor cottage. Little effort was needed to convince anyone with time on their hands to help an elderly old woman in need of a heavy kettle hung over the fire.

He was a younger man, perhaps in his early 20s, with hard, dark skin from years of working outdoors. He had offered the woman his services for anything else after the cauldron was easily lifted and hung onto the iron hook. Her trap was sprung after he went to retrieve a heavy bag of potatoes from the cellar.

She had hoped it would be quick, that the traveler would be consumed promptly without a mess or a sight to see. But the dark beast had other intentions to savor its prey and spent many hours gorging itself on the flesh and blood. Only when the traveler had been completely devoured did it speak out to her again. Much like earlier, it somehow projected its words directly into her mind while she sat upstairs by the fire.

“Deliciousssss, my dear. My hunger lives. More to me. Do not stop,” it howled in her head, a sense of delight in its tone.

My dear. The words rang inside like a deep wound that never heals. She despised hearing such sincere words from the abomination, but she was too old to work herself up.

Patches of snow still remained when she heard the expected knock at her door the following day. The heavy boots of each man dragged and scattered muddy snow prints across her wooden floor. On this visit, she wasn't even greeted by a grunt before the back of their hand sent her collapsing toward the cellar door. She staggered a bit against the frame, feeling it press against her back, sending pain up her spine to her neck. The pain was excruciating, and the men laughed heartily as she moaned.

The wind was knocked out of her, and she stood desperately trying to catch her breath to speak. The leader of the pack took a broad step forward, grabbing her by her gown with a violent shake as he shouted for his payment.

“Gettin' rea' tire' a'comin' by seein' na coin! N'look 'ere lady! We're gon' com' back n'our –--” his shouting was cut off by an echoing voice from downstairs. It seemed to resonate against the walls and immediately drew all five of the men's attention.

“You go nowhereeeeee.”

The leader of them had a peculiar look to him as his eyes returned to Miss Penelope. “Ya got yerself a fella dow' thur'?” A few chuckled half hardheartedly with their eyes still focused on the doorway to the cellar. The voice had changed from her husband to a raspy, dry sound that reminded her of fingernails scratching against leather. It was clear some of the men were visibly shaken by the sound below, but the leader was too stubborn to be rattled.

Shoving her to one side, he began the descent downstairs ignoring the oil lantern. His steps were not bold, however, and he carefully placed each foot gingerly. For good measure, he drew a blade from under his coat sleeve while the rest of his crew gathered around at the door frame. They couldn't see him once he stepped off the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.

Nothing more was heard in the cellar by the men for several minutes despite them yelling down after him. They began to work up their courage by attempting to persuade the other to investigate, but none of them had any desire to go down.

They were about to turn away as Miss Penelope held onto her sore hip when a wet slurping sound came from the darkness. It was long and drawn out like soup being drunk directly from a bowl. A brief whimper followed and then silence returned.

As if drawn by a trance, each of the four men began walking down the stairs, one at a time, with such hesitancy they might bolt at the sight of a cockroach. Like their fearless leader, none of them bothered to reach for the lantern to guide them.

The old woman groaned as she barely lifted herself up, her arms shaking every step until she was leaning against the door frame. At first, she was appalled at the idea of what happened to the man, but as the silence continued and none of them returned, a dawning came about her at what it meant to her.

She dared not go down in fear of a sight that could not be forgotten. So she waited by the fire for a few days until she had no remaining food upstairs. Knees shaking, she stood at the top of the stairs with the lantern in her hand not looking forward to the journey.

“My hunger is no more, my dear. You did well, very well. Actions are now in motion, but you needn't worry for you have aged too long. Your time finally arrives. Come. Join me and rest,” the return of her husband's voice was now fuller and with more sincerity than before. Even more peculiar, the sound came from behind her near her old decrepit bed. Holding various things around the house as she walked, she made her way across to it with wide eyes. Perhaps to a passerby only an empty bed could be seen, but to her eyes, her husband lay peacefully asleep in a ghostly form where he once did so many years ago. The tattered blanket she wrapped herself with nearly lifted up for her as she slowly lowered down onto the bed.

She felt more tired than she ever had been before. The curiosity of the criminal thugs or the monster in the cellar vanished as her mind began to drift away from worldly problems and venture back to emerald grasslands and a morning glory sky.

Short Story: Benny Forgotten

BennyForgotten

.pdf

Download PDF • 51KB

There was no doubt about it – he was glad she was dead. Years of anguish from neglect mixed with a constant fear of rejection led to an adulthood full of indifference to his own life. As a child his only dream was the day he saw her lowered into the ground.

It was a mutual feeling, he was sure, too. Between the two of them, he showed his love more than she ever did. They had been dismally poor, yet he found a means to gift her on her birthday every year – something she never did for him. Nothing could change his feelings and thoughts of her now that she was gone, but her death lifted the heavy weight of trepidation that she might live a single day longer than him.

Four people attended his mother's funeral: the priest, himself, and two men he paid in silvers to drop the gray, wooden coffin into the hole. Few words were spoken in the eulogy from the priest, which had been insisted by her son. Just a brief speech of what Simon already knew although the man in cloth heavily glazed it for what he had hoped for.

After it was all over, however, Simon stood at his mother's grave longer than he thought he would. He had a moment of recollection during a time when she seemed most distant. Gone for hours, sometimes days at a time, Simon was left to fend for himself. From rat folk to the Assassin's Guild, he was in constant mortal danger. His self-reliance was hard as forged steel, and his tolerance from pain and fear was limitless. His mother had taught him more than he would give her credit: entirely indirect.

His mind was focused too much on the fresh grave to notice the stranger who stood beside him, reaching to place a piece of paper into the palm of Simon's hand and disappearing before he turned to see the messenger. The startled reaction was only for a second, but the confusion lasted for considerably longer. Only knee-high gravestones surrounded him; there were no suitable hiding places. The priest and impromptu pallbearers had long since departed. He stood there alone with his dead mother and no one else.

The piece of paper had a rectangle and three eyes draw within its boundaries along with the words “See beyond the pain.” The eyes were not painted in color, only ink scratched against the surface with such haste the words were barely legible. Each eye, generic and human, were arranged in the shape of a triangle. The handwriting was educated despite the harshness. Each stroke was thin and crisp like a razor against flesh.

He couldn't make sense of any of it until several days later as he made his way to the hovel that was once called home. It was a dilapidated pile of planks from an old ship at the bottom of a twisting and broken cobblestone lane. The surrounding buildings, long since outlived their original inhabitants, were filled with empty tales of misery and sorrow. No prosperity had ever come out of Squabble Lane. Especially Simon.

As a child, he knew every inch of the neighborhood: each little nook gave him a secret spot to hide from whomever was hunting him that day. Some holes had been so small he had found himself stuck for hours before he could wiggle free, but each spot earned him another day of being alive.

Rain began to softly drizzle coldly against the obtuse shaped stones below his feet as Simon paused within sight of his old home. Sharp eyes from a lifetime of playing a deadly game of hide and seek saw a slit of a gap between old crates and barrels just off the side of the lane against a few shanties that stacked on top of each other. There were no memories of this hole. While age and time could cause objects to shift and settle, this part of Keldia had long past its prime, turning into stone-like mountains of long forgotten lives. A hellish storm from the depths of the demonic abyss couldn't shift this dead end lane an inch.

Gazing through the separation of old wood, decomposed goods, and rotten feces, Simon could see what looked like three eyes in a triangle drawn on the ground just inside. He also thought he heard the notes of an organ grinder softly playing somewhere at the other end of this hole. It was difficult to follow the melody over the sharp, pinprick sound of raindrops on the cobblestones, but his mind teased him with a vague notion that he recognized it. A rapidly growing desire to pursue the sound set him forward as if Sirens were whispering.

He had initially doubted the older version of his childhood could find its way through the narrow gap, but his instincts guided him head first into the opening. He knew when to shift his body, when to exhale nearly completely, and when to pause to calm himself if anxiety crept in from the surrounding tightness. His vision was removed from him the moment his head slipped between the planks. Each inch was grueling, and he didn't make it through unhindered.

When he felt his feet had followed him into the hole, there was a commotion somewhere above him. A pigeon, or wild falcon perhaps, had landed with force onto the roof of the stacked shanties high overhead. The sound had startled Simon, and his body caused a collapse of debris that echoed high off the very pinnacle buildings. The chain reaction shot up for several seconds, and he could hear more than just a few pieces of planks and dust fall outside. Safely inside his well guarded hole, he was able to move once again and exit out into a private courtyard, sealed off by the pile of trash he had just crawled through.

The music's origin was now visible to Simon along with an unlikely sight. He stood before a whisper of a woman, tragically frail, whose back was so curved she most likely had not seen the sky for decades. Next to her was a dirty, threadbare blanket haphazardly used for shelter though against the rain it was useless. A small, smoky campfire sizzled against the wet weather.

In her hands was a small organ grinder that she rhythmically turned. In its youth, it had been candy striped, painted in orange and purple with two tassels of similar color, now nothing more than a few threads. Some of the pipes were missing while others improperly shorter resulting in kaleidoscopic notes, none of which were harmonic.

Simon watched her intently for a moment, feeling a seeping hypnotism befall him before snapping out of the trance. The nagging notion of familiarity earlier once again gently caressed his memory. Perhaps it came from somewhere long ago while in a drunken tavern played by a desperate minstrel.

A searing crackle sparked nearby as if a practicing wizard was first learning the art of electrical magic. It sounded low, crispy and sharp like the throat from a water deprived person.

It was the woman's voice as she spoke out to him even though her eyes permanently cast down to the ground. “See beyond the pain,” was all she spoke. The music continued to play its haunting, off tune notes in an endless broken loop.

“See the...the pain?” he said, pulling out the paper with the mysterious etching. He stared at it in hopes his mind would become enlightened by the conundrum. “Did you put this in my hand at the funeral?” looking up as he asked the curved woman.

Music continued to ring in his ears, echoing in his brain and burning itself into his memory. No other sound came about the small courtyard near Squabble Lane. The flames of the pitiful campfire dwindled to smoldering ashes as the drizzle picked up to a steady downpour. Yet the old woman played on.

From notes against the rain came a beat that sounded like lyrics. Simon paused for several minutes, subconsciously holding his breath to hear more intensely while he stared up into the rain. The words sounded like a poem on the wind, and soon he made it out clearly enough to understand.

To Tilsdale Square of morning eve

Did we do go tho disbelieve

Brought forth a treasure of olden yore

And wealth beyond the pain did soar

Wink from eye and face of mask

Fur hold all doubt and our past

It was only for a moment before the rain retook the dominance of sound in the night. He had been listening so closely to the words, making sure he remembered each one, it took some time for him to notice the music had gone silent. There was no sign of the old woman or her musical box, just the tiny fire and tattered rag flapping in the rain.

---

Tilsdale Square was Keldia's shiftiest block of merchants and dealers. Its reputation wasn't famous for acquiring illegal goods and services, however. Folks journeyed into the darker corners of the city seeking relics of the past, forgotten gems of conquered kings, and forbidden stories of deep secrets. Lost souls sought redemption or illumination within themselves here.

To Simon, it was a cruel joke – a team of con artists seeking to exploit pathetic and sad individuals who had lost everything. It was shameful of him to think of how he once ventured there when he was a child, hoping to find his mother after she disappeared for the hundredth time. He found it ironic of his return so many years later, and by the looks of things, nothing had changed in all that time.

Despite its name, Tilsdale Square was nothing more than a narrow alley with just enough room to walk through if the tents were staggered on either side. Trinkets and brick-a-brac scattered across the tables under each canopy or packed into loose crates wedged tightly between the stalls. Beyond this, the small street market compared very little to the larger market squares in the city. Business was conducted in hushed tones, sometimes behind heavily draped curtains, to prevent secrets from escaping. Deals were done by sleight of hand gestures, exchanging money and hidden treasures by means of subtle palming maneuvers.

Simon trudged into the alley, his cloak pulled over himself in the continuing cold rain. Few if any would recognize him in all of Keldia as his street lessons taught him to blend in well. His face was forgettable, and he bore no recognizable markings or scars. Although his poverty and lack of education had led him down a dark path of crime, his wits had been properly procured thanks to the fear of being hunted by men and beasts. Staying ahead of the enemy meant staying alive for one more day.

A whisper gently touched his right ear, which caused his hair to stand on end. It was soothing like a cool brook over sore feet, yet when it entered his head, his teeth gritted and eyes narrowed in controlled rage. The sound resonated with amplification of a tribal drum, but no one nearby took notice. He felt fiery within his blood from the whisper, and he turned knowing already whose voice it was.

His mother. A woman, now elderly, was selling her baubles and jewelry and trinkets, but her eyes, young and waggish, stared straight at him, piercing into his head and squeezing his focus until he was oblivious of his surroundings. He stood within a void filled with wisps of gray ash and black vapor. He saw his mother before him under a tent of blue although she had just laid her head in a coffin a few days ago.

“It dwells so deep within you, there is no pain,” came her voice, much like ice upon dry skin. It was cold and heartless with a lack of humanity behind her words – at least Simon heard it that way. His blood boiled as he felt his temper flair up. A flood of memories came back of a time when he was alone for so many years of his childhood, desperately afraid and fearful she might not return again.

Something was pulling at his subconsciousness as he wrestled with the desire to speak to her. The audacity of violating his mind with tricks and magic to exploit his vulnerability! The anger was fueled by reliving the thought of his mother.

The pulling continued to grow, and he found himself speaking as if his mother was before him. “You know nothing of pain.” He clenched his teeth and spat as if consuming poison with each word spoken.

His mother showed the look of regret and sorrow. “Do I not? Your life has been riddled with fear at every turn, yet I carried that burden given to you.”

Simon approached the table that separated the two, gripping its edge tightly as his knuckles quickly turned white. Leaning in, he felt bolder and said, “You abandoned your son! You left me for the wolves to fight over! I had to scramble to survive while you ran off to have your pleasures of life. I alone feel pain for your rejection of me. I became a god's sacrifice for your happiness.”

Large, bulbous tears began to fall from her eyes as she watched Simon explode into a tyrant of angry words and hateful ideas towards her. He, too, shook with sorrow from the unleashing of his deepest emotions that had been locked away for so many years. His vision quickly became blurry from moisture that clouded his eyes.

Gasping for breath after his eruption slowed down, he bowed his head and closed his eyes as a wave of fatigue settled in his lungs. He had been a kept man for so many years, having no one to release his emotions of the woman he so deeply loved and hated at the same time. Countless times had he tried to kindle their bond as mother and son during the few flickering moments they were together, but each time was led astray by a sense of urgency from her as if her thoughts had already left again.

There was something hidden on the table among the knickknacks piled across it. His eyes opened to it, seeing past the necklaces and the scarves and the pocket watches. Past the glass eyes and the pouches and tiny wooden carvings. Beyond the crystal balls and the black seashells and the bottles of mystery liquid was something for a child.

It was picked up by Simon before he even realized it, knowing it was his. The small, stuffed furry figure never resembled any animal as his mother was not a skilled seamstress, but his mind had made it a rabbit, a raccoon, a dog, a cat, and numerous other woodland critters. It had been his companion in all his adventurers of imagination as he crept along the nooks and crannies of Squabble Lane as a small boy.

He had named it Benny. Something of a lost memory came to light within him as the name returned to his mind. It had been a long time since he had the toy as a child. Holding it as tightly as he could whenever he had been most frightened, he couldn't hold it tight enough to keep it from slipping away one night and down a street drain, leaving him alone again. Long since forgotten, Simon now cradled it in his arms as he did as a child. He spoke not a word; he only stood there holding his long lost friend as tightly as he could.

Within his grasp, something could be felt inside the toy that poked against his arms. His eyebrows furrowed while his hands moved across the loose stitching, seeing pieces of stuffing try to escape. He gingerly dared to feel in between the stitches, and his fingertips found the edge of a folded piece of paper. Carefully it was removed and delicately opened like an ancient, brittle scroll filled with writing from a mother's touch.

“Simon,” it began,“ my only child, I give this to you in remembrance of me. You may one day resent me, but I leave so that you can live. Our food, our home, our well being, although sparse, is what I can make of it. You are the fuel to my life, and although I am not always with you, I live for you. My separation is my pain, and I hope one day you forgive me. I work only for you. I love you. - Mother.”

His hands trembled as he read the note for the fourth time, then the fifth time, then sixth. He thought of his anger that he had grown and nurtured from a lack of understanding, too young to see the truth. The hours and days he had thought had past were exaggerations from the young imagination of a small boy. The dangerous moments of escaping monstrous creatures, drawn up by the paintbrush of a child's mind.

He began to hum without reason, a melody that had been forgotten so long ago from the darkness of his pain. The sound was a kaleidoscope of notes, played in rhythm to a song he began to recall being sung to him. At first, his tune matched the broken organ grinder. Then familiarity grew to the song his mother had sung to him as a child when he was scared. Before long, he was singing the notes with his mother harmonizing softly in the distance. He carried the song with him as the blackness of his heart slowly crackled apart, scattering away like ash to the wind. It overwhelmed him, forcing him to his knees and sob as he clutched Benny to his chest.

All these years, he had taken the fear and sorrow that swelled within his heart from being alone and allowed them to cloud the vision of her joy. “See beyond the pain,” he repeated the words of the old woman, realizing now what she had meant.

With tears on the verge of cascading down his cheeks again, he realized his former surroundings had returned. His mother no more, the merchant, removed from his face a porcelain mask and winked at Simon. “No charge.”

The seekers of Tilsdale Square wandered on in search of lost relics of forgotten days. Simon held tight to his and headed home.