Rescue Me

 

The room around Joseph is pitch black. Blacker and darker than he could remember it ever being. It smelt of damp soil, musty, stale air and body odour, his body odour. He sat there, listening to the sounds of a world outside, a world that he could barely imagine, the experience had long been a dream. He had long desired to experience what he had spent aeons imagining in his small dark corner of hell. Everything he had thought of imagining was gone, everything he had hoped of experiencing had disappeared. This was his everything now. He had begun his time alone by counting the days, but that soon wore tiresome. He had continued as long as he could, but soon enough he had lost count. One day became another, blurring into one another. He had briefly glimpsed that amazing sunshine, that he so desperately wanted to feel on his skin, through a small window, until it was taken away from him and afterwards day and night would mould and intermingle into each other, making one seamless, invisible organism inside his head, both impossible to differentiate now.

 

Joseph had begun to feel his eyes lose contact with any light, to lose any semblance of what day actually looked like, one glimpse was all he'd had to go on. He felt his eyes adapt, or was it re-adapt? To live in the dark. All sense of himself had long since been lost, anything he had attempted to become had soon been halted and all but extinguished. How long had he been here? That question he realised had all but become irrelevant, all he knew was the pointed self-hatred. Sometime after a moment of waking, bolts would slide across and locks on the metal door behind him would rattle and clank, then shortly afterwards, a small gap would open in the lowest portion of the door and a plate of raw food was slid in on some kind of tray. Sometimes it smelt freshly caught, other times it had the unmistakable smell of having been sat long enough to start going bad and rot. Joseph still ate it, it was food, he had no preciousness, no qualms about eating it. It was all the same to him. The foul sustenance had a better kick to it as far as he was concerned. The moment he took the food the metal plate would be close up once again.

 

Joseph waited for the inevitable clank on the door. Waiting and waiting. In the dark, spreading his hands and splaying out his fingers in front of himself, Joseph slid himself up on to his knees. On his knees, Joseph crawled around for a while, trying to get some idea of balance and equilibrium again. Still, there was no clank on the door, it was up there somewhere, he just couldn't see it until that hatch opened up. Gradually, Joseph pulled himself up to his feet. Shakily he began to stand for the first time since, well since forever. He couldn't remember the last time he actually stood up and walked around. It was too damn dark in here and he had no idea what, if anything was on the floor, waiting for him, to trip him, to trap him, to grab him or indeed even bite him. He couldn't take the risk, he may even end up being sent back where he had come from and he wasn't sure what was worse.

 

Still waiting and still, the door didn't make so much as a noise. His thirst was becoming intolerable now, biting at him. He needed refreshment, he craved it, but there was nothing, not a glass, nothing. His stomach growled and bade at him, impatient for food. He needed to feed, but that too was missing, yet to arrive as well. Here it was, the time when he either wanted to be dead, finally, to save him his misery, or to survive. His instinct drove him, his instinct to finally, truly live a life, no matter what, he was determined to live. His instinct as determined and strong as his desperation to be dead. The limbo he found himself was the beautifully agonising part of the whole situation. Wanting one, yet desperate for the other. Craving one but knowing that to have it means to deny yourself the luxury of the other. But they were his choices. His real freedom. Neither of which he truly would enjoy.

 

He stumbled around in the dark, clumsily bumping things, constantly trying to work out what each item was. How long and how many times had he attempted to amuse himself with this ridiculous game. Each and every single time he gave up, either in boredom, because he could easily tell if he wanted to, or because he knew it was a pointless exercise that would have no net benefit outside of this room and this darkness. Slowly the feeling of complete hopelessness took a hold of him. It was a sensation that twisted at him, unbearable sadness mixed with the deliciousness of wasted optimism. The fruitlessness of trying to escape made him want to weep, but the tears didn't ever come, they had long since been extinguished in the fires of his old life and stopped producing now. Anything more than the emptiness he was supposed to feel now, was just wasted emotion he told himself. The empty motion of space, of the passage of time, of infinite stolen moments passing through the universe, through dimensions, through the Majique. The rotation of everything and nothing meant that it was all just worthless expenditure of energy. It would all go on forever and he would simply have to wait for his chosen demise, a demise fated for him, one that had chosen him or one that he chose for himself. He would wait for his ending to greet him like an old friend in the black space of time that was now his incarceration.

 

Joseph felt his eyes draw in as his mouth cracked with dehydration. His stomach collapsing in on itself, preparing him. He felt his body beginning the early stages of starvation and his energy-sapping out of him to conserve itself for its last fight for survival sometime further onward when, or if, he was to wake once more in an immaterial and irrelevant measurement of time and space.

 

Joseph's eyes dropped lower and lower until they closed altogether. Then, nothing. Not even the sounds outside, in a world, that he could not see, never-mind care for, just silence and peace.

 

When it happened, he had no idea. When it had occurred, how long before he had realised what was happening, he couldn't say. He just heard shouts of voices outside. The two that were familiar, the two arrogant bastards that had locked him in here. They were arguing with another voice, one he had not heard before. Clearly, there was something very not right about this and he was desperate to be a part of it. He didn't want to be a secret, he wanted to be the centre of it all. He closed his eyes once more and concentrated. I could see the old couple and another man. On his own, wearing black clothing and a mask. He focused on the man. He concentrated on him, finding his eyes, he focused his mind and breathed deeply. The stranger smiled, a sinister grin crossed his face. Just as it was getting interesting, it all went silent again. It was a sudden silence, which meant bad things had happened. And he was not there to see it. Joseph cursed his luck. His body numb and practically shut down, all Joseph could do is stay exactly as he was and listen to all and any sounds coming from the other side of that door. Wait to see if that door ever opened again. His dying body almost ready to give up entirely.

 

He didn't know if it was real or just the acts of dying mind sparking upon the last throws of death. But there appeared to be a sound that echoed extraordinarily loudly, reverberating painfully through his body, which automatically recoiled in pain, maybe even in terror. Barely managing to turn his head in the direction he assumed was the origin of the noise, he noticed a dim light crawling down into the blackened space and was beginning to dance of surfaces and ricochet across the empty room. Suddenly, footsteps thumped and drummed down as they entered the silent room, the silence shattering as the footsteps seemed to get closer and closer, seemingly approaching him. Time seemed as though it began to reignite. The sound of seconds ticking off on a clock, of birds, chirping and singing the dawn chorus. The sounds of life having awoken once more. Time was now! Redemption was here right now. The dim light bounced around the, up until now, featureless place of nothingness, now beginning to grow and increase its intensity, catching Joseph's eyes and making them burn as though they were both on fire and being stabbed with the points of a sharp blade.

 

Slowly more light broke through the opening door, not enough to offer freedom but enough to suggest it. Slowly, a shadow emerged, cautiously. The movement suggesting that they didn't want to be there, but felt compelled to look. The fear of walking away and finding out that something even better was waiting for them in that room. Something down there wanted them to know that they were down there. Joseph sensed the desire and made the attempt to move back to the spot that he woke to and willed the stranger over to him. If Joseph was going to finally get his freedom, it would be through this beautiful, stranger. He was so close now, without realising it, that Joseph could almost taste him on the air.

 

Joseph waited, he only had as much length as the chains that bound him would allow him to get to reach for what was put through the door, no further. Maybe 6 feet at best. This room was much larger than that, he just couldn't move to find out for sure. All he could do is wait by the circle, in the shadows. The steps gradually became ever louder and ever closer until a movement gave away the presence of a body, close. Then, the dim light gave away the outline of a person. They stood there, almost hesitant to look, to know. A but know they must. A light glinted of what looked like a blade in their hand. Raising the other hand, they shakily pointed a torch out in front, the light shone, reflecting off two chains, which appeared to be attached to the floor, they pointed the torch up, following the chains up, the light now reflecting back off two piercing eyes staring back at them and illuminating a face, smiling over enthusiastically for someone locked down to the floor of a home-made dungeon. He looked at the man, half-starved and pathetic, but those eyes, they captivated him.

 

This whole thing had been a disaster from the moment he broke into this damn house. Now here he was staring at a starving crazy man locked in the cellar of the house of two old people that had looked as gentle as a feather. The moment they had crossed each other after he had broken in he had lost his clarity of mind. The rage, the urge, the dark desire lured him on. But something about them had held him there. He had reached for the knife to scare them at first. But what the hell he thought. But tonight, it was different. He couldn't think straight, his head had fogged up and now he wasn't sure what he was doing or going to do next. All he knew was that now, he stood in the cellar of an old couple who lay dead in the kitchen while he faced a starving imprisoned man with piercing eyes. And he still could think clearly for himself.

 

“Hello, young man. Nice to see you at last” Joseph smiled at the man, greeting him enthusiastically. “Do I know you?” The stranger replied. “Well, yes and no. Yes you kind of know who I am, but only the half of it. You know what I wanted you to know. But enough of that. I should be thanking you.” Joseph said. The cryptic message in his response further confusing the man. “Thanking me? For what?” “Oh my dear boy, don't be so humble. One for discovering me. Two, for, releasing me, hopefully, and three, rescuing me. Two and three are interchangeable by the way. But if you would be so kind as to help me out of these things?” Joseph said. Holding up the chains.

 

“I, I don't know how to unlock them. They're kind of welded in there.” The man said perplexed and not so subtly afraid. “Well I was aware of that Miss Marple, maybe the key is being kept around here somewhere?” Joseph snapped. The man jumped back, surprised. Then a look of suspicion and a little of that dark rage began to bubble to the surface, showing itself in his face. “I'm ever so sorry. That was most unbecoming of a man in my position, I should be more appreciative and gracious. I apologise.” Joseph's apology surprisingly seemed to satiate the man. “You know I could just kill you right here. And nobody would ever know you were ever here until I'm long gone of course.” The man said as he bent down to look at the chains once more. “Indeed you could. And that is very true, you would be long gone. Long gone.” Joseph repeated, the sound in his voice sent a strange cold chill up the man's spine. “What are these?” The man asked half intrigued and half uncertain whether he really wanted to know. Joseph didn't bat an eyelid. Immediately dismissing the question out of hand. “Oh, those. They're nothing. Just decoration I think. That's all I could figure. “It's odd though, looks like Latin? Is it? Why would someone etch Latin into chains?” The man was even more perplexed. Yet oddly still attempting to help Joseph out of his chains, even though he could have killed him long ago. Even though it would be just another body to him. “You know what? I reckon, if we do this together, we can break these chains and I can get out of here. If you come closer and sit opposite me, that's it, right there.” Joseph directed the man as he spoke. “Right, you pull on that chain that way and I'll pull in this direction, then we might just pull the links apart at the weakest point, ready?”

 

“OK,” The man answered, he felt weird again. Like he wasn't in full control of himself. But he helped anyway. The pair of the pulling hard on the chains in their respective directions. Twisting them as they pulled, trying to exploit any weak points in the links. But nothing. No movement, not even a creak. Even the floor stayed unaffected. “Just out of interest” Joseph began. “What exactly does it say on these chains. I've only really been able to read bits, nothing I could really make out for certain, the light down here is a bit pathetic as you have seen for yourself.” The man looked back at Joseph, he wondered why he had asked but still felt compelled to look anyway. “I can't read Latin, I don't understand what it says.” “Well read it out loud anyway, I was taught a bit of Latin when I was but a wee devil, maybe I can translate it. Though it's been a while since I spoke any. The man looked at Joseph with suspicion, yet, instead of getting up and walking away, he sat there. Maybe it was partly the sensation of being compelled by the feeling of a challenge, partly by the sensation of someone else in control, and partly the feeling of delaying the delicious moment of the kill. He could make this last as long as he wanted, so long as nobody knew he was here.

 

The man smiled at Joseph, the look in the man's eyes betrayed his true intentions and Joseph knew it. Now was going to be the last time he would spend another night or day in this damp, musty, rotten cellar, the last night ever. The man looked back down, pulling the chains a little toward him in order to read them better. Then began to read them out loud as he saw them. The moment he finished reading them out, he immediately felt even more uncertain of himself, out of control of his own body. He looked down and saw the words on the chains glowing brightly. Backing away slightly, he looked down at his feet and saw bright, almost halogen bright light glowing across the floor, spreading out and out, further and further in a round, almost circular pattern. He began to notice other Latin words and symbols, this time they were drawn with crayon or chalk. Each of them glowed in turn until am perfect circle had formed, with Latin phrases and symbols on the circumference of the circle as well as inside small pie shaped pieces of the centre of the circle. Lines going from one part of the shape to another in diagonals. That's when the lucid part of his mind got its wake up call. This was an occultists pentagram, and he was sat dead centre of it.

 

The sight of this struggled to register properly in the man's head. He couldn't quite fathom what was going on. Before he could wrap his mind around what was happening, Joseph moved closer to him slightly, mindful of the pentagram on the floor. “As I said, young man. I am very grateful to you. You found me. Then number two, you rescued me, from my bondages here. And three, by reading out as you did, you have released me. Oh, which reminds me, I should say, number four, thank you, for that up there. That was really rather well done and saves me the bother too. So Thank you Old chap. A real sport, you are.” Joseph's smug contentment seemed at odds with what the man saw. Yes, this was crazy shit, but the old man was still chained. How was he free? How could he be free if he wasn't unchained yet? It just didn't make sense. “What do you mean free? You're still chained up, man.” The man responded. “Oh, you naïve little fool. Don't you see? This is but a part of the plan. I'm free, but where I come from doesn't want me free. Where I come from, there is a saying. To be free, first, you must feed. And you are helping me out greatly. The man stood up, still in the centre of the pentagram. What the fuck is all this? What the fuck is going on?” No sooner as he had said that, than the lights from the chalk rose up and wrapped themselves around him. Then, began sliding up and around his skin, like snakes of light. Until they wormed their way under his skin and into his veins. The man felt every movement over the ribbons of light moving within him, making almost every inch of his body, individually spasm painfully. He felt nauseous, the wave of intense and painful sickness overwhelmed him. He felt like he would die right there, in pools of blood and vomit. But as the sensation reached its zenith, the light recoiled back out of him, back out of his veins, almost as though they were needles being withdrawn after an injection. Drawing back to the pentagram, they seemed, fuller, less intense in colour, but fuller, more body to them. As they slid across the chalked lines, they slid and trickled like spilt blood all around the edges and down into the centre beneath him, down into the floor and were gone.

 

“What the fuck was that? What just happened?” The man stammered out his fear laden confusion. “That is what, in my old home, is known or is called, being 'marked',” Joseph said. “Marked? What do you mean, marked” The man was none the wiser. “Look at your arm,” Joseph instructed him. “See that? That is what is called being marked. You now are to be the feed, while I will be free. So my young fish-ling. Prepare for the five thousand. You'll need it. Because you will be going where I have just come from. But until they decide the time is right, I suggest you enjoy all that you were. Because everything that you are, is about to be undone, deliciously.” Joseph sat back and closed his eyes once again. The man looked at him and realised just two things. One; he had been playing all along. And he so wanted to kill that son of a bitch right now but that was outweighed by the realisation of number two. He needed to get out of here.

 

The man hadn't noticed before now, but it was so obvious now that his head was finally clear of these games. He could hear sirens outside and they were getting closer, way too close to here to be a coincidence of geographic incident. Someone knew something was wrong in the house and the police were coming. He searched frantically for a way out. He knew he couldn't go back the way he came in, he would be seen obviously, he had to find a small escape route that wouldn't be obvious until he had long gone. Oh, how that phrase haunted him now. Long gone. It made him feel creepy. He scrambled around, feeling the walls for secret openings, for loose bricks, old windows or screens, he felt across the floor for loose boards that might give an indication for a secret tunnel or something. Eventually, he stumbled across a ventilation area. The two covers were made of plastic. They were larger than normal ones, he could possibly stretch himself through it. It was only moderately smaller than himself, maybe he was slimmer than he thought himself.

 

Breaking the cover from his side, the man found the space to be larger than he thought, with the inner part of the shaft being wider than the ventilation covers. Quickly and with little hesitation, the man climbed inside the vent and out towards freedom. Pushing the cover on the other side of the shaft, it eventually gave and he fell head first. Placing his hands out in front of him, he landed on to damp grass, doing a front roll on to his back. Turning over on to his knees, he got to his feet and wasted little time in running out into the street from the house, only to run straight into the path of an oncoming police car, lights flashing. Startled and realising that he still had a hold of the knife, he immediately dropped the blade on to the floor, before bouncing off the bonnet of the car, the impact throwing him up into the air and over to one side on to the opposite side of the road. The force of the collision knocked all the air from his body and he wheezed, desperately trying to get air into his body which now felt as though it was on fire. Looking upwards, he saw the soft sunlight in a blue sky, then two faces loomed over him, guns drawn and pointed directly at him. He could hear them shouting at him, but it was muffled and distant, as though someone had turned the volume down on the world. He struggled to move a muscle without an intense searing pain burning through his body, or a hand holding him still. His head was beginning to hurt and he was beginning to struggle staying alert. His eyes now insisting on closing, despite the commotion he was causing. Until finally, his eyes closed and the world outside his head disappeared behind a thick black curtain and silenced itself.

 

Joseph slowly became aware of more noise. How long it had been since the young man had left, he had no idea. It felt like an age since a voice had broken the silence of the room. The heavy steel door creaked and banged as it begrudgingly opened. The sound of heavy boots hitting the steps and the floor echoed throughout the room, making Joseph's ears ring painfully. Joseph, almost begrudgingly himself, opened his eyes to see who it was this time.

 

Still, the light was pathetic as ever. The footsteps stomped almost, closer to where he sat patiently, still in chains. A torch swept the room until it stopped, highlighting his bedraggled and sorry looking frame.

 

“Over here!” A voice shouted out. Their voice ringing in Joseph's ears, making them pain again and in turn making him wince, ducking his head down into his body. Joseph pulled his head back to one side and attempted to protect his eyes from the glare of the light, only to meet eye to eye with the gaze of a shocked police officer. “Oh Fuck me!” The poor officer screamed out in surprise and horror. “Quick! Get a doctor over here. There's one alive in here.”

 

Everything happened in a blurry haze, a video playing in fast forward. Silent and moving too fast to have a full grasp on what was happening or where he was being taken. Bleeding images swirled into one another. All he knew was that somehow the chains were off his wrists, and he was now on a stretcher being wheeled out of the house. The last images he remembered with any clarity was rolling through the kitchen. He laid his head on one side and saw the face of an old man with long grey hair and a large grey moustache and beard, it looked as though they had been glued to his face. His gaze seemed to stare directly at Joseph, unmoving, unflinching and unblinking. Joseph rolled his eyes around and looked at all the blood pooled around the body. The old man had been slashed open at the stomach and his guts spilt out over the floor around the rest of him. As the men wheeled him out, the body of a woman lay at the corner of the kitchen, half out through a doorway to another room. Blood coated her body as well, this time coming from her head or neck, he could be sure from this vantage point and moving at this rate. So, this was them, was it? Joseph thought. Finally, he got to see them in the flesh. They looked older than the day they brought him into their home. They hadn't aged well. But what did they expect, inviting him into their home and imprisoning him? He turned his head back as the paramedics wheeled him out into the back of the waiting ambulance. Joseph couldn't get over how thin and ill they had looked. He knew some sick people but these two, literally made them look positively healthy. This site didn't seem to fit his experience anymore. How had they kept him there so easily now?

 

by Rob Shepherd (c) copyright. All rights withheld 

 

 

 

 

The Answer

 

In the beginning, there was but just an ocean of chaos. Upon this ocean floated a large stone and a gold plate. The waves of chaos rolled in a continuous motion until they became too strong, too fast, too powerful for the plate and the stone to hold their places upon the surface and they floated up into the highest reaches of the great quiet overhead.

 

There they opened up like roses unfurling. There, sitting in the centre of the inner buds of the two roses lay the God Solaris and the Goddess Luna. The two almighty beings gazed across at each other. Immediately the two fell deeply in love and vowed to be together forever. So each leaving their rose, they floated across to be together. The two embraced each other in the quiet and made passionate love.

 

Out of this passion, a gentle spirit was born called Gia. Gia floated down as a single tiny seed and landed on the top of the waves of the chaos. When Solaris saw Gia his heart was filled with so much immediate love that he had to let it out and he began to emit and shine with such brightness that it warmed everything below.

 

When Luna saw her beloved Gia she felt such love, contentment and maternity. In order not to disturb Gia when she needed to rest Luna glowed a soft, comforting, sparkling light when Solaris rested.

 

So in love with each other and with Gia were the two almighty beings, that vowing never to leave each other they remained in the great quiet overhead while Gia explored, played and created. Solaris rising early to warm the infinite below, making it perfect for Gia to flourish in the warmth and happiness. Luna then rising opposite Solaris and the two would kiss gently as Solaris rested while Luna shined and sparkled throwing her magic dust all around to help feed Gia wherever she was playing.

 

With warmth and happiness in the early times and Love, comfort, food and sparkling contentment as she rested Gia flowered into the complex infinite of life. And this is the secret truth of how the Sun and the Moon came to be in the sky and thus how the world came to be born.

 

And to this day, if you look carefully enough you will just make out Gia smiling sweetly back to Solaris and Luna and you may just be lucky enough to see Solaris and Luna share a lover's gentle kiss as Solaris lays down to rest while Luna starts her nighttime vigil over Gia.

 

(c) Copyright Rob Shepherd. All rights withheld.

 

 

Second Chance (part 1)

 

Nolan desperately hoped the voices would stay away tonight as he made his way up the old pathway, the concrete all cracked and showing its age and years of neglect, up to the door of the house. The carrier bag in his hand rustled loudly in the breeze as he dug inside of his opposite pocket to retrieve the keys to the house. Nolan fumbled slightly as he put the key into the lock and turned the latch. With a click, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing the door behind him, pushing it closed with the heel of his foot.

 

Nolan dropped the keys into the glass dish sat on the small hallway table that also housed the telephone. He looked at the telephone for a second or two, then picked up the handset before laying it back down on the table and walked into the lounge. Nolan placed the bag down on the coffee table and slumped himself down onto the sofa, closing his eyes.

 

Nolan felt the tiredness begin to take its toll and overwhelm him and he struggled to keep his concentration and thoughts lucid. I was becoming easier and easier to fall asleep. Nolan had given up on fighting it and began to let the urge to sleep overcome him, sinking further and further into the sofa. But just as he thought he might sleep free of problems for once that evening, it started again. But this time it was much more powerful, far more urgent and relentlessly tormenting than ever before.

 

The pictures flashing through his head read like a film on fast forward. Then the voices began again. Indecipherable at first, just the sounds of people making jumbled sounds, but as time continued the voices started to become louder, clearer and increasingly more insistent on and on they called. They cried and begged and pressurised Nolan. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't have these voices talking inside his head. They were always there, always talking always nagging, arguing, urging and tormenting him. “STOP!” Nolan screamed at the top of his lungs. “No more. I can't take it anymore, please, just no more.”

 

However, the voices didn't stop. Instead, the voices simply continued, getting worse and worse. Stronger and stronger. “See their faces. Look at them” Some of them began saying. “They need you” Other voice would add. “No more, please. I don't understand. I don't know what you want. I don't know what you mean. Please, I just want to be able to sleep. I just want to rest. Please.” Nolan begged.

 

“Help them” The voices continued. “Help yourself” They would keep saying. “Go away!” Nolan screamed loudly. “Help. Help them. Help, die, help, survive, help, die” The voices carried on. It was as though they were not just taunting him anymore, they were berating him. “Fuck Off! Now!” Nolan shouted as loudly as he possibly could.

 

“Must help.” Again the voices demanded of him. “No more!” Nolan felt his resolve diminishing with each round of taunts, demands, the insistence of him. Nolan kept shouting in the hopes that he could drown out the noise of the voices. Grabbing the bag from the coffee table, he removed a bottle of whisky from it. “Please, just leave me be.”

 

“To die, you must help” The voices kept repeating. “Go away” Nolan retorted. “To help, you must die” Nolan stopped and stared at the bottle for a few moments, then opened the lid and began downing the contents. Nolan had finished half of the bottle before he realised it, then noticing the bag still sat on the coffee table, he stared at it for a couple of seconds, he stared at it, it was almost as though it was waiting for him. Nolan placed the bottle of whisky back on to the coffee table, the lid bow haven fallen lazily on to the warm carpeted floor.

 

Nolan took a deep breath and sighed quietly before reaching into the bag one more time, pausing for a moment. “No more. No more” Nolan this time spoke gently. With the voices fading then reigniting another ringing inside his head and his ears, he pulled the automatic pistol out from the bag and checked the magazine clip. Fully loaded, he turned it over, took the safety off and pressed the barrel against his temple.

 

“No more. No more voices.” Nolan said quietly, almost in a whisper. In just a few seconds, more than 30 years or torment will be over forever, in an instant. Seconds later, he pressed the trigger and the apartment echoed to the sound as the gunshot rang out, escaping out into the cool evening air. People began rushing out of their homes and apartments, looking around to see where the noise had come from. Meanwhile, Nolan's arm dropped back down to his side, his hand now dangling by his leg, down the edge of the low sitting sofa. His head now leaning back against the cushion of the sofa, blood trickling from the gaping hole in the side of his head.

 

It didn't take long before the authorities arrived at the apartment, but even then, he had already been dead for too long and his body had begun to get cold. The officer turned away from the saddening sight of Nolan's poor lonely, stricken body and noticed the bag on the table with a half-empty bottle of whisky beside it. Nolan's death was obvious, what wasn't clear was why. The two Officers walked slowly around the apartment, careful not to disturb anything, just in case. Then one of them noticed something they had completely bypassed on their way in. A simple brown envelope sat there on the small table in the hallway. They had simply assumed it to be just regular mail. However, on the way back, they realised it was nothing of the sort.

 

Once inside the apartment, the detective opened the envelope. A simple handwritten letter was neatly placed inside. “To those who found me. I am sorry for you” I began. “But let me explain to you. There is no lonelier an existence than constantly being in a crowded room, yet always being alone. To have people constantly talk to you, yet have nobody to share your fears with. To have the constant company yet always be alone. That has been my existence. To have people constantly shout, tease and torment me, yet be the only person who hears them. Always crowded when nobody is around. Now, I am free and so is everybody else. Thank you. Nolan Morely.”

 

–

 

Mason lay there for a few moments, his mind not quite absorbing what had happened, never mind what was actually happening now. He blinked over and over again, trying to make the idea that something else was a reality, rather than this terrifying and surreal moment, trying desperately to convince himself that this awfulness was in fact simply a dream, or rather a nightmare. It didn't work though. He had to accept the truth of the situation. He slid his hands forward in order that he could push himself up, before getting to his feet. Sliding his hands forward he felt the weight of the world upon his body, pushing himself down into the seat. He wanted to get up, but yet, at the same time, he just wanted to give everything up and make life easier and better for everybody else. Elise didn't deserve to have to struggle like this, she deserved better than this and him. Kelsa deserved a better father too. He wanted to be everything he should be to them, to give them everything they deserved, yet wanted to just give up and make it easier for them to get those things without him in the way.

 

Reaching out, Mason grabbed the bottle of Whisky that sat on the table in front of him. Pouring a measure out into the glass beside it, he sipped from it at first, but before he knew it, the glass was already empty. The pain, the claustrophobia, the loneliness raged inside of him. The sense of failure and disappointment coursed through his body, his mind blurring and unable to focus, whilst his emotions leapt around from sadness to anger, from hope to grief, mourning for something he knew nothing of or about. All he knew was that he had let his beautiful family down. He wasn't what they had wanted and he certainly wasn't what they needed now.

 

Not content with burning the pain with a glass of whisky, Mason grabbed the bottle and instead began downing the contents from the bottle itself. Half the bottle gone, Mason began to feel more assertive and sure of himself. He knew what needs to be done now. Oh yes. The best, surest, kindest most certain way to improve things, to a better life for everybody, especially Elise and Kelsa, was for him to set them free from his shackles. Mason finally managed to get to his feet and staggered to the drawer on the other side of the room. Inside it lay a metal cash box. Removing it from the drawer, Mason lay it down on the coffee table by the sofa and slumped back down in front of it as before. Taking another swig from the bottle, he proceeded to open the metal box, revealing a semi-automatic pistol and magazine. Picking up both, Mason loaded the gun and lay it back down on the table. Slumping back down on the sofa, Mason stared at the weapon. He was certain in himself what his next course of action was going to be, what it had to be. Yet he still sat there, hesitating, debating inside his own head, the wisdom and the permanence of such actions, because the human mind does not like traps like this that are set out for it. It will always resist and correct it if it can. Sometimes, like now, it requires the mind to be stronger and more resolved than the brain.

 

Mason opened the gun, placed the clip and made sure the safety was off. Slowly turning his wrist, the barrel of the gun turning around to face him, he raised the gun upwards to his head and with a deep breath, placed it to his right temple, finger trembling uneasily over the trigger as he tried and waited for his own breath to slow down to a calmer rate. Mason forced himself to take even larger and deeper breaths and began to feel the rate drop to a more normal level, it was then that he felt as certain as he ever had been and his forefinger began to squeeze the trigger. A pause became as deafening as any rush hour traffic outside the apartment, then with a sudden crack, a flash of light which accompanied a loud and painful ringing in his ears, Mason loosened his grip of the weapon and dropped the gun to the floor, which made a deep thump as it landed. He had done it, finally, he had done what he had promised everyone, most of himself.

 

Mason slowly became aware that his eyes were still firmly closed. He opened them up once again and surveyed the room. He didn't feel dead and nothing seemed different to a few seconds or minutes ago. He still felt human, he still felt very much alive, not dead at all. Was this normal behaviour for the recently dead? Was this what was really meant when people referred to ghosts as not realising that they were dead. Was this the limbo? The place not quite dead but not really alive either. The gun went off, he had pulled the trigger, he knew that. But somehow he expected either much more than this or nothing at all. Not something that was much the same as the life he had left behind. Mason looked down and saw the gun on the floor. He reached up and touched his head. Nothing, no injury, no soreness and definitely no blood. The sensation rushed through him like an unwelcome guest at a party. He stood himself up and reached for the whisky. Grabbing the bottle, he realised that it, he, hadn't been successful in destroying himself. He wanted to scream but the sensation of pointlessness rendered his mouth dry and silent.

 

Gripping the bottle tight in his hand, Mason launched the bottle across the room where it struck a wall and exploded, sending small pieces of glass, along with the last of the whisky, flying across the room. Growling in utter frustration, Mason reached down to pick up the gun once again, with the intention this time to succeed in the original plan. He must have passed out before. This time he wouldn't be so uncertain and afraid, this time he would do it absolutely right. Just as he reached for the pistol, his fingers beginning to grasp it at the handle and trigger guard, the gun pulled away from his reach. Sliding across the hardwood floor, the gun whizzed away from Mason's grip and straight under the heavy old refrigerator in the small kitchen off to his right.

 

 

 

Mason couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. It couldn't be right, it must be a hallucination. Something like that. It couldn't have happened. Getting up, Mason started to follow the path the gun took but before he got two steps from the spot he inhabited, he suddenly felt a push exert itself upon his chest. Like he was being violently shoved or thrust out of the way. Stopping him from following the gun. The power exerted by the strange invisible force sent Mason stumbling backwards until he tripped and fell back onto the sofa once again, crumpling into a slouched position, the shock of what just happened evidently in his wide eyes, suspended there in their position expressing his disbelief.

 

Pushing himself back up, Mason looked around the room for a suitable explanation, the shattered remnants of the whisky bottle providing the only safe logical one right now. He leant forward to get to his feet, but felt what to all intents and purposes was a hand, on his shoulder, pressing down, keeping him right there in that seat. “Don't move” came a deep and almost mesmerising voice. Mason turned his head from side to side, scanning the entire room for clues as to the origins of the voice. But nothing. The windows, doors and even the cupboard doors were all shut. The TV was switched off, as was the radio. Both were generally depressing these days anyway. “Stay there. Listen to me.” Came the disembodied voice once again. But Mason wasn't convinced and attempted to stand once more. Once more he felt the hand on his shoulder, this time it gripped hard and shoved him effortlessly back into the sofa. “Listen to me. Don't move.” Came the forceful and authoritative voice now.

 

Suddenly, out of the chaos and the gloom of the apartment, came the sight of a figure, the light behind them at first, making them nothing more than a mere shadow person, standing there, looming down at them. But gradually they seemed to adjust their position and into the light came a man, not that too dissimilar age wise to Mason. His clothes more akin to a labourer than of the financial district. He stood there, not exactly menacing, but not someone or something to be ignored either. More a sense of an older brother preparing to either save your skin or kick your arse.

 

(c) Copyright Rob Shepherd 2018. All rights withheld.

 

 

 

 

Poor George

 

This is a story of a little boy called George

His story he wishes to divulge

What we shall hear may shock and enrage

But please allow little George to indulge

And so we start where we begin

With the subject at hand, herein

Poor little George is a nice little boy

He is kind and gentle and shares all of his toys

Never rude, but polite to man, women and all

But he has a secret, of it to no-one he would recall

You see, little George is racked in paranoia and fear

His well-meaning parents read to his near sleeping ears

Tales and fables, spoken and repeated from old

Scenes to be ensconced in his head from the stories he was told

The stories of witches, bogeymen and scary creatures

So he had become obsessed with old movie features

Things in the woods, the wardrobe and, dare he say it? Under his bed!

Which only served to feed the monsters living inside his head

As he grew older and closer to being a man

His fears grew with him and so it all began

He saw monsters in the shadows wherever he looked

Slithering creatures, crawling from the pasta his mother had cooked

The older he got, the worse it became

And his parents tried hard to convince little George in vain

To stop his delusions, to "stop his silly little games"

losing the argument George walked away

They just didn't understand, that they were to blame

For the terrors, he saw coming their way

The monsters you see, that poor little George had feared

Coming after him all of these years

Were not fables and stories of old

They were real, evil and cold

And now they had all gathered around

Creeping close, in the shadows and absence of sound

To attack and kill them in the dead of the night

Poor little George, hiding under covers, shivering in fright

Then one night, during the light of the moon

As all slept sound, not a mouse had moved

Except for those shadows that crept from room to room

Sealing each poor soul to their doom after doom

Poor little George peered terrified beneath his covers

Watching those monsters bite, tear, rip, gorge and feast on the others

Werewolves, Vampires, Demons and Zombies spilt blood after blood

And poor little George watched the crimson run through the hall in a flood

Little George pulled the covers over his head

Knowing his family were all but dead

He screamed out loud in hopeless sorrow

Praying for the light to come and bring him tomorrow

And soon it duly arrived

The monsters were gone and he had survived

But dare poor George open his eyes?

The thoughts of horror he'd surely been supplied

Of what he would behold before him

Of mangled bodies and flesh without skin

Then a wave of terror took a grip

Shaking and quivering his sweet little lips

He felt a strong grasp upon his arm

The monsters were still there, to do him harm

It was too late to retreat 

To run away and avoid defeat

His end had come to pass

He hadn't survived, he was the last

He wailed and begged to be left

A futile gesture he guessed

So he opened his eyes one last time

To be met with a sight so sublime

As morning sun shone

The monsters were gone

And his mother leaning to kiss him sweetly

In a gentle and loving morning greeting

It occurred suddenly that it had all been a dream

And that nothing in the darkness is all that it seems

At that moment little George vowed

Not to believe in tales

Fables and films on the screens

After all that he had dreamt that he had seen

But this is not the end of the story

That is to be far more gory

For as poor little George took his mother's hand in his

This was to be no sweet morning bliss

The rest of her body was still on the floor

Strewn all the way back to the bedroom door

Her face looking ashen grey and perched beside him on the bed

Was nothing more than the remnants of her severed head

Poor little George, he leapt to his feet

What more terrors was he sure to meet?

Room to room that he went

Blood and guts were splashed and spent

The horrors went from awful to worse

There was little left for even 1 little hearse

It was all George could do to stop his stomach to purge

Its contents rushing up with intent and urge

It was only then that he saw

The monsters waiting inside the door

With tears welling in his eyes

Poor little George wailed and he cried.

Cursing them with vigour,

George realized that he was swearing into a mirror

The monsters that he had long been afraid 

Were not  physical but a figment of the brain

Poor little George stared into the glass

His reflection making him gasp

Looking down, he had wondered why he had survived

Until he saw in his grasp

The glinting sparkle of the large chopping knife

Now, there are no shadows near

For poor little George to fear

There is nothing else to see here

Except for the glint of that little old mirror

The monsters still taunt

As George grows old and gaunt

He is in his own little hell

A bland and silent, tiny white cell

Now little George is not so small

he stands staring out into the wide open hall

All by himself, sad and alone

Poor old George wails and he groans

For his end to come soon

Be it by eleven or by Noon?

The monsters in the mirror

Will move with renewed vigour

To cut his body of its juice

But be it before or after poor old George meets the noose?

 

copyright (c) Rob Shepherd 2018. All rights withheld.

 

 

​

​

​