The Devil, the Grim Reaper, and a Ghost

by Sean M. Hogan

  K-I-L-L

  The first stab caught the Clown off guard. Justin plunged his homemade dagger into soft flesh, landing the tip of the screwdriver into the middle of the Clown’s upper thigh, severing his femoral artery. A pitcher of blood followed. The Clown screamed, a shrill of a sound akin to a horse roasting alive. Justin pulled out the screwdriver from the Clown’s leg in a single backward thrusting motion, like he was plucking out a nasty weed.

  The Clown lunged for Justin’s throat catching his mouth instead. He lost his balance in the process when his bad leg failed to support his weight. He fell forward taking Justin with him, both hitting the ground hard. Justin lost the screwdriver, watching helplessly under the Clown’s weight as his hope rolled inches away from his grasp.

  With his left hand, the Clown clutched the gaping hole in his leg in desperate hopes of stopping the pouring river of blood and with his right he still gripped Justin’s mouth, refusing to release despite Justin’s squirming. He tried to block Justin’s nostrils, his access to precious air, with an upward shift of his thumb. Justin countered by biting down on the soft under belly of the Clown’s palm, drawing blood and another shrill from his would-be killer.

  The taste of metal, of sickening iron, filled Justin’s mouth, tickling the back of his throat in endless drips. Soon the blood pooled up, overflowing and streaking off down the sides of his cheeks. Justin wondered who would die first, the Clown from a loss of blood or himself from drowning in it. He decided not to leave things to chance.

  Justin wiggled his head back and forth, opening the Clown’s wound up more, like a crocodile’s thrash his teeth became a crude jagged saw. It wasn’t long before an entire chunk of flesh rested on the back of his twitching tongue. The Clown jerked his hand back, seething pain raking up his arm. Justin retrieved his weapon. Now, within reach, Justin aimed for the Clown’s throat.

  Blood sprayed out wildly, the Clown’s neck became a hose turned on full blast with a cracked nozzle. The Clown didn’t scream, he couldn’t, just a pitiful gargle wheezed out as he slumped to the floor like a sack of pale white onions. By the time Justin stood up and over the Clown there was no longer any movement, only a pile of lifeless meat remained.

  Justin stepped over to the Ouija board and to the edge of the light of the lamp. The planchette crawled once more, spelling out one last message.

  U UP 4 SOME DIGGIN’ JUSTIN?

  Justin raised his face out from the veil of shadows and into the light, streaks of blood smeared all over his face in a pattern similar to a clown’s face paint. Though there was a bloody grin painted across his lips Justin did not smile.

  ***

  The wet grass gave way with ease, parting like the red sea as Justin speared the shovel deep into damp black soil. And so, the earth surrendered itself to him, its sinful flesh, shoveled up pound by pound. After reaching four feet deep Justin hit something solid. He clawed the soil with his bare hands now, giving the object form and dimension, taking it back from the black. A child’s corpse rested in a pool of mud completely wrapped up in bandages like some kind of ancient mummy, its arms and legs severed at the elbows and knees. Justin gazed down at the featureless corpse’s face. Blood soaked blotches served as eyes, seeping through the bandages from the sunken eye sockets. Justin brushed aside the maggots and placed his hand over the corpse’s chest and, oddly, it spoke.

  “You did good, champ,” said the child’s corpse, in Justin’s voice, without moving its lips. “But the work is still not done. Still more graves to dig. Still more bodies to take out. Still more bodies to put in.”

  Justin spent the whole night digging. Some twenty-three bodies were unearthed that night. Fifteen more in the morning. He laid them down on the yard and spread them out on the grass in single parallel lines. They had to be straight. They just had to.

  Justin made it home before the police came to the Clown’s house. He never told his parents what happened to him that day he went missing. In fact, he never said a word ever again. Despite his parent’s frantic pleas, the neurologist’s tests, and the speech specialist’s endless hours of therapy. Justin remained mute. Everyone was stumped. But he knew the truth. He hadn’t lost his voice. He knew right where it was. Inside the corpse. It was the price he had to pay, a trade of sorts, to hear the voice of the beyond.

  And the corpse spoke to him often, and only to him. For Justin kept the corpse with him at all times, hidden in either his backpack or under his bed in a large knapsack with dozens of air fresheners taped around it to mask the stench. Sometimes the corpse would speak for hours on end, telling him the secrets of those around him and foretelling prophecies of events yet to transpire. The kind of knowledge that does no man nor boy any good knowing, the kind that makes one isolated and cold and alone.

  The second body Justin buried, just as he had done with the Clown, was Arthur P. Clark. Arthur owned an ice cream van and his route hit all the elementary schools in the area. Sometimes he would take children for joy rides, show them his knife, and make them promise not to tell. He picked the quiet ones, always the quiet ones. Today the carnival was in town. Good for business and pleasure.

  “Hey there, handsome,” said Arthur as he held up three different types of ice cream bars. “What flavor do you want?”

  A quiet young boy wearing a backpack and clown makeup stood before Arthur, smiling to match his painted red grin.

  TheMonster With No Eyes

  THERE ONCE WAS A MONSTER with no eyes, darkness was his friend and he was content, until the day a little girl asked him why.

  “Why are you happy?” asked the girl. “Do you not understand your misfortune? You have no eyes to witness the beauty of God’s doing. You are blind. You are not whole.”

  Those words cast a great sadness over the monster. He knew now that there was another world denied to him. A world he would never possess. So, he pondered and puzzled and contemplated with great purpose on what to do next. And when a clever idea popped into his head, the monster with no eyes grinned a crocodile’s smile and munched and crunched on the little girl’s bones, but not her eyes. He stuck them in and tried them out and saw what she saw. Flowers had colors, trees had shapes, and water reflected light.

  The monster that once had no eyes was content, until he saw his reflection and saw that he was ugly. His fur was mangled and matted with bugs and lice, his skin coarse and oily, his lips chapped and full of sores. Only his eyes were pretty. So, he made up his mind and set off on a journey to the village.

  ***

  Thomas was the youngest and handsomest son of the village chief. All the women in the village loved and adored him but he was not content. The monster watched from his secret place of hiding with his new eyes and saw Thomas’ unhappiness.

  “Why are you not happy?” he asked.

  “My five older brothers always laugh at me,” answered Thomas. “Brave warriors are always fierce and scary, they say, and I am too pretty.”

  “I see,” agreed the monster. And he told Thomas of a magical cave and that if Thomas slept there he would awaken a monster too.

  “Why should I trust you?” asked Thomas. “You are a stranger to me. And besides, you are a monster. How do I know this is not a trick to lure me away from the village so you can eat me?”

  “Look into my eyes,” said the monster in his raspy voice. “Are these the eyes of a deceiver?”

  Thomas saw the purity and innocence in the monster’s childlike eyes and forgot his worries. “No,” he admitted.

  So, Thomas set off on a journey to the cave. And when the monster that once had no eyes found Thomas asleep in the cave he grinned a crocodile’s smile and munched and crunched on his bones, but not his face.

  The monster stretched on the face and became pretty. His hair curly and golden, his skin smooth and flawless, and his lips rose red and lush. The monster was almost content until the day he overheard a woman singing.

  ***

  Lenora’s voice was heaven on the wind. She could bring even
the scariest beast to a gentle slumber with just a few notes. The monster’s voice, however, was nothing more than gargles and gulps, disgusting sounds that offended any ears nearby. So, he made up his mind and went to the village.

  The monster smiled from his secret place of hiding with his new face when he found Lenora. She sang only bitter ballets of grief and sorrow. For her beloved, Thomas, had disappeared into the woods and hadn’t returned. The monster showed himself and she was seduced by the monster’s pretty face.

  “Come to my magical cave, my sweet Lenora,” beckoned the monster. “And we shall be reunited for all time.”

  She believed his words and set off on a journey. Upon finding the cave she fell asleep and dreamed many dreams as the monster, which once had no eyes but now had much more, grinned a crocodile’s smile and munched and crunched on her bones, but not her throat. He inserted it in and charmed the forest with his sweet howls. But still, he was not content.

  ***

  Over the years, the monster gained many new prizes. Hands to weave beautiful works of art, feet to run alongside the wind, and a nose to smell the sweetest smells. But each came with a price. His fingers grew blisters and his feet grew sores, so he had to wear gloves and shoes. And his own stench offended his new nose so he had to take frequent baths.

  Finally, one year he awoke not a monster but a man. So, he left his cave and journeyed to the village. He took a wife and lived in a home built of wood and stone. The man grew wealthy and sired many strong sons and beautiful daughters, but he was still not content. He grew restless and longed for the days when he was but a simple monster. And when his beauty faded, his voice grew raspy, and his eyes could no longer see, the old man set off to find his cave.

  There he slept the sleep of a content man, as a monster with no eyes came out of its secret place of hiding and grinned a crocodile’s smile…

  THE END

  The crow behind the mirror

  The Mirror Wars, Book One

  Sean M. Hogan

  Chapter One

  The Barbarian and the Boy

  THE BOY WAS DEAD—his lips blue, his eyes placid, and his skin egg white. The snow and ice had claimed him days ago, to sit by Ordin’s side in the Great Hall of Eternal Dreams, where all lost children must go. From the suffering of cold, toward the warmth of light. The final reward.

  At last this boy knew peace. And yet his exposed naked heart still beat.

  ***

  The men had regressed into chanting, thrusting their spears and swords and axes into the cold night air. The men of the Western clans. Eric should have been one of them. He had seen forty harsh winters pass and this winter marked his twenty-eighth as a warrior. Yet he did not share their drunken enthusiasm or their blind courage. He already knew the outcome of tomorrow’s war. The North would be victorious. The West would fall. The big fish would swallow the little one. These men marched to their deaths, and Eric’s fate marched with them.

  Eric slipped away from the ranks unnoticed, without regrets, without looking back.

  The winds howled. The hail pelted. Eric raised his arm and fur cloak and pushed on.

  He would have passed the snow-entrenched road none the wiser, if not for two shimmering lights piercing the darkness. Two crystals, one blue and the other red, reflected the moonlight in a brilliant haze. They called to Eric, beckoned him with a siren’s candlelight. And Eric pursued, chasing the flame into the void as all moths do. To the bitter end.

  When he came upon the crystals, he fell to his knees and brushed aside the snow. He took them into the palm of his hand and reveled in their glory. Their light reflected in his blue eyes and basked his face with warmth. Then he noticed the chain. The crystals were attached to an exquisite gold necklace. What luck, he thought, the gods surely blessed me with riches tonight. He tugged and found resistance. He tugged harder. Still the chain did not budge. This time he pulled with all his strength and unearthed the boy.

  Eric stumbled backward, fell on his ass, and fought back the urge to scream. Once composed, Eric studied him—this young boy with raven black hair and olive-colored eyes. The tail end of his purple cape, made of the finest fabric Eric had ever seen or felt, flapped in the wind. He was bundled up in it—a silent caterpillar cocooned for all time.

  Eric slowly unraveled him. Resting on the boy’s breast was a large book, bound in blood-red leather and clutched tightly in small, dead, frostbitten hands. On the cover three circles overlapped—one red, one blue, and one black. He peeled back the boy’s fingers and took the book, exposing a gaping hole in the boy’s chest, his heart beating like a furious drum.

  Staring into dead eyes, Eric reached for the heart. He held the boy’s life in his hand. Beyond reason and logic, life still pumped through this boy.

  The gods had a hand in this no doubt. Fate deemed our paths should cross.

  The boy lived, but could he be saved? Eric scooped the boy into his arms and headed into the blizzard to find the answer.

  ***

  Shadows cast from the flames of the fireplace danced across the boy’s face. His eyes fluttered open. Bloody bandages lay a few feet from the boy’s bed, fresh ones wrapped around his waist and chest. He scanned the den of the primitive cabin built of clay, straw, and wood. The stale air tasted of sweat and ash. A large figure draped in animal furs hunched over a red book—a hooded barbarian with a thick black beard—and flipped through the pages feverishly, devouring each one after the other. The boy smiled at his first reader. He attempted to rise but sharp seething pain shot through him and he only managed sitting up.

  The boy’s groan alerted the barbarian and his eyes rose from the book. Eric pulled back his hood, exposing his weathered face.

  “I should warn you,” the boy said with much weakness. “There is a price for that knowledge you hold in your hands. A price that must be paid in blood.”

  Eric studied the boy for a quiet moment. Finally, with caution, he spoke. “Your wounds healed themselves in one night. Are you man or god?”

  The boy shot him a hearty smirk. “I’ve killed far too many to be called a man.”

  Eric searched for the right words and failed in finding them. “Surely you jest. You’re but a boy. A child.”

  “A child older than the oldest mountains.”

  “Yes.” Eric returned to the book. “The one called Able. Ruler of a world beyond the mirrors. Beyond the stars. So, your book says.” He rose from his chair and handed back Able’s book.

  Able glanced down at the book. “You don’t believe my words?”

  “Books lie as much as men do. Children even more.”

  “But I am neither man nor child.”

  “What are you then?” Eric forced the next question out. “A demon?”

  “Many have called me that. Among others. Prince of Crosses. Lord of Lashes. Emperor of Skulls. So many titles it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Then you are like our Demon of the North. A would-be conqueror.”

  Able relaxed against his pillow. “He sounds fun.”

  “He invades the Western lands as we speak. As he did with the others.” Eric took his battle-ax in his hands, hoping it would imbue him with courage. “But he shall find our wills not so easily broken.”

  “Why did you save me, barbarian?”

  “Ordin rewards those who do good deeds. And saving children is the grandest act one can perform in this life.”

  Able’s eyelids narrowed. “So, it’s a reward you’re after?”

  Eric put his ax down and sat in his chair. “In this life or the next.”

  “Well, I know nothing of the next. But if it’s a reward you want, perhaps I can be of service. After all, I owe you my life.” Able flipped through the pages, searching for the right one. “It’s only fitting I be the one to reward you personally.”

  “Save your gold.” Eric waved Able’s offer away like smoke. He did not want to sully his deed. “The dead and the dying have no need of wealth. Tomorrow I will go to war. I cannot hid
e from my fate forever. Soon the North will break through our frontlines. Then they will come here. Better to die among kin with honor than be butchered on the run like a stray dog.” He poured himself a mug of mead. “Pray for me instead.”

  Able raised an eyebrow. “And whom shall I pray to?”

  “Ordin and the Seven Maidens. That my everlasting dreams be pleasant ones.” Eric downed his mead.

  “You believe this Ordin to be a god? How amusing.”

  Eric wiped his mustache clean with his sleeve. “It is not wise to mock the gods.”

  “I mock nothing. Ordin died long ago. He had his chance at godhood—yes—but he threw it all away.”

  “He resisted temptation.” Eric poured himself another drink. “He chose the eternal dream over this waking life. Even now he resides in the Dreamtime. Waiting for our return.”

  “The dead wait for nothing.”

  Eric stopped mid-sip and slammed his mug down on the table. His hand shook as much as the mead. “And how are your dreams, boy?”

  Able laughed. When his laughter died, his voice grew calm and callous. “Horrifying—as I suspect yours are. Oh, the sweet irony. I have nothing to look forward to in the next. While you have everything. Well, pleasant dreams at least. But you’re trembling. And I am simply bored. Why is that? I always thought humans invented religion to ease such fears. Yet here you are. So full of faith and yet so full of doubt.”

  Eric calmed himself with a few deep breaths and averted his eyes. “Even Ordin had doubts.”

  “Not doubts. Choices.” Able ripped out a page from his book. “A choice.” He folded the pure white paper and tossed it into Eric’s lap. “Would you like the same?”

  Chapter Two

  The Crow

  CLOUDS BLEW BY as a jet-black crow rode on the currents of the autumn winds. The crow glided through the crystal blue sky and over a sea of modern suburban homes. The wind gushed past the trees and stripped them bare of orange and yellow leaves. The dying leaves hurled into the wind, dancing the way schools of multicolored fish swim in elegant formations while the crow speared on through. He tilted his sleek feathered head to the side and blinked his oil black eyes, scanning the scenery below to observe the orderly chaos of the civilized. Honking cars waded through congested traffic. Fashionably dressed people watered perfect little gardens. Designer dogs defecated on symmetrically carved lawns. A world in and of itself concerned only with its self. The American dream. A world the crow possessed little concern for. For he, unlike them, had a destination.