Fear Club- A Confession

by Damian Stephens

Mike’s single apparent ace-in-the-hole was the assumption, by the rest of the world, that he no longer existed. He was definitely too smart to compromise that.

  Then again...

  “Then again,” I said, “it depends, I guess, on what he has to lose. Right?”

  The chuckling did, in fact, die down a bit at that point.

  The party—which announced itself several blocks before we reached it—provided a perfect mixture of anonymity and distraction. Costumes abounded—everything from your typical “slutty nurse” to a pretty authentic-looking werewolf in what appeared to be John Travolta’s Saturday Night Fever getup could be found. The “Teen Wolf” had added some post-modernist cleverness to the outfit, adding little devil horns jutting out from the mask. Rich kids. The hostess, long-drunk and locked in one of several designer bathrooms on the second floor, was accordingly unable to greet us; we sauntered in unabashed, availed ourselves of a few beers, and forced our way through the throng to locate a secure area for unveiling our spoils.

  Molly Furnival was nowhere in sight. Admittedly, this was the first time that not seeing her gladdened me somewhat.

  Steve suddenly re-appeared near Julie and I. “This way,” he said, motioning furtively.

  Only a few more minutes of jostling through the phalanx of vaguely familiar faces got us to a small, sheltered area around the corner of the back patio, close enough to keep us wary of the pulsing dance music of the party, but far enough for us to maintain our sanity and concentrate. The regular bursts of rain were keeping people rather safely swarmed inside. A light burned above a sidedoor to the house, illuminating an old iron patio table and four plastic chairs, clearly rejects of the backyard landscaper.

  “Let’s see it!” Steve said, dragging one of the chairs out and motioning for me to sit.

  I did so, pulling the small book and key out of the inside pocket of my jacket and placing them on the table. Appropriately timed, the music inside seemed to reach some sort of crescendo, and there was a general eruption of applause and shouting. Steve reached out to examine the key and then, oddly, placed it back on the table with scarcely a comment.

  With Steve and Julie both hovering intently over my shoulder, I opened the book to page one. It was clear that there had been a page previous to this one, but that it had been carefully (if imperfectly) torn out. What we saw appeared to be a journal entry, but it read like a short story, which I began to read somewhat hesitantly aloud.

  27 Dec. Broken-hearted, banished to this strange tavern in a weird corner of this world, by the light of a dying fire, I drank the potion that would salve the wound.

  It was a desperate attempt, and doomed to fail; yet, who would say that this failure was not in every way the longedfor success?

  For as I became attuned more clearly to my surroundings, and the strains of some ungodly music wended their way through the porches of my ears, I was alerted to the unconscionable admonition: tonight, of all nights, the bar would close, and alone I would again drift, a ghost of my former self, emptied of purpose, the glorious unnamable Lady whom I had lost no longer part of the home I could not bear to return to.

  I paid in cash. Some part of me, at least, had kept the drinking to a minimum tonight. When I stood, the familiar wobble greeted me, and I knew that I could at least stagger to bed. At least.

  “It’s cold out there. Don’t forget your jacket.”

  I couldn’t quite formulate a response, but decided it sounded like good advice. My jacket donned, I proceeded to impress myself by smoothly exiting the building without stumbling into anything or anyone. At least, not that I remembered.

  And it was cold outside.

  A drizzling rain had begun, and the sidewalks slick with fallen leaves proved something of a hazard to navigate. I lived a few blocks away from grounds, equally a few blocks from the bar right next to grounds, but I would have to pass through part of the quadrangle to reach home. A few cars splashed by. I walked slowly, despite the chill, despite the rain, still warmed by whisky, still wanting to delay the inevitable.

  My hesitation managed to get me into trouble soon enough. Through maleficence extraordinary, the rain picked up, along with a blast of cold air sufficient to waken me to my predicament. I had gone the wrong way. I glanced at my surrounds: dark sidewalk, dark overhanging branches of poplar (or was it ash? The death-tree that rewarded acts of great hubris?), a great building whose brick, reminiscent of nothing, crawled with vines like tendrils of dark lightning, each leaf an initiate of the evening’s mysteries as they unfurled before me...

  One Light.

  I proceeded toward it, a wizened single eye of hoary hope. Angled awkwardly above a door of some forgotten wood, chipped and gnarled, I proceeded toward that Light as the storm around me grew increasingly ferocious. Down a small incline laden with unkempt grass, down to the hollow on the side of the building I could not name in my present stupor. On either side of the door rose small hillocks that may once have been an attempt at ornament, but now served the purpose of a degree of shelter from the wind.

  The Light flickered as I reached it, and I somehow instinctively knew that I had but little time to waste. The handle on the door felt like ice, and I could sense some intricate carving upon it, the tail of some beast, perhaps, or more tendrils of ivy set in brass. At this distance, I could now discern a small plaque set into the middle of the door, which appeared constructed of a heavier wood than I at first imagined. The letters appeared in bas-relief, and I touched them briefly with one trembling hand before a blast of chill wind purposed to decide my fate. One word was indicated on that door, as icy as the wind itself:

  “TRAP.”

  I opened the door.

  I soon acclimated to the dimness that met me. Outside, the wind continued to howl, and I could hear the swooning and mourning of ancient trees muffled by the strange hall I found myself in.

  Lit by what appeared to be similar twenty-watt yellow bulbs in ornate, but poorly kept, sconces to either side appearing every ten feet or so, the hall seemed more like a rectangular passageway cut into the side of a mountain than the back entrance to one of the older buildings on grounds. A stone floor, neat and clean considering its obvious age and stage of use, led straight on for perhaps fifty feet. No doors or furnishings appeared to either side, and the wall itself appeared carved out of the same stone.

  Briefly, I considered waiting out the heart of the storm here in the entranceway. Whisky and the immediate aversion of danger had teamed to impel me forward, however, and I started forth toward the end of the hall, the sounds of the storm outside gradually descending into an uncanny silence.

  Upon reaching the end of the hall, I discovered—besides similar paths continuing to either side—another plaque set into the wall. A message appeared in roman-style characters; but what gibberish was this?

  After making one or two attempts to read the peculiar sequences of characters that followed, I simply tilted the book so that Julie and Steve could clearly see it:

  Dobbsfkdq, Aetoibq!

  Webk ylu atk obtp sefq,

  rb quob sl dbs seb hby

  lk seb lsebo qfpb lc sefq

  jbqqtdb.

  MQ: Qlooy clo seb ritah byb!

  Steve snorted. “So obvious,” he said. I continued reading aloud.

  And at that moment, I heard the sound of a woman’s scream from some distance down the left-hand path. I froze— and immediately relaxed, as laughter followed it, then cheers. Sounds of general revelry ensued. A frat party, perhaps? Had I just stumbled upon one of those fraternity “secrets”?

  Undaunted now, I immediately turned to the left and proceeded toward the sounds, which grew louder. At the end of the hall, a simple wooden door inlaid with frosted glass betrayed light and sound and general warmth on the other side of it. With the intention of simply asking for directions—and perhaps scoring a few more drinks—I reached for the d
oor handle—

  —and the door opened inward before I could reach it, revealing the most astonishingly lovely woman I had ever seen.

  “Charles?!?” she practically shrieked. Clearly, this was the woman who had screamed earlier. Lovely tresses of black hair, so dark it appeared a deep blue in the hazy light, framed an oval face of pale beauty, like a splendid treasure sunk deep in the folds of night.

  “I—uh—” Suddenly, it hit me, although its sheer impossibility had functioned to deaden my mind momentarily—it was my beloved, my grace, my light in this dark world! She grabbed me by the lapels of my still-soaked overcoat and yanked me toward her. Breath like strawberry licorice draped a veil of enchanted immediacy over my actions, and I kissed her on the spot.

  It was not entirely unwelcome, judging by her response. Unfortunately, it took her aback somewhat; as she began to return my advance, she suddenly became wary of what she did, and thrust me away. I slipped, twisted oddly, and spun about, at which point two further meetings occurred, viz., my right eye was introduced to the door handle behind me and my body to the floor in a heap.

  She gasped, immediately descending upon me in a flurry of concern. I suddenly became aware of other partygoers gathering around my most recent absurdity. Oh, merciful Zeus, what had I done now?

  “Charles! Oh, love, what have you done to yourself?” I must have blacked out momentarily, for she gently patted my face with fingers soft as angelfeathers. Noise of general confusion arose.

  “The man’s clearly tanked,” said one male voice. I could discern him above me, to the right. He held a cigarette in one hand and a glass of something as expensive as his clothing in the other.

  I waved my hand above me in what I hoped was a gesture of unconcern. “Long live the king,” I said. Several people laughed, and the group began to disperse.

  “You’ve simply massacred yourself, Charles!” This from the Aphrodite still fawning over me. “I’m so terribly sorry! This is all my fault—all my fault!”

  “Give him some room for blame, Molly,” said the man, still standing as disinterestedly as a telephone pole. “He may want to end up with something for all of this.”

  “Okay—what?!?” This came from Julie, although all three of us were thinking it. “That’s fucking weird, man. How the hell—”

  “Keep reading,” Steve insisted, patting me on the shoulder and taking out his flask. I swiped it from him and took a long swig, then handed it back and continued.

  “Oh, but he’s swelling up!” My Muse, my Saviouress, Molly, gingerly prodded my blackening right eye. “Go get me some ice, Finnegan, before it’s too late.”

  Finnegan audibly sighed, hesitated purposefully, then disappeared from view. Molly somehow contrived to place my head in her lap.

  “I’d no idea you knew about this place!” Molly said, sounding delighted. “And tonight of all nights! When did they contact you? Was it the Midsummer Revelry? Oh, it was, wasn’t it!”

  My depth perception minimized by sight through a single eye, Molly appeared as the central figure in a canvas intended to represent the Ideal of Heaven. I attempted to formulate words, some means of maintaining this state forever. A peculiar shade of memory suddenly invaded my mind like cognac in my nostrils.“The door? There was a door. And a book? I got turned around—”

  “Finnegan!” Molly shrieked, looking up. “Where on Earth are you?”

  “No, wait! I was, um, in that hallway with the strange sign, the sign written in gibberish—”

  “Sign? Oh, right, that sign—wish Roland could’ve come up with something more clever—”

  A crash suddenly resounded through the room. Molly sat up straight, looking concerned. I tried to alter my position to see, and that’s when the extraordinary thing happened, more incredible even than the events so far, those gigantic, black, clawed hands wrapped around Molly and dragged her from me—

  “Hey, Charley! I didn’t know you were here!”

  All three of us jumped. I literally fell out of my chair.

  “Charley?” It was Molly Furnival. The same Molly in the book?

  I shoved the book unceremoniously into my coat pocket and lifted out a hand for help. As Julie assisted me in getting up, I noticed Steve surreptitiously grab the key, then smile widely at Molly. “Hey, Molly,” he said, waving.

  “Molly! Hey—” I started.

  “What are you guys doing out here? It’s cold!”

  Julie raised an eyebrow and stepped aside to engage another cigarette.

  “Yeah, well, I—”

  “How’s the party in there?” Steve asked. “Anyone dead yet?”

  Molly shook her head at him, then put her hand on my arm. The universe melted. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine!” I shouted. She flinched. “I mean: I’m fine.” Not even the fires of imminent death could melt away the inner nerd.

  “So, uh,” she continued, “what are you guys doing out here?”

  “Oh, you know, just—you know, we were just—” I stammered.

  “—getting ready to come inside and do some breakdancin’, honey, you know? Hey, you wanna find me some girl that’s been real liquored up?” Steve did a breakaway move, then spun around and grabbed Julie around the waist. “Wait! No need. I got one right here!”

  Julie shoved him aside and stalked toward the party, smoke billowing out of her nose like a dragon. Steve followed her, uttering apologies that began sounding like come-ons as they faded into the crowd.

  “So, do you want to come inside?” Molly asked, smiling.

  “Sure. Of course,” I said. We linked arms and started back toward the house, which seemed to have calmed down just a bit.

  That is, until the screams started.

  When you see your first, real-life werewolf (or whatever the fuck that strange creature was) actually in the midst of its natural, predatory activities, be sure to let me know your reaction. Despite my excellent training by Mike Flowers, mine resembled a strange sort of “falling” sensation, as if my body had dropped to the ground as I remained standing, coupled with spontaneous tearing-up at the eyes.

  I stood there, riveted. I felt Molly pull at me once or twice, attempting to drag me away from the incredible scene of gore.

  But I was immune to her, to physics, to life. I could only stare.

  Before me and, as far as I could tell, dancing like John Travolta as the Bee-Gees blasted from the sound system, was the “wolfman” I had seen earlier, whose convincing costume I had taken notice of. Blood and gore covered the white suit; the creature writhed and danced with half of his partner, the upper half, out of which entrails pooled onto the floor beneath him.

  He lifted up his head and howled. I saw now that the creature’s mask had been make-up covering its actual demonic visage. He turned his yellow, ravenous eyes toward me.

  “The sacrifices must be made! ” he growled, dropping his dance partner and pointing one long, black-clawed, wolfish finger at me. “The Black God returns! ”

  Once again he howled, then spun about expertly, performed a further variation on Travolta’s Saturday Night Fever theme, and proceeded to bound off at an astonishing pace, utilizing an anthropoid-lupine lope, directly into and through the remaining crowd of fleeing partygoers.

  Molly was gone.

  My trance broken somewhat, I reacted to the sound of several individuals behind me. They were four, scrabbling over the fence, half-climbing and half-falling.

  “Did you see it? Did you see it?” This from the shortest of them, with hair practically half the length of his body. It took me a moment to realize that the question was directed toward me.

  I merely pointed in the direction it had run. They appeared to be scraggly young men, but I didn’t recognize them—certainly, with their long beards and hair, they were not students at Honorius.

  One of them stopped brie
fly, aiming what appeared to be a video camera in the general direction that the creature had gone.

  “Make sure the fucking thing’s on this time!” yelled the long-haired one. “We can’t stop here long! Hey, man,” he turned back to me. “You got any smokes?”

  I shook my head, but he seemed to have already forgotten his question. “Let’s move!” he yelled, and ran past me.

  I could hear one of the others speak through labored breaths as they resumed their course. “Goddamn it! Did you get that?”

  The one with the video camera was already running and filming. The last of them—who could have been the cameraman’s brother, but sported a tremendous black beard—paused briefly as he passed.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got this whole thing under control.” He patted me on the shoulder and then ran off, screaming something like: “Finally! It’s finally happening!”

  Not knowing what further I could do, I simply sat on the ground, gazing at the incredible scene of massacre laid out before me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Steve appeared out of nowhere. “Get the fuck up, man! The cops will be here any minute!”

  Rain beating against windows. The occasional street lamp.

  I found myself lying down, crammed in the back seat of Julie’s Honda. I heard Steve speaking from the passenger seat.

  “...you see, that I seemed to have stumbled upon a key to the whole mystery. A solution. A means of escape—”

  I could discern that Steve was reading from the journal using a penlight. I groaned.

  “Charley?” Steve turned to look at me. “Thanks for not weighing a million pounds. I had to drag your ass out of that shitstorm.”

  “Huh?”

  “You passed out,” Julie explained.

  “Shit yeah you passed out,” Steve said. “That was un-fucking-believable! I mean, come on! A werewolf? Fucking classic.”

  A sense of panic immediately assailed me. “I don’t know if that was—” I started, recalling the scene. “What about—”

  “I got the damned key, dude. We’re good. And this book—holy shit man, you’ve gotta keep reading this—”