The Black Chronicle

by Oldrich Stibor

  Running the magazine had proven to be a non-stop job. A job which started to feel more and more like proper work. An acclimation to which she had skipped over entirely on her youth.

  But it was all she had now and for the most part, she was happy with her life, despite how hectic things got. Truth be told it was the only thing keeping her from feeling more alone than she already did. How had a women like her ended up so staggeringly single anyway? Did the whole ‘scream queen’ thing scare away the good ones? She thought of Ryan at home in his parent’s basement, thinking of her and thrusting furiously at his Avatar Fleshlight.

  She picked up the stack of papers and envelopes and a query letter she’d had Erin print out because staring at a computer screen for too long gave her a headache, and began to organize them into piles.

  Every issue featured two short stories usually from unpublished or new writers. It made her feel good to provide a little boost to amateur writers if she could and, of course, if they deserved it. Mary knew how difficult it was. She’d once said, writing was a lot like sex—everyone thinks they are good at it, but the people you share it with are usually too biased or too kind to tell if you’re awful. And while most of the stories they received made awful seem like a compliment, choosing amongst them was still one of her favourite parts of the job. She was tired, emotionally as much as physically, and felt like a good scare, so decided to tackle that job first.

  She got no farther than the first page into several of the stories before finally coming across one that held her attention. It was a very sad twelve-pager about a man who may or may not have been haunted by the ghost of his dead wife. She had died in a car accident and he wasn't sure if the tragedy had simply unhinged him psychologically or if the sightings were in fact real. But being broken and lost without her he refused to seek medical attention because it didn't matter to him if it was real or not; he just wanted to see her again. The question of the ghost’s existence was never answered and Mary found the ambiguity of the story heartbreaking and beautiful. She immediately decided to buy it.

  She worked her way through a bottle of red while working her way through the pile and it was nearly a full two hours later before she made her second choice. A very cute story about a witty teenage vampire that made her laugh out loud from the very first page, so it was no fault of the story when she started to doze off in the chair. It had simply been a long day and the wine had siphoned off the last of her energy. A thin trail of drool on her cheek woke her, officially signalling bedtime.

  Wiping it from her face she dog-eared the page she’d left off on and dropped the story back onto the table. Just as she found the effort to get up to stumble to bed one of the envelopes caught her eye. It was black and blank save for the name “Mister” written across it in white-out. She recognized the name, of course. Mister was the serial killer who famously painted himself white before breaking into people’s homes, abducting some and killing others.

  He had spawned a copycat, Victor Matherport, who also dressed up in white and butchered people in their homes. Or Matherport had spawned Mister. Either way, it was terrifying living in the same vicinity in which the crimes had taken place. If someone had submitted a short story about him, it was in very poor taste. There were many people who objected to the horror genre claiming that it was a glorification of violence. She didn’t see it that way. To Mary, horror was, ironically, about life and the primal need to preserve it, but she understood how people could be of a different opinion. Yet even then, she did not condone the exploitation of real-life tragedy. The Mister killings were a horrific tragedy and she would not allow that to be twisted into some sort of entertainment. There had to be a line somewhere and that was where she drew it.

  Still, the envelope piqued her curiosity. Sitting back down, she tore open the flap and reached inside. It was empty, save for a disc. She opened her MacBook, inserted the disc into the slot and waited.

  The first image was a static shot of a perfectly white room. A good minute passed by before anything changed. Then she could hear the sound of footsteps somewhere off-screen.

  She thought she knew what was coming. This wasn’t the first time—and probably wouldn’t be the last—a fan had made her a video with no other motive than to perhaps…what? Scare her? Impress her? It was usually a homemade short, based on one of her movies or even just a droopy-eyed teenager professing his love for her. Sure enough, the person off-screen finally stepped into frame dressed head to toe in white. His face, even his eye brows, all coloured white. Immediately she began to feel uncomfortable. There was something very eerie about the way he moved. Each step was tentative; his body slithered at the spine, his eyes burned madly straight at her. Somehow she knew that this was a very disturbed man.

  Then, very slowly, he lifted his white gloved hand and covered his mouth with it as he spoke. “I know who you are Mary. More importantly. I know why you are… I have a surprise for you,” the creep said and walked off camera.

  Mary could feel fear wrapping around her like a hungry boa constrictor. She was no stranger to this sort of thing. Being who she was she tended to attract the attention of creeps world-wide, but this was different. Maybe it was that she was tired, but for some reason she had a strong and sudden urge to turn the video off, which only meant, to someone like her, that, that was precisely what she could not do.

  After a short time he returned pushing someone bound up in a wheelchair. The captive was dressed in a black robe and a black sack had been tied around their head. From underneath the hood Mary could hear the soft whimper of what sounded like a young girl.

  It was official. She was scared shitless and for a brief moment she applauded the man for being able to achieve that. Bravo nut job. You just earned yourself a restraining order.

  “There’s a reason you’re attracted to death Mary. There is a reason why you feel most alive when you are scared or witnessing suffering.”

  The man continued getting closer to the camera, keeping his mouth hidden behind his gloves all the while he spoke, “You know this is all a dream. It’s Maya, as the Indians call it, and you’re just trying to wake up.”

  She made a mental note to Wikipedia “Maya” once this was done.

  He then walked over to the person in the wheelchair. She could see this little production going downhill from there. He would remove the hood and maybe use a cheap prop knife to pretend as though he was cutting his prisoner’s throat. You could even get ones which left a streak of faux blood behind when you pressed it against skin. Or maybe, if they were true slasher film makers, they had forgone that purchase altogether and instead were just going to go with a good ole’ fake strangling.

  As the Mister character got to his captive he turned towards the camera one last time and his closed mouth spread into a Cheshire grin that made Mary’s skin crawl.

  He removed the hood and Mary’s life was never the same again.

  The girl in the wheelchair was her, niece Cindy.

  Mary gasped, struggling to pull the air back into her shocked and deflated lungs.

  Cindy began to cry, which only made Mister chuckle, as though he’d found it cute.

  “Shhh shh shhh, my baby. We haven’t even started yet,” he said stroking her hair soothingly. “Say hello to your auntie.”

  And that confirmed it. It was definitely Cindy, her little sister’s daughter. It was clear by the petrified look on Cindy's face that this was no joke. She tried to remember when she had last spoken to her but before she could recall the memory, the man who she knew then was the real Mister, pulled a pair of scissors from his pocket and cut off Cindy's robe. Once she was completely exposed he then produced a pair of pliers from somewhere off-screen.

  “Oh no, oh no, please don't,” Mary pleaded pointlessly.

  Cindy began to cry as Mister snipped at the air around her face with the tool.

  Mister latched onto Cindy's lip with the pliers and slowly pulled down on it until it tore and bled. Mary looked away, feeling the
urge to puke slowly crawl up her throat like a rodent being smoked from its hole. She vomited painfully on the coffee table and when she looked back to the screen Mister had released Cindy and seemed to be admiring the red and swollen mutilation left by his handiwork. Cindy's shrieking changed into a low and guttural groaning.

  “Shut up!” Mister screamed and backhanded her across the face, causing her to recoil so sharply from the blow it looked as though it had nearly broken her neck. She slumped over, her eyes unfocussed and fluttering. “That sound is disgusting…Never…make it…again.”

  Mister then took a moment to compose himself before turning back towards the camera and covered his mouth again as he spoke.

  “This is all for you Mary. It's a gift. I know you don’t understand yet, but you will. All medicine leaves a bad taste in your mouth, my love. So these things must be. But it will all become clear in time. If you go to the police. If you tell anyone. I will kill her. I will kill her in the most creative and painful way I can think of. And trust me. I will know. I know more then you could possible realize…I’ll be seeing you.”

  And with that he reached towards the camera as though he were reaching straight for her throat. The recording stopped.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mister saw the contents of this world, its people, places, and things, as being much like the icons on the desktop of his computer. They were shortcuts, so to speak, to something more real, more purposeful or useful that existed within the physical representation of the thing itself.

  A tree for instance, was not just a tree. It was a representation, a file name, an image, which held inside of it all the contents of something more real, more true than the mere physical manifestation of the tree. Inside that folder was everything that made up the bark, the wood, the leaves and the fibres and the very molecules that were the building blocks of these things. The file contained all the various uses of the tree as well—the oxygen it created through photosynthesis, the shade it provided, the fruits it grew, the nutrients and various medicinal uses achieved by boiling its organic material down into teas and powders. But even all these things were shortcuts. Files within files which all pointed back to something much older, something much larger. These things all served a purpose and were helpful in some way; in essence it was an indication of love. A great cosmic provisional love which pointed all the way back to the source. To God. Which is to say, to Himself. The tree existed because he existed.

  Sitting cross-legged and naked, in a room lit only by a single candle on the floor in front of him, he thought of trees, places, things, people. He thought of all the contents of the earth, and the earth itself; the great tapestry of life of all things seen and unseen, good and not good, and how they were all entwined. No, not how they were entwined—existed as a singular entity.

  With his arms resting palms up across his thighs, he lightly touched his middle fingers to his thumbs and tried to find his centre. It was so easy to get pulled astray mentally while considering such things.

  This was the only way he knew of reaching God. By delving deep into himself, past the thoughts that arose in his mind second by second, past the sensory information which competed for his attention and past the memories which tried to define him. But he was more than his memories and his feelings and his senses and his thoughts. So much more.

  I am not my thoughts.

  A deep breath.

  I am not my senses.

  A deep breath.

  I am not my feelings.

  A deep breath.

  I am not my appetites.

  A deep breath.

  I am not my memories.

  A deep breath.

  I am. I am. I am. I am.

  Breathing deeply from his diaphragm Mister opened his mouth and gave voice, in what meagre way he could, to the essence of his existence.

  “Oooommmmm. Oooommmmm.”

  And after sometime he came to, or at least approached, the centre of himself. The nothing and everything which existed beneath the identity he presented outwardly: the ‘I am’-ness shared by all things.

  He had learned these techniques of meditation many years ago, when he’d still been searching, before he’d become free…or, more accurately, when he’d been less free then he was now.

  He had sampled every religion the world had to offer. He had gazed at the many-faceted, beautifully cruel, and gaudy faces of the divinities Man had worshipped and saw in their eyes, only Man staring back. Only a reflection of the self. Jesus and the Devil and Krishna and Ra and Buddha were all only expressions of the various faculties of Man's soul and the deeper one looked, the longer one sought the truth, the more he was brought back to himself again. The trap was perfect. The illusion was sublime. Truly sublime.

  It was only fate’s plan that had opened his eyes, and now that they were open he would not look away from the truth, no matter how ugly it may be, no matter how cruel the test God had set before him. If that was the path to Him, then so be it.

  He could feel his heartbeat quicken, his muscles tensing slightly. He was getting upset and he couldn’t allow that. That would be a failure of the exercise.

  Mister took a deep calming breath and focused on the candle in front of him. The flame danced back and forth, animated by the gentle breeze of his breath.

  Finally satisfied his emotions were in check and without taking his eyes off the candle, he reached over to a platter next to him and placed it in front of him.

  A whimper in the darkness broke his concentration but he tried not to react to it right away. Then once he was ready, he calmly lifted his eyes to Cindy who was tied to an altar of wood and iron he had constructed just for her. He had combed her long blond hair neatly and tied all those pretty golden strands with cute pink bows. He took casual stock of her firm youthful body, naked save for the multicoloured knee-high socks he had given to her.

  “What did I tell you Cindy?” Mister asked, his voice devoid of emotion or inflection.

  Cindy tried to answer but each time she opened her mouth a big wet sob escaped from it.

  “What. Did. I. Tell you?”

  “N—not a sound.”

  “That’s right. You’re being a naughty girl and I shall have to punish you for it later.”

  “No, please! Please don’t!” she exploded.

  “Shhh, my dear. Shhh,” he said, lifting a finger to his lips. “Don’t make it any worse for yourself.”

  She nodded frantically and bit her bottom lip to keep herself from sobbing. Better a little pain now than what he might do to her later.

  “What’s rule number two sweetheart?...Rule number two?”

  “No closing my eyes. No looking away.”

  “Very good cupcake! Very good!”

  Pleased with his pet he diverted his attention to the platter in front of him and the human kidney resting on it. He picked up the heavy slippery organ in his hand and jostled it up and down a bit, gauging its weight.

  Cindy watched as he sniffed at it like a dog sniffing at road kill and then bit into it with sickening enthusiasm.

  The meat was tough and he was having a hard time with it. He took the organ in both palms and forced it against his upper teeth which finally helped him breach the rubbery membrane around it. Once he had a good grip with his teeth he pulled down hard before snapping his head away from it with a bloody mouthful.

  Cindy whimpered again and this time Mister’s eyes darted up to her, hot and full of hate, and stayed there. The blood from the kidney smeared across his lips and cheeks like the make-up of some demonic clown. Chewing the gamey meat Mister looked his little pet up and down, from her cute little cunt back to her pretty little face, amused at how hard she was trying not to cry. He wondered if this snack would merely whet his appetite.

  Chapter 10

  Conference Room B was a large room on the main floor of the ANN headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. Around the table sat a panoply of network execs, producers, and a smattering of journalists. In an inconspicuous c
hair mid-table sat the ever-cordial embodiment of professionalism, three-time Emmy winner Richard Lansdown.

  “Somalian Pirates are, as they say, old news,” Richard declared between sips of his Toffee Nut latte.

  “It’s been in the public eye before but what hasn’t?” a mid-level producer volleyed back.

  “That’s true. There’s still more mileage there. ‘Somalian pirates. Are they still a threat?’”

  “A four-part mini-series on Somalian pirates? Are you joking?”

  “What about Pirates in general. There actually is still a lot of pirate activity taking place around the world.”

  “We're not going with fucking pirates,” Richard laughed.

  This meeting had been called to workshop a topic for Richard’s forthcoming special mini-series. As per his contract, he had four hour-long segments blocked off annually for a mini series. His previous series had covered such apropos topics as: Listeriosis: Mystery or cover-up?”; “American Jihad: The enemy under our noses”; and “Who is Molly?: The truth about designer drugs in America.” While there was a whole industry of journalists who would have killed for four hours of special programming on ANN, Richard had only opted to fill two of the previous year’s hours with an admittedly half-assed special on the Tea Party.

  Maybe it was because he had just turned fifty-nine, bringing him within uncomfortable proximity to his “golden years” and, beyond that, his mortality. Or maybe it was because he had only three years left on his contract, which he was fairly sure would not be renewed. Or maybe it was just because he was bored to death. But he suddenly felt an urge to cover something important, to do something big and bodacious with the time left in his career, which certainly did not include working on Somalian pirates.

  “What about serial killers?” Andrew Presley asked. Presley was the head honcho’s golden boy. A Harvard alum who was so obtusely liberal that he started to double back around to right-wing bigotry, which made him, in Richards opinion, twice as ignorant as those hateful religious republicans. He was the kind of kid who also had a well-thought out, seemingly pre-scripted opinion on everything under the sun, and Richard fucking hated him.