At the Gates of Madness

by Shaun Meeks

  Josh laughed to himself, something he had not done since arriving in the wasted land, and knew that he was lying to himself if he didn’t think he was to blame at all. He stood on the edge of the abyss, staring into the nothing of this world he realized that this was where he belonged, in a place of nothing. After all, what had his life really amounted too? He had never helped a single person if the benefits to himself were not great; he had walked over the backs of so many others that were trying to succeed. He had raped women to get what he had wanted, and killed a man for no other reason than pride, so why shouldn’t he be here? Josh, who had once been the captain of the football team, a man that women desired, one of the most successful lawyers in New York was now where he belonged and had become a faceless janitor in the belly of Hell. How fitting for him.

  He only had one wish, that his father, the maker of the monster he had become, was also here somewhere, forced to clean demon’s toilets and homes, or better yet having to be the sex toy for some horrid monster with a lust for old man’s asses and torture. More so, he wished he could meet his father somewhere in the pits of Hell and give him back all the pain that he had so freely given Josh, but this was Hell and that would be heaven, so it was not to be.

  Josh looked down again at his face, his former self and let out a sigh. He was sick of holding onto his past, of the monster he was and wishing he could have been someone else. He felt sick with himself that he had kept the face for so long and had held onto it as though the old version of him, the one that had driven him to Hell, was a good person when he knew he wasn’t. He felt something growing inside him over the last few weeks that he had to let go of that life, that horrible person, so he did. He lifted that once handsome and sought after face up and shoved it into his mouth and began to chew. His teeth crunched down on the old dried skin, hearing it pop and crunch the way rawhide does as a dog eats it. Josh ignored the gagging feeling and ate away his former self, its salty flavor burning his tongue slightly as he chewed away the evil that he had been and then walked away from the abyss, back to the ramparts of his new eternal home.

  Treats

  As the sun slowly began to slip below the horizon, kissing the lightly clouded sky with shots of purple, orange and red, as though it was on fire, the day began losing its daily battle with the early evening and the upcoming night. The sounds of children screaming began to echo through the tree lined side streets of the small suburban town, their sound of their terror finding its way into each house. Ira peeked out the curtained bay window, doing his best to stay hidden from anything that might be lurking out there. He hands were steady as he gazed out onto the darkening street and saw the vampires, witches and other unnamable monsters hiding from the light of the street lamps that were just beginning to glow, creating shadows near the trees that lined the road and made perfect hiding spots for the beasts. He let the curtains fall back, hoping that nobody had seen him, but knew that eventually they would come to him, banging on his door, regardless if they had seen him or not. This happened every year and it was no surprise that the day had finally come, though he had prepared himself for it as he had been doing for over fifty decades now. Preparation was the key to these things. Better safe than sorry.

  Ira walked towards the foyer, his legs groaning at him in protest, his movements slower and slower these days. He woke up each morning close to four and could feel his age creeping across his joints more and more, feeling the tight grip of age digging claws into him, seeming to bear down and take from him every last bit of fight he thought he could muster. He could feel the hints of his arthritis kicking in; his knees, hips and back feeling as though they were crying out with each step, making him curse his arch nemesis he called old age. Throughout his life Ira had never been able to picture himself like this, the slow walking old man that as a child he would to make fun of, but here he was, years later, the butt of his own joke. Some days he would think of the running just like he used to, moving like a swift gazelle through fields and the woods that had been behind his families old farm house, making him long for those days. There were days when his arthritis was particularly bad and he would sit in his living room, downing pills and drinking tea as he pictures his tall, lean body cutting through the brisk morning air, running just for the sake of running. How he missed the speeding wind he felt on his cheeks as his legs carried him along, feeling as though he was actually slicing the air with his body by how fast he was going, how swift he was. Now, he felt as though the air itself had finally caught up to him and was getting his revenge by squeezing around him as tight as it could so that he never ran or even moved again.

  Outside, a howling scream echoed through the small tree lined streets, making him forget the problems of his warring body and turned back to the problem at hand. Ira guessed that the howl probably belonged to a werewolf, but he was ready for that. Tonight, he was ready for anything. Picking his weapon up, made of ornate silver, he put his hand to the door, trying his best not to see the new liver spots that had recently popped up. He took a slow deep breath and told himself not to get to riled up, that everything would be fine, then decided to open the door. Before he could open it though, he heard scratches and knocks that made him freeze for a moment. He heart felt as though it froze in mid beat, thinking that he had had the upper hand, that he was going to open the door before any of them had gotten to it, but he was wrong. Knowing there was no point in hesitating any longer; Ira opened the door fully and thrust his weapon towards the waiting creatures.

  Before him stood a werewolf, the creature’s hair bursting through rips in its jeans and t-shirt. It growled at him, one clawed hand up raised and spoke.

  “Trick or treat.”

  The werewolf looked down and saw that the old man was already prepared with mini chocolate bars in a giant silver bowl.

  “Help yourself, Wolfie.” Ira said with a smile on his face.

  The boy in the werewolf costume nodded, his oversized mask flopping up and down. “Cool!” He reached into the bowl and grabbed two bars. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Stern.” Then the werewolf ran off and met with a vampire and what looked like a boxcar hobo at the next house.

  Ira stepped out on to his porch with the bowl of candy bars and sat in his old wicker rocking chair. The chair creaked as he sat down; making a sound that was similar to that of his own knees. He winced slightly, then sat back and let out a grunt. He hated the feeling that being old brought and sitting watching all these children running up and down the street, free of the restraints that age brought, made him feel even older. He knew that he wasn’t that old, not ready for the grave just yet, and that there were things he could do to revitalize himself, but he was doing his best to live a normal and proper life. The days of living with his secret pleasure were long gone, even though that was the only thing that truly made him feel young and alive again.

  As child after child came up to him, repeating the old mantra of Trick or Treat, Ira thought back to the time when he was young, when his body was still full of pep and vinegar and the memories made him long for those days. He hated that fact that his mind wanted to run again, to jump and do all the things that in youth that he had taken for granted. His body just refused to do it, denying its master his wishes. He hated old age for the way it made him feel so much weaker and more helpless than he had ever been before.

  Part of him wondered that if marriage would have made growing old easier, that if he had found that right woman to share his life with, things would have been different. Does finding someone to grow old with make that experience more tolerable, easier to accept? Ira had never found a woman that could love him for who he was, then again, he had never really looked all that hard. There were other things in his life that took precedence over love, and those things were what Ira believed made it impossible to be loved. He knew that people in this town must look at him and wonder what it was that made him tick, to have always lived alone, not have any companions, and not even have ever kissed a woman, let alone sleep with one. When he
was younger though, there was just never any time for him to bother with things like that, with love, relationships and the stress that come with it. He had much better and wonderful things that he would lose himself in, things that most people just would never understand or accept. Some people might feel bad for him that he never was able to find or share a life with a woman, but that just wasn’t something that Ira cared all that much about. As far as he was concerned, there were better things than women in this world

  “How are you doing tonight, Mr. Stern?” A woman asked him and pulling him from his thoughts.

  Ira looked up and saw Julie Brammer standing there with her daughter, who apparently had dressed up for Halloween and a prostitute version of a witch. He smiled at them and gave his usual response.

  “As good as an old fool like me can be.”

  Ira watched as she nodded and pulled her daughter away from the creepy old man that he knew he was seen as. He could try and talk nice to all the people in town, be the happy Santa-like old man, but he didn’t have the energy it took to keep a mask like that on his face. He didn’t really have the look of the jolly, old man either because of his height and how skinny he was. He was tall and lanky, gaunt faced with a yellow tint to his skin and he looked more like a creepy scarecrow that he did Old Saint Nick. When he smiled, his stained teeth showed to anyone that was still making eye contact with him, and he knew from the looks on their faces that his smile would not win over the hearts of a single one of them. Not that he smiled all that much. What was there to smile about these days? Wars all over the television, the economy was constantly getting worse, violence and drugs around every city corner and he was being beaten down by Father Time. Were those things to smile about?

  Well, there were things that still made him happy, though it was rare that he was able to indulge them anymore. That was another problem with being old, not being able to enjoy all the guilty pleasures that you can when you are young. His little weakness that he missed made him long for the old days when he was a spry little buck. He was also trying his best to keep that little addiction at bay, even though some days it really was unbearable to resist. He would try though, after all, if smokers could do it, he could too.

  Looking down at his hands that were once strong and tanned, he saw they were now yellowish and freckled with liver spots. To him, his hands looked like yellow wax stretched over twigs. How he longed to be the young man who had a wicked curve ball, or could throw a football eighty yards, instead of the man now that could barely grip a baseball.

  “Oh stop being a whiner.” He whispered to himself as he watched three teenage boys walking up the stairs of his house towards the porch where he sat. All three boys were wearing jeans and football jerseys.

  “Trick or treat!” They all laughed and Ira gave the trio a sour look.

  “And what are you boys supposed to be? Those don’t really look like costumes to me.” It was one of the things about Halloween that Ira truly hated, when people too old to go around asking for candy not only did so, but did it without even wearing a costume.

  “We’re jocks.” They laughed and two of the boys exchanged high fives.

  “Aren’t you always jocks?”

  “Just give us some fucking candy, you old piece of shit.” The taller of the boys said through gritted teeth. Ira knew the boy, Tony Stitt, the son of a wife beater and alcoholic and seemed to following in the man’s footsteps. Ira gave him a look then nodded at the bowl.

  “You want some, bowl’s right there.” Ira told him and looked over at the bowl. “Help yourself.”

  The boys rushed forward and each scooped up two handfuls. As they did, Ira noticed something, a scent coming off the Stitt boy that he was very familiar with. It was the same smell that he had been longing for a while now, that he fought himself to avoid as much as possible, the same that he had been thinking about only a few moments before. He closed his eyes as the teen was leaning towards him, biting back the urge rising up inside and breathing in as much of the scent as he could. He felt his mouth salivating from the glorious odor that found his nose, memories flooding his mind and he felt something stirring in him. It had been so long since he had smelled that wondrous aroma last and had to fight himself from simply acting as his body wanted him to.

  The boys stepped back away from him and as they did, they all caught the look on Ira’s face, his eyes closed, licking his dry lips in an almost sexual way. When Ira opened his eyes he was greeted with a look of disgusted on their faces as they moved away from him.

  “What a fucking creeper.” The fattest of the three boys said as they walked away from Ira’s house.

  “No kidding.” Stitt said and gave a final glace back at the old man, and Ira could see the hatred on the boy’s face. Ira smiled at him and gave him a wink and the Stitt boy shot him a look that was so full of hate and disgust. He just hoped that was enough to make him come back later on.

  *

  Like every other year before it, Halloween ended with a whimper, the kids that had been running wildly up and down the streets slowly petered off until there were none left. Ira took his empty bowl back into the house, turned off his porch light and sat in the living room watching old horror movies that the local station was playing. He made a tea for himself while a favorite of his, Live Feed played mindlessly on his modest television, but he paid no mind to either. His mind was elsewhere, still thinking about Stitt and the smell that had come from him.

  Not being a man of many guilty pleasures in his life, Ira was usually good at self-control, but there was little he could do from keeping his mind off the matter. He had lived his life free of alcohol and drugs, had never even once put a cigarette to his lips, but there were other addictions, to some things that would be unimaginable, but to him they were things that haunted his dreams. Ira had first delved into it when he was a young man, no more than seventeen years old, living on his own already, only a year after moving out of his parent’s house. Discovering it had filled him with a guilt he had never known before, like the first time a young boy discovers that he touches himself he can cum, but then when he does, he feels shame, as though he is doing something so unnatural and that if he’s caught, his foster parents will punish him. Ira had felt that same way, only he hadn’t been afraid of his adoptive parents finding out, he had been afraid of the police discovering it, which would be so much worse.

  Yet, he was never discovered. Not that first time, nor any of the numerous times after that. He had lived his life with his secret addiction and nobody had ever known about what he had done, or what he really was. The trick was, not being stupid about it, not to be greedy or looking too hard for what he wanted, but letting it find him, come to him and then he could choose if it was safe enough to make a move. And they usually did present themselves to him eventually, although the last time he had been able to have it was almost a years and a half ago when he was visiting the city. That’s why he hoped, as foolish as he felt it was, that the boy would come back and then he could ask to have what the teen was carrying with him, if it was what he had been longing for. At that, Ira laughed at himself, the foolish thoughts of an old man rattling around his head almost made him seem pitiful.

  Still, there was a glint of hope that held his thoughts to it.

  When he had first discovered his addiction, found the one thing in his life that had made him happy, he also found that made it impossible to keep a good job, to be social or to find love. His discovery was something that bred shame and fear that someone would find out what he was doing, what he was. If you become an alcoholic, a sex addict or get hooked on some hard drug, there were programs and groups out there that would take you in and help you find your way out of the pit you might find yourself in. These groups helped you come to terms with the darkness that lived within you and made you face the demons of your past that had caused you to go down the road that led to your addiction.

  What Ira had found, there was no group for him, no twelve step program that would hel
p him get better. He had actually attended AA in hopes that what they said there would be a universal theme that would help him move away from his weakness. Although he had gone to these twelve step programs, watch show like Dr. Phil and Intervention all with a hope that by doing so he would find something, hear something that would tell him what he needed to hear to make his addiction easier to deal with, a way to self-cure himself. None of that had worked out. These people that he saw were addicted to a drug, or to alcohol, to something that altered their perceptions of reality. They took drugs to escape from was wrong with themselves and their lives, escaping from abuse, poverty and mental disease. That wasn’t the case with Ira though, he wasn’t escaping anything. This was a way for him to survive, a necessity to get through life, and nobody ever talked about that at those meetings, so to him, they were useless.

  Over the years, Ira came to realize that he would never really find help. Not only was there no group that could help, but he began to realize that it was no longer an addiction, but a necessity to survive. He didn’t need it every day, or even every week. There were times that two whole years would pass by before he felt the urge sweep over him. He would feel steadily nervous every day, unable to think of little else, until he could take it no longer and he would go look for a fix.

  It had been only a year and a bit this time, yet when Ira had smelt that the Stitt boy had what he was looking for, he knew it would be no use denying it. He had to get a hold of the boy and the sooner the better. He looked down at his frail hands again, wondering if they would be able to do what they had to do, if he had enough strength left in his twisted hands to do it, when he heard a noise coming from the kitchen.

  Ira slowly stood up, his legs creaking and his back crying out and again and he heard a shuffling from the kitchen area. He turned the television off and walked towards it, felt a breeze coming from the room, wondering if he had left the window open and some cat or coon had crawled in looking for a free meal. Last spring, a squirrel had managed to get into the house and tried to nest there, that was until an exterminator came and took care of it. Ira looked over at his phone, wondering if he would need it, then stopped.