Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  “Jason? Oh my God, what happened?” She raised her hands and took one faltering step forward.

  He held up his right hand. “Don’t come any closer, Mitch. You have to go. It’s not safe.”

  “You’re hurt.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

  “No,” he yelled. He lurched to his feet and swung his hand. Her phone went flying across the room and shattered against the counter. “You have to go.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re hurt.”

  Frank gave a soft little thump. Jason took a deep breath and tried not to think about the pain.

  “I’m fine. You need to leave.”

  She looked down at the axe and back up to his face. “You are not okay. Are you drunk? What the hell’s going on? What happened to your arm?”

  Frank pushed again. The pain swept up and black flakes of burned skin fell down.

  “I’m not drunk, but you have to leave. Right now. Go.”

  “Bullshit,” she said crossed the distance between them. She touched the side of his face. “What happened to your arm?”

  “There’s no time to explain. You need to get the hell out of here.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  He laughed and his words flowed out in a rush. “Fine. The devil lives in Baltimore. Not just a guy who thinks he’s the devil, but the original badass himself. He likes to play games, see?”

  Mitch staggered back against the counter. “Jason, stop—”

  “And one of those games is with ink. His tattoos aren’t just ink, though. They’re real and they come out after dark and eat things. This one ate a few of my neighbors’ pets. I thought it was the kid across the street, but—”

  “Stop—”

  “It wasn’t. He told me tattoo removal was a specialty and it is, except I have to beg him to remove it. When he does, he takes my skin, too. He likes to wear them around. I mean, he can’t exactly go outside as himself. He showed me what he looks like underneath. It’s not pretty—”

  She stepped forward, shaking her head. “This is crazy—”

  “You wanted to know. I’m telling you. I’m not going to beg him to take this away. I’m going to do it myself. You really need to leave so I can finish it. Frank isn’t going to stay inside much longer. I can feel him, underneath. Inside me.”

  But not just inside. A part of me, too. Twins born of darkness, trickery, and ink.

  “Jason, I—”

  His skin bubbled up, and the griffin exploded from his arm with a blur of ink, feathers, flesh and fur. It roared, the sound swallowing up Mitch’s scream, and landed, cat-sized, with a heavy thump on the table.

  “Get out!” Jason yelled.

  She stood immobile, her hands raised. The griffin hissed as it jumped off the table; true to its nature, it landed with grace, its muscles rippling under the amber-gold fur. Jason grabbed the axe and moved in front of Mitch. If he had to kill the griffin and himself to protect Mitch, he would. The griffin lifted its head and roared again. It expanded and grew. The scent of its dark animal musk covered the smell of burned flesh completely. The size of a small dog, then larger. German Shepherd-sized. It flapped its good wing. Frustration flashed in its eyes as it lifted its chest.

  It can’t get any bigger. It’s too hurt.

  It moved forward, dragging its ruined wing and swung one taloned forelimb. It sent the axe spinning out of his hand and hissed in triumph. The good wing flapped and pushed air against Jason’s face. The bad wing hung at an odd angle, the dark bronze a mess of black and char. It cocked its head and looked at Mitch with blazing eyes of green fire. It opened its beak and hissed again. It stalked closer, then away with hate in its eyes. Its back paws thudded on the floor.

  It’s playing with us. It can’t kill me either, but it wants Mitch. I see it in its eyes.

  The propane torch sat close to the edge of the table. Closer to them than to Fr—

  the griffin.

  It’s not Frank anymore. It never was.

  “Mitch, when I move, get the torch from the table and light it.”

  He moved toward the griffin. It raised one talon and growled. Mitch grabbed the torch and lit it, lightning fast.

  “Hand it to me,” he said.

  He lifted the torch and turned the lever to adjust the flame. Mitch stiffened against his back as the griffin advanced with a hiss.

  “Stop,” he said.

  The griffin turned its head and fixed one eye upon them. It took another step forward, flapping its good wing, and Jason lowered the flame close to his arm, close enough to feel the heat. The griffin growled but did not move closer.

  “Can you reach the axe?”

  She bent down behind him. The griffin moved closer. Too close. Its rancid, hot breath burned Jason’s eyes.

  “No, I can’t reach it,” she said.

  “Shit.”

  “Okay, give me the torch back.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll distract it.”

  “No way.”

  The griffin moved away, flicking its tail. The ruined wing twitched.

  “There isn’t another way,” Mitch said. She stepped around him, grabbed the torch with both hands and wrenched it away from him. “I don’t know what you’re going to do, just do it fast, okay?”

  She took two steps forward. The griffin lifted its chest and hissed. It advanced. Jason turned, grabbed for the axe. It lay on the floor, half under the kitchen table and half out, close to the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. He bent under the table, pushed a gardening spike out of the way and reached out.

  Mitch shrieked in anger, and pain flooded his left forearm. Huge blisters appeared on his skin. He reached out again. Too far away. Mitch yelled again. Blisters broke out on the first two fingers of his hand. The axe was too far away.

  No. Please, no.

  Mitch cried out in surprise and stepped back into him. He banged his head on the edge of the table. The griffin was too close now; he couldn’t reach the axe. Mitch bumped into him again, and he came down hard on his right palm, his thumb touching cool metal—the gardening spike.

  Mitch cried out again, in pain. Jason picked up the spike. The griffin growled, and another bite of pain gripped his back. Deep pain accompanied by the thick smell of roasting meat.

  Jason shoved the spike in his arm just above the elbow and dragged it across to the other side, using it like a knife. Blood poured down his arm and pain, brighter than sunlight, screamed in his skin. The rich stink of char and blood rose up and out of his arm.

  “No, no,” Mitch shouted.

  Sailor will not have my skin. He will not wear my skin.

  Jason moved the spike faster, tearing through skin and muscle like a knife through softened butter. All the way to the inner edge of his arm, then up, through the charred skin. Harsh grunts slid past his lips, dark, animal noises, but he didn’t stop. Another flare of pain, on his leg. His hand shook, but he didn’t let go of the spike. It tore through the skin. Almost to his shoulder. Over and then down. Down to the first cut. A rectangle.

  Mitch sobbed. “Jason.”

  He threw the spike down with a shout and reached his fingers in the top cut. The skin slipped out of his grasp. He dug his fingers in hard and tugged. Pain like fire. A wet squelching noise. He pulled. The skin lifted. He ripped it down.

  Tearing fabric. That’s all. Just fabric.

  All the way down to his elbow. Mitch shouted incoherencies. The griffin roared. The last bit of skin caught and held, and with a shriek of his own, he wrenched it free.

  “You want my skin, you son of a bitch. Here, have it,” he shouted.

  The skin dangled from his hand like a wet glove. His arm screamed fire and razor blades and barbed wire. A wave of gray flickered across his eyes and he shook his head.

  No, not yet. It’s not done yet.

  Jason turned and rose. Mitch held the torch out like a gun. “Give me the torch and get behind me,” he said.
>
  The griffin staggered from side to side. Its eyes rolled wildly back and forth, but it advanced. Its hiss held wild fury. Jason held out the dripping skin and lifted the torch. The griffin raised its head and opened its beak. No sound emerged. He held the flame close to the bottom of the skin. It blackened and charred, sizzling as it burned.

  Jason dropped the skin on the floor but didn’t take the torch away. The skin blistered and shriveled. A thick, noxious smell poured into the room. The smell of war. Of a thousand bodies trapped in a burning building. Jason gagged but didn’t stop. Mitch covered her mouth and nose with her hands. The griffin writhed from side to side with its beak open. Its talons flailed, the tail whipped back and forth in frantic arcs and its eyes dulled to a green haze. The griffin shrank down smaller and smaller until it was the size of a kitten. It turned in on itself and flattened, quivering and shaking on the floor like a possessed playing card. The kitchen filled with the sound of rushing wind, a high-pitched scream that built up and out and ended with a loud tearing noise. Then silence.

  The griffin was gone.

  10

  “Well, well, well. You have made quite a mess here.”

  Jason dropped the torch; he and Mitch whirled around in unison. Sailor stood in the doorway, dressed in his sailor skin, the doorknob a misshapen twist of metal with a trail of smoke rising up from the keyhole. “You do not mind that I dropped by without calling first, do you?” He shook his head. “Did you really think you would win this way? Others, many others, have tried the same. I like the torch, that was clever. Unfortunately, not clever enough.”

  “I don’t need you to take it away anymore. The game is over.”

  Sailor held out a piece of paper. “I still own you, body and skin. You signed the contract of your own free will. Those are the rules.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I might, however, consider a trade. Perhaps I could take this lovely woman in your place.”

  “No.”

  Sailor threw back his head. Mitch covered her ears as his laughter pealed out. Sailor crossed the room and grabbed Jason with both hands. “I told you I prefer my skin unscarred,” he said. Heat pushed its way inside; Jason’s arm burned as the skin knit itself back up. “Perhaps I should try it on for size.” The sailor skin slipped off into a pile of fabric and flesh, Mitch screamed and Sailor drew one finger from the center of Jason’s neck down to his groin. Jason collapsed to his knees as pain radiated out from his arm to every inch of his body—horrible, tearing pain. He looked up.

  His own face looked back.

  Two images—a whole Jason with wrong-colored eyes, a bleeding, raw Jason with right-colored eyes. Mitch backed away from both of them, her hands over her mouth, muffling her shrieks.

  The wrong Jason, a Sailor-Jason, turned his head in her direction and grinned, then a gravelly voice emerged from his lips. “Nothing quite like the feel of a new suit. How do I look?”

  The right Jason watched in horror; Mitch screamed again behind her hands. Sailor-Jason stepped to her side with short, awkward steps. “It will take a bit of time to break this one in,” he said and stroked Mitch’s cheek with a hand that rightfully belonged to Jason.

  Sailor turned around. “Oh dear, that must be terribly painful. Here, try this one. You cannot keep it forever, of course, but it will keep you warm.” He flicked his hand, and the sailor skin flew up and over—around—the not-Jason.

  Jason recoiled and fell back into the table. A stench poured over him in a wave—ashes, scorched earth, rotten flesh somehow still alive, and underneath it all, the salt tang of the ocean. He took a step forward and stumbled. The skin hung loose on his frame, an ill-fitting coat of horror.

  “Be careful, boy,” Sailor said. “That is one of my favorites. At least it was. I could get used to this one.” He touched Mitch’s cheek again.

  Jason took another step. “You can’t have her.”

  Sailor grinned, an expression turned macabre as the skin stretched across inhuman cheekbones. “Are you still clinging to a pretty fantasy that you have any control, boy? I will do what I want, when I want.”

  Jason stepped forward; the skin bunched at the ankles like a father’s suit on a child’s frame, and he fell. When he put out his hands to soften the impact, his raw flesh

  no, not flesh, but what’s underneath—unflesh

  slid against the sailor skin. He moaned aloud behind lips that tasted of smoke and despair. As Sailor’s laughter rang out again, Jason tried to pull off the terrible skin, but it wouldn’t budge. Then his

  no, not mine, his hands, Sailor’s hands

  met the rough edge of paper. The contract, the fine print, tucked away in the pocket of the sailor shirt and forgotten by the Sailor-Jason as he wrapped his arms around Mitch and pulled her close. Jason tried to grab the paper, but it slipped out of his grasp, sliding off the flesh dangling from the edge of his fingers. He grabbed a second time, pushing hard against the shifting skin as he pulled it from the pocket, angling his body away from Sailor and Mitch.

  It fell from his hand, swaying back and forth to land on the floor by his feet. He dropped to his knees and pressed one palm against one half of the contract, holding it in place as he grabbed a free edge. Mitch screamed, the sound cut off, and he ripped. A corner from the paper, a small, triangle-shaped piece, came loose. The skin around him shook and quivered. He tore another piece; the skin vibrated.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Sailor roared.

  Jason ignored him and lifted the paper to his mouth.

  I’m taking care of the fine print, you son of a bitch.

  Using his teeth, he bit off another piece and spit it out. The sailor suit slipped from his shoulders, his arms, his hands, taking the paper with it. “You will not win,” he said, pawing through the rumpled clothing and skin, holding back a scream as the raw unflesh of his fingers burst into hot jolts of pain. He found the paper, lost it again as the scalp fell back, covering his hand, then found it again. “You will not win!”

  Sailor stalked over with his rolling hips-before-legs walk and shoved him away. Jason’s body exploded in agony, but he crawled over to the sailor skin. Sailor batted him away, a cat playing with a mouse, smiling a warped Jason-grin.

  Jason pulled himself up, ignoring the pain. He ran forward, ducking an arm still wearing his real flesh. He stumbled, twisted around, righted himself and bent down. Sailor moved forward. Jason lifted the sailor skin with both hands and threw it in Sailor’s direction. The paper remained behind on the floor, tattered and bloodstained. Jason grabbed it and turned to face his own image, still wrapped around the wrong body.

  Sailor reached out. “You cannot do this,” he hissed.

  Despite the pain, Jason ripped another piece free from the contract. “Yes, I can.” He shredded the rest of the paper; the pieces fell from his ruined hands and burst into tiny flames before they reached the floor, turning the fine print into nothing but ash. Sailor grabbed Jason’s shoulders. Jason grabbed back and pulled at the flesh, his flesh. “Give me back my skin!” he yelled. He dug his fingers in tight. The skin unfolded, peeled back, revealing the nightmare hollows and planes of Sailor’s true face. Hands ending with curved, sharp nails pierced his exposed tendons, but Jason did not let go. Sailor’s eyes bored into his, his hot, reeking breath pushed into Jason’s face and his nails dug deep. Jason curled his fingers and pulled the rest of the skin free. Sailor’s nails flashed like knives in the air, but Jason threw the skin to the side and moved his body in between.

  “It is mine,” Jason said. “Our business is done.”

  The air sucked out of the room with a dull pop, replaced with a pulsing heat. Both skins rose in the air—a tornado blur of Jason-Sailor-Jason-Sailor-Jason-Sailor, flesh swirling into and around flesh, flapping like empty bags caught in a dry wind that reeked of pain and torment.

  Jason stepped back until he pressed into the wall. Sailor roared again, the sound stretching out into a hideous carousel squeal of horror.
He faded, first into a shadowy, monstrous figure, then to a vague, misshapen outline, then into insignificance—nothing—taking the sailor skin with him. Something wet and warm wrapped around Jason’s limbs—his own flesh settling back over muscle, fat, tendons and bone. The searing pain and heat vanished; the floor shook, then the air rushed back in with a wet, sucking noise.

  Jason sagged against the wall. The smell of spilled blood, charred paper and burned skin lingered in the room, but he didn’t care. He ran his hands over his arms and legs and face. The stink of Sailor remained, but underneath, his own smell pushed up to the surface.

  Mitch moved forward, stopped, then moved again. “Jason, is it you? Is it really you?” she sobbed.

  He closed the distance between them, wrapped his arms

  his real arms, his own arms

  around her, and pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her hair. “I promise, it’s me. It’s really me.”

  She pulled back, ran her fingers over his face, through his hair, and down his back, laughing and crying at the same time, then folded into his arms, her head resting just above his heart.

  And they stayed that way for a long time.

  11

  Inside his shadowed room of screams, John S. Iblis roared, and every bit of glass on Shakespeare Street, from light bulb to windowpane, shattered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Land Ho!

  1

  The warm spring day settled on Baltimore like a sheet shaken over a bed. Fluffy clouds dotted a sky so blue it was magical. Good magic, not dark. The sun hung high, half hidden in the cumulus. The kind of day that sent painters and poets outside, filled with the need to capture the perfection on canvas or paper. A day filled with promise and laughter.

  The air, carrying a hint of flowers and freshly cut grass, pushed across the face of the man kneeling by the gravesite. A handsome man, but not movie-star handsome. The kind of man you would want your daughter to marry, until you saw the shadows in his eyes.