Chapter Three

            Ray Robertson wakes up in the strangest of places. He vaguely remembers sweet singing and dancing. He feels hung over. He reaches into his breast pocket for his handkerchief and stops. His hand.

His hands. Plural.

There are golf ball sized holes in both of them, but, denying all logic, they don’t hurt at all.

Not at all.

            With the demon back in it’s rightful place, and feeling rather like a mosquito, plump and full with stolen nutrients, Grant walks down the turnpike at a slow rate, hoping that his senses will point him in the right direction.

            …a motive has yet to be established in the brutal slaying of a queens native and his brother. Furthermore, it has been reported that the grave of the eldest brother has been desecrated…

            As the dawn begins to creep, Grant curls into a drainpipe to sleep through the day. Miles away, a figure stands silently outside of a house with a black coat on, contemplating something obscene.

Chapter Two

            The men on the boat were there because they had to be, the packages on the boat were there because they had no other way to cross, and, for Grant, both of these reasons fit him quite nicely as well. He was there because he was being gently tugged in the direction of the States, mentally badgered, and his intellect argued with him over whether this was an informed move to make. He won these arguments, and the boat docked toward midnight.

            He strolls into the bar casually yet inconspicuously, to the best of his limited abilities, not really knowing exactly why he is here. He supposes subconsciously that he has come here, the literal here, for the same reason a lot of people do. To reflect. To think. To ponder this newly presented situation. Not to forget. Now that he is in the States he decides that it would be a good idea to slow down a bit and think this over, partly because he doesn’t know exactly what the hell he is doing, and partly because, now that he is here in this new country, he no longer feels as abrupt a tug as he had before. It is faint, still there, but very thin and vague.

            He knows who spoke to him in Italy. One of his former pupils, a Varius Rorscham. He knows this in the same manner in which he knows his own name, or that the sky is blue. He also feels that Varius has contacted him for a specific reason. He knows not what this reason is.

helpless masses to go

…and that is the part that bothers him the most. Why? Why would Varius contact him now? For what reason could this creature possibly want to have conversation with Grant at this juncture in time? Does he require company? Surely not. He wants something else from Grant. That is the part he can’t figure out.

            Grant orders a scotch and sits down at the bar, not with a cape and top hat, but with black slacks and a simple dress shirt. He still looks out of place, but that can’t be helped here. He receives a few prolonged stares or looks of disapproval, but for the most part folks keep to themselves. The barkeep returns with his drink and a scowl, and Grant takes both without a flinch. He downs the scotch and licks his lips. Good scotch. He glances about and notices that they are more in number now, the gawkers, and growing by the minute. Apparently word of a stranger has spread quickly and is in turn causing all of the locals to compete in a staring contest. He glances around.

He has caged his demon well enough, but a hunger is a hunger. Tonight he would try not to lose patience with these mortals. He suddenly wishes he was back in Italy.

            Maybe Varius is challenging him. Actually challenging him, the teacher. Surely not. Grant’s demon is caged, but the gate is never really locked. Perhaps Varius has gotten himself into trouble. Perhaps he needs help.

All basic logic and thought rules this out.

            From this his thought turns to the possibility of Varius having gone mad. Gone on a spree without care or worry of consequence. Is it not an unspoken rule to stay low profile? Does Varius not know this? Has he forgotten?

“I’ll not be hunted as a dog in the street over his ineptitude.” Grant mutters. Locals watch the strange man talk to himself.

And if Varius has forgotten, perhaps he needs to be reminded.

The demon paces back and forth on all fours, waiting for the gate to be opened.

Varius sits by the faint glow of candles and their light, reflected off of his own glossy eyes, and says, “It seems the first flare wasn’t convincing enough. Perhaps if I send up another…”

            Grant finishes his fourth drink and gets up to leave the bar. They are staring still. He hates that.

“I hate this…” He offers silently.

“Goodbye, faggot!” calls a burly man from the back of the bar, near the pool tables. Grant shrugs it off and continues toward the door. A napkin comes from his left and pelts him in the side of the head.

The demon paws at the cage door.

Grant ignores this and concentrates on the exit, because there is no reason, no need to make a spectacle here in public, just to the door, out, and it’s all…

“Learn yourself some manners!” shouts a man he has bumped into, and now it’s getting bad. It’s getting really bad.

The Demon stands up on its hind legs and howls to be let out.

The man he has bumped breaks a bottle over Grants head, and all the time Grant is thinking that this is all it takes, this is all I need, this is all it takes. He throws a right out and the man is tossed across the bar against the wall, splayed through midair and lands on the tables, and suddenly there is dead silence in the bar. He moves for the door.

Grant hears a shotgun being cocked from behind.

“Where you goin? Why don’t you sit down. Cops’ll be here any minute, you can leave then.” The bartender says from behind the barrel of his baby.

Grant spins around, eyes blazing red, and shouts, “My friend and I need to leave!”

“Partner, you ain’t got no friends here.” The barkeep offers.

Like tunnel vision, he tries to get to the door one last time, but he cannot. He spins around again.

The DEMON tears the gate apart and crashes out like a whirlwind. He finds himself in front of a shotgun.

            From outside, double blasts are heard. Then silence. Then, like a choir, screaming. Frantic scrambling, bottles breaking, and the DEMON is only beginning.

Section One: The Distribution of Fear (Parts 1-6)

Part One: Grant and the Demon (Chapters 1-6)

Chapter One

            Sitting on the dock of the bay. Or was it sitting by the dock of the bay? Doesn’t matter. New music is alien. The important thing is that the tides were being watched as they washed in and out slowly, pushing and pulling the sand, tempting the shells stuck on the shore. It was a sort of relaxing pastime, something to do when there is nothing to do. He had been through so many favorite pastimes that to count them would add yet another. He thought that maybe he had forgotten how to laugh. Why bother? It would only build him up to drop him back into the same dismal place he was in the first place. He has no illusions, but at the same time he has not yet begun to hate himself. An endless cycle in a series of endless cycles that were tricky enough to endure as is. Suicide may be an option, but he has second thoughts every time he begins. Will it even work?

            The vagrant hunkered down by the shore in the twilight like he had so many times before this. If they, the people he sees walk down this stretch of beach, knew who or what he was they would probably hunt and kill him. He wasn’t really even sure if they believed that things such as he still or ever did even exist in the first place, but he had no regrets about ignoring their culture. People used to believe in him. Oh yes. They certainly did, he had danced with death, was still dancing, and was now very, very tired. He was tired of living. Could he drown? He didn’t know.

He sighed.

A thought occurred to him then: If all of my sighs were gathered, all I have ever breathed, would it be strong enough to push this tide back? He suspected that it would. He suspected that it would actually send planets spiraling out of orbit. He smiled, something he had not yet but had almost forgotten how to do, and sighed again.

            He enjoyed Italy. He wasn’t bothered much. Very few people shot suspecting glances his way. He was dressed in dull black slacks with a button up white sleeveless shirt. White was always a dangerous color to wear. He had shoulder-length hair that was a deep brown in color. He kept it pulled back. It got in the way. He could cut it, but what’s the use. It would be back the next day. His mind kept returning to suicide. Was it possible?

Yes, he supposed that it was.

Where would he go? He supposed that he knew that as well. Eternal torture, isn’t that what hell is supposed to be? Wasn’t he already experiencing that? Hadn’t he been experiencing that for the past countless number of years? He asked himself all of these questions silently, not expecting an answer.

            He was so incredibly tired.

The sun would be up soon, and he had decided, more or less over the span of ten years or so, that he would simply wait for it. He had been turning this over in his head for quite some time and it seemed the easiest way to go. To trade one hell for another. He silently say down on the beach and laid back in the sand, running his toes through it and grinning. He spread his arms. He looked straight up at the sky.

And he waited.

            And then, all at once, everything changed.

He sat bolt upright instantly, feeling like a thousand needles had been pounded into his skull. He let loose a shriek.

outcast

weak

forgive me…

He glanced around wildly, his sight capturing only the deserted beach and the quickly approaching sunrise. He blinked hard. He screamed again.

i will not stop myself

The pain was immense in his head.

find me

He got up and dashed for cover, throwing his arm up, toward the bridge and the stone grave than had been his home for some time.

find me and stop me…

He collapsed nearly ten feet from the bridge, shrieking and gritting his teeth at the same time, with an alien presence in his head. The telepathy. Gods, had he really almost forgotten he could do it? He rarely used it, but he knew that his kind had it, be it strong or weak. He crawled frantically toward the bridge.

forgive me

At last he made it, he made it home, and he screamed again.

He hoped that the phrase in his head would disappear after he was out of the twilight approaching sunrise, but it did no such thing. It got worse. Gods, did it get worse.

And he thought he understood.

find me and stop me, father, for I have sinned

He fell into a deep sleep, the sleep of the dead, and the dreams forced him to understand.

Prelude

September 18, 1996, 11:42 p.m.

            “Gimme two.”

Buck Robertson removed two cards from the top of the deck and handed them to his brother, Ray. The first snow had fallen earlier this particular evening, and while this is paramount for children and forts, angels, and whatever other activities can be gained from a snowfall, it has placed a bit of a damper on the mood at the Robertson household. The house consists of two tenants, one thirty-two and the other thirty-four.

“What, you mean I don’t get to choose my own?” Ray spat sarcastically as he snagged the two cards Buck held out to him.

“No, you cheating fuck, you don’t, and if you go on talking like an ass I’ll just go through and pick them out my damn self.” Buck replied as he downed the last of his eighth, ninth or tenth beer of the evening. He didn’t keep track. A case is a case however one looks at it, and the object of the game is to empty it.

            With the first snow had come car troubles. The car had decided it was the perfect opportunity for much needed rest, and therefore had quit the day before, making both Robertsons’ current situation a bit tedious. Tempers were at a high point. Neither of them had the physical ability or willpower to trek the two miles to the highway through the drifts, and there was no other form of transportation beside the broken car. For the snow to fall like this in the middle of September must make someone up above chuckle, probably heartily, but the Robertsons weren’t laughing. At least the telephone still worked. There was food, plenty of food for a week or so, but they were fairly out of the way, and the plows tend to be rather slow…

            Buck studied his hand carefully, noting that he had a hand full of shit. He didn’t want to do anything stupid. Buck has the overbearing trait of requiring himself to approach all angles of a situation, whatever it may be, before making any sort of a decision. Even when it comes to what he is going to eat. Right now the mechanical wheels of his considerably puny brain were making their rounds. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Ray, still undecided, when the phone rang.

            Ray got up and shuffled around the card table, which also served as the dinner table, and entered the hallway. He answered the phone. Now Buck was straining, the wheels weren’t just spinning, they were pushing overdrive. He saw that Ray had placed his cards face down and figured that he would be caught if he tried to sneak a peek. He heard Ray talking on the phone and knew that he couldn’t see the right side of the table from where he was. The wheels lit up golden. Buck quickly grabbed the deck. He fingered through it until he came to a joker and quickly slipped it into his hand. He then took his worst card, the two of clubs, and placed it on top of the deck. Ray was still on the phone. Buck grinned.

            Buck glanced up at the joker card, marveling at how silly it looked. It bore a long red cape with a yellow and green striped outfit on. In its right hand was a candy cane. The left held a flower.

            Buck placed the deck back in place and began to fidget with the order of his hand. He put the joker on bottom with the side out so that his brother could see what it was when he held it out triumphantly. He finished this with the remaining four cards.

            “That car is worth as much as your sense. I can’t get anything done with or without it.” Ray commented as he returned to the table. “It’ll be in the shop for at least two more days, and unless this snow lets up, we won’t be seeing it very soon after that.”

He picked up his hand and glanced at Buck. “What’s yer problem?”

“Nothing.” Buck replied

“I know by that way you say it that it ain’t ‘nothin’” Ray returned.

“I said it’s nothing.” Buck shot back as he watched his cards with dreamy, if not dreary eyes.

“Whatever. I’m gonna take three. You better have one hell of a hand or you’ll be in the hole ten bucks.” Ray sneered as he took the top three cards from the deck.

But I know you’ve got the two of clubs…

Buck did know this. He also knew that he had just seen-

Absolutely nothing

But he had seen it. Buck Robertson, a grown man of thirty-two, let out a scream.

“What are you doing. What in holy blue fuck.” Ray stated as Buck jumped up from the table and stumbled backward as his legs became tangled in his chair. Buck instantly saw stars as his head hit the tiled floor with a crack. Stars were nothing. It gets worse than stars, Buck thought, it gets worse. Worse. Worse-

“That’s it, you’re now officially cut off.” Ray chuckled. Buck pointed toward the tabletop and Ray raised an eyebrow in mock interest. “What?”

“The card!” Buck managed.

“What card? There’s fifty of them up here! What the hell are you doing?” Ray bellowed.

“The joker!” Buck replied as he struggled to stand up.

“The WHAT!” Ray shouted.

“THE JOKER! THE JOKER! THE JOKER! THE JOKER! THE-”

Ray smacked Buck across the face and he went spiraling down again. This time he was out.

Ray rummaged through the cards that were face down on the table before him. He found the joker, it was the only one that was face-up. He drew it off the table and looked at it. It was unusual. They had been playing with this deck for years, and he knew what the jokers were supposed to look like. He knew that the joker wasn’t supposed to be in a jet black coat, and he certainly knew that there were not supposed to be spiders crawling about on the bottom and…

…and he dropped the card, but before it fell, a hand emerged from it. The hand was followed by a wrist, then an arm, and then a shoulder. The single clawed hand gripped Ray by the neck and hoisted him up off of the ground a few inches. The card remained in midair.

            A cloaked figure emerged from the card as if a zoom lens from nowhere had magnified and added a third dimension to him. Ray could feel his talons digging into his neck as he gasped hopelessly for air.

“This will be simple. I swear.” The figure muttered.

Ray kicked helplessly as best he could, but to no avail.

His last beer dropped as his hand went limp.

            Fuzzy. Confused. But suddenly aware. Something smelled like rot. Or dry, stale air. Buck opened his eyes. Level with his face was the face of something horrible, something ageless, something ruthless. Something having fun.

“Should have left me in the deck, huh?” The figure chuckled.

Buck tried to get to his feet to run, but suddenly he was aware of something awful.

He fell and looked down at where his legs should have been.

He looked up and saw his brother on the wall, up off the ground, hanging somehow.

Somehow.

He didn’t know how, but at the same time he did, he just wouldn’t accept it. The cloaked figure began to dance a strange type of waltz, staggering about. A drunken waltz. Of course it was a drunken waltz…

            The last thing Buck saw before he blacked out again was Ray’s face across the room, the look of total and utter shock on it, eyes still open, hands pinned to the wall by the splintered shards of bone from Buck’s legs, which were protruding out on either side of Ray’s head from his hands.

“Yep, he’s been crucified. He’ll be perfect. Just perfect…” Buck heard the words spoken from the figure above as his vision wavered in and out.

And out.

            “Two down, helpless masses to go. Stop me. I will not stop myself, you weak pathetic fuck, so you will have to do it for me. Outcast. Find me. Find me and stop me, father, for I have…”

The figure licked its lips.

This will be a continuing work of fiction that i have already written, four years ago, and am now revising with criticism. Be honest. I suppose it was heavily influenced by the Spawn comics and the Anne Rice books, possibly even Dragonball Z, above other things, but i learned a lot while working on it, and i think it'll be good to come back to it. Enjoy.