by Dorian Dawes
Dayabir watched him for a moment. A realization hit him. "The book was always yours. You're descended from Hendraick."
Malcolm smiled and flipped another page. "Technically, but not officially. Gregory was my father. The maid that fled the farm with stories of spooks and haunts, my mother."
Dayabir raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. "Not possible. That'd make you …?"
"One crusty old buzzard," Malcolm said with a bark of hoarse laughter. "She never talked about my father much, only about the horrible things he did to her and some of the weird shit he was involved in. Wouldn't be surprised if it was his ghost that came back later and killed my half-brother and his children."
"Why is this so important to you?" Dayabir took another step forwards. "What are you trying to do?"
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. "Are you a sympathetic person? A kind one? The type who sees suffering and tries to end it?"
"Where I can, yes."
"I'm not supposed to be here." Malcolm sighed. He looked weary. "I'm not supposed to exist. As it stands, I have no right to live."
"Everyone has a right to live."
Malcolm clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You're charmingly naive. Gregory is only kind of my father. No … there was another, and Mom talked about him a lot. He helped her run from the farm. He got her this place. After that, he fucked right off.
"I've done some research about him, especially as I grew older and my body changed." His tongue slid over that word in a way that made Dayabir feel like spiders were crawling along his spine. "Couldn't find anything on him but stories, old stories about beings that slipped through the membrane between worlds. Explorers and manipulators, awful creatures too hideous to be believed, each with their own incomprehensible goals and ambitions.
"Some religious types might call them demons; others, gods. I didn't believe it at first, didn't want to. My mother certainly tried to raise me in a way that was normal, but even she couldn't help but look on me in terror as she died. The growths were impossible to explain otherwise. I do have such terrible skin.
"It's only gotten worse. I feel something inside me. It's mean and it's unnatural and it is screaming to get out. I'm old, older than I look. Hung myself once; slit my wrists another time. I anchored myself to the bottom of the Stithyan River, only to wait several months unable to breathe, unable to die. That thing won't let me."
Malcolm finally found the page he was searching for. He tapped it several times and laughed. He used a withered flower on the table to mark the page and closed the book, tucking it under his arm.
"No more of that," he said, chuckling. "No more suffering. Tonight, I kill it for good."
Dayabir stood in front of him. "I won't let you hurt yourself or anyone else." His voice was weak, but he clenched his fist.
Malcolm stepped forwards till he was inches from Dayabir's face. His smile returned, wider and meaner than before. Blood started dripping from the old man's gums. He gnashed his teeth. Dayabir flinched. He thought he saw something slither lightning-quick beneath Malcolm's skin, dashing from his throat and up around his forehead. It was gone before he even had a chance to comprehend what he'd just witnessed.
"You're about seventy years too late," Malcolm hissed. "The thing dies tonight. The machine is finished and I have Daddy's book. At the very least, you will witness my ascension. If you are kind, can you do this for me?"
Dayabir gulped and backed away. "I don't want to watch you hurt yourself."
"I am already hurting!" Malcolm screamed, his voice booming and shaking the rafters. "My existence is pain! More will be hurt still if I am allowed to go on living and hurting. If you would not bear witness to my final hours on this fragile fucking planet, then leave!"
Dayabir turned his head away. He took several deep breaths. "I don't know how much of this I can handle, if any of it at all. But … if you're that lonely, I'll stay."
Malcolm backed away. He nodded. "You aren't weak, you know. That thought has been running through your head since you've got here. You tell yourself otherwise, but you don't believe it, not yet. Now come. I want to die."
* * *
Malcolm led him outside to a storm cellar. The rain had abated somewhat but thunder still rumbled in the distance. The flickering lantern created an eerie glow against the cabin walls. Malcolm gestured for Dayabir to hold onto it while he undid the heavy padlock and chain wrapped around the doors. The rusted hinges groaned as the double doors opened like a cavernous maw. Malcolm descended into the depths. Dayabir followed behind.
"Stay there!" Malcolm barked sharply. "I'll return in a moment."
Even with the flickering lamp, Dayabir could barely see in front him. He was aware of the dankness of the cellar, and the cool stone wall beneath his hand. There was a loud echoing clang, and the slow whir of machinery humming to life.
An emerald light appeared in the center of the room revealing a black obelisk connected to the ceiling by clear tubules that pulsed with an unknown black liquid. The walls of the room were lined with a series of panels and controls. They flickered with strange glowing symbols and runes. Dayabir recognized a few from the pages of the book.
As the light gradually filled the room, revealing more of the obelisk from the shadows, Dayabir gasped. Leroy. He'd been stripped naked. Flaps of his skin were being held open by wires, leaving the muscle tissue beneath exposed to the air. His body was fixed to a table crudely held aloft by thick heavy chains. A small ebony pyramid protruded from a gory wound in his chest.
Leroy slowly lifted his head to look at Dayabir, somehow still alive despite his grievous wounds. The black sludge from the tubes filled his eyes so that they were nothing but an abyss staring back at him. Leroy grinned. The sludge stained his teeth and dripped into his mouth, mixing with his blood.
"No!" Dayabir screamed. He clutched a hand over his mouth, stumbling backwards.
Malcolm ignored him. He stood between Dayabir and the obelisk and laid the book gently on the ground, open to the bookmarked page. He tore his shirt from his body in one swift motion and a foul odor filled the cellar.
A mouth opened on the wrinkled, discolored skin and shrieked, its shrill, inhuman voice echoing off the cellar walls. The skin began writhing and pulsing, forming tentacles that whipped about at the air. Multiple eyes began to form, each bloodshot and vengeful.
"Sacrifices must be made!" Malcolm yelled.
Dayabir screamed. No more. No more hurting. He threw the lantern at Malcolm's back. It shattered and oil and fire spilled across the old man's body. Malcolm howled, but no cries were so loud as the beast's inside.
Malcolm's screams gave way to hideous laughter. More tentacles burst from his flesh and wrapped spiked, toothy tendrils about the obelisk, hugging the machine tightly to itself. Dayabir scooped the book from the ground. He pressed it close to his chest and watched for a brief second in wide-eyed, open-mouthed horror before he fled.
He emerged panting from the cellar just as another burst of sparks and fire erupted from behind him. An explosion rocked the cellar as the cabin erupted into flames. Dayabir didn't look back, not even once. He saw briefly a looming blackness appear in his rear-view mirror; great stalks like trees obscured the burning cabin from his vision. Something large moved and lurked within the Black Goat Woods.
Dayabir drove as fast as he could. His head was throbbing. Pain, endless amounts of pain, and the feeling that his lungs were closing together. No amount of breathing would stave off this attack. He was losing it. He could feel himself slipping even as his grip around the steering wheel tightened.
He lost control as he veered sharply around the corner and into a slick pile of mud. The car slid violently off the road, slamming full speed against the base of an oak. The windshield shattered. He fell forwards, banging his head against the steering wheel. He was unconscious within seconds.
* * *
Gloria waited in his hospital room. One hand held the book in her lap while the other moved her thumb across Dayabi
r's fingers waiting for him to wake up. He woke slowly, vision blurred.
"You picked a fine night to drive out into the country," she said. "How are you feeling?"
"Everything hurts." He winced. "Gloria … there was this man named Malcolm."
"We can discuss it later," she said. "You talked enough of it in your sleep that I was able to glean some of what happened. I warned that you'd have these brushes with evil. I'm just sorry it happened so soon."
"Leroy …"
Gloria nodded her head. "I'm sorry. He's still missing. The police are doing all they can."
"They won't find him," Dayabir murmured. "He's dead. That thing killed him."
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Welcome to Wakefield."
She held his hand firmly in hers while he cried.
Photographs
The only parties Kara enjoyed were usually ones that consisted of a dwarf cleric, an elven ranger and a gnome sorcerer, and dice being rolled. The other kind of party, the one that included sweaty peers drunk in a small dank house on the edge of town, put her on edge. She regretted accepting the invite the moment she stepped in the door.
It was a small party, at least. Someone had a hard-on for The Smiths and was playing a "best of" collection ad nauseam. Conversations were quiet, and the atmosphere relaxed. Half of the guests had crowded on the couch to pass a joint back and forth.
The party invitation had first felt like something she'd desperately needed despite her normal reservations. Things had been admittedly weird between her and Helena, and Justin had been so withdrawn and moody she hadn't particularly been in the state of mind where she felt she could be of any help. The events at the Hendraick farm had created a rift between them. Their world had been changed in ways they couldn't understand, and so they drifted, sulking.
Kara didn't like sulking. She didn't like dwelling on her emotions for too long in general. Emotions sucked, and weren't particularly fun to deal with. Even the dullest party sounded like a better time than another Friday night alone.
The better reason for attending this crap party was standing on the veranda with a red solo cup full of ginger ale, staring out at the woods across the dirt-road. She had ebony skin, thick natural curls, and was almost always dressed in purple and black garments that had a flowing, almost fairytale look to them. One look at her was all it took for Kara to remember how fucking gay she really was.
Veronika caught Kara watching through the screen door and eagerly waved. Kara shrugged, and attempted to bluff confidence. That was nearly impossible. Veronika was too hot. She made Kara sweat just being within ten feet of her.
"I'm glad you're here," Veronika said as she approached.
Kara shrugged. "I don't normally come to things like this, but decided I'd try something new."
Veronika leaned in close and said in a low voice, "To be honest, I hardly know anyone here. Rick invited me. He said it was super important."
Kara raised an eyebrow. "He said something similar to me, but I might have turned him down if he hadn't mentioned that you were coming."
"Really?" Veronika blushed. "That's so sweet of you."
Kara laughed a little. "You don't think that's dumb?"
She shrugged. "You're super pretty, and I love your style. Been wanting to get to know you better for a while."
Kara tucked her chin deep into her neck to accentuate her double-chin and make a purposefully unattractive face. "Oh my blerb, she thinks I'm pwettyyyy."
Veronika laughed so hard she snorted. "Stop that! I'm serious! I'm really happy you're here."
Kara leaned close to her. "I'm glad too. This party might not suck after all."
Inside, Kara was fist-pumping. Flirting successful. Don't fuck it up now, big girl.
"I've kind of a weird idea," Kara said. "I'd like to take your picture."
"Oh gosh no, I look awful!" Veronika laughed.
Kara scoffed. "False modesty is unimpressive. Please. You're fucking flawless."
"Pff!" Veronika rolled her eyes. "All right, but I want to see the pic before anyone else."
"Guaranteed, I'll grab my laptop so we can check it out as soon as I take a couple."
"I also reserve the right to have all of them deleted if I completely hate them!"
"Am I gonna need a lawyer for this?"
"Oh, just get the damn camera!"
A few moments later, Kara had returned with camera in hand. She did stop in the overgrown yard for a minute, staring at the big black house. Like many old houses in Wakefield, it had a crooked, looming quality to it. The paneling was dry and faded, and the once-white paint had chipped years ago, giving it a foul, crusted appearance. All the windows on the second floor had either cracks along the edges or had been shattered in completely. Inside, there'd been one or two roaches skittering across the old bathroom floor and maggots nesting on crusty plates inside the kitchen.
Why would anyone throw a party in this gloomy, awful place? It wasn't just the house itself, it was the entire area. The yard was overgrown, having been untended for nearly a decade. A few feet away was a shed, crumbling to bits and padlocked tight with only a grimy window revealing the dusty shelves and tools inside. A school bus turned on its side could be seen rusting in a ditch a few yards away. All of this in the center of the Black Goat Woods.
Kara raised the camera to her eye and took a picture of the house. She had a nagging sense of déjà vu, even if she was convinced she'd never been to this house before in her life. The hairs on her arms rose as the sensation persisted, growing increasingly insistent. She shook the thought from her mind and walked to the front of the house where Veronika was waiting for her. Kara waved, trying to put on a smiling face once more.
"All right, got my laptop and camera ready. Ready to kick-start your modeling career?" she teased.
"What took you so long?" Veronika said.
She struck an over-dramatic pose, leaning against the crooked railing with one hand pointing outward as if commanding her troops to battle. Kara took particular notice of the emerald snake tattoo along her left arm, vanishing in and out of the semi-transparent silken sleeve. Veronika giggled and took a more serious pose for the next shot, staring directly into the camera, eyes intense and blazing.
"Oh, just got distracted by something," Kara answered. "You know, you're a natural for this."
"It's all about the bawdeh language! HAH!" Veronika did her best Ursula impression, flipping her arm into the air. Then, after giggling at Kara's exaggerated expression. "What'd you get distracted by?"
Kara lowered the camera. "Why did we come here, Veronika? Why this fucking house? This place sucks."
Veronika shrugged her shoulders before collapsing onto the porch swing with a loud sigh. Kara joined her, lugging the laptop case and camera.
"I mean," she said, opening the computer and plugging her camera in, "I'm not the only one, right? Whose place even is this?"
Veronika pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "I think someone mentioned Rick's dad owns the place. Never uses it, though. Guess he needed a place to host a party."
Kara frowned. "He could have at least cleaned up first. I don't go to too many of these things, but who throws a party when everything looks like complete shit?"
"It's more than that." Veronika looked off into the distance, staring apprehensively at the blackness of the woods. "Since we came here, I've had this weird knot in my stomach. It's like anxiety, but different. Almost like I shouldn't be here."
Kara didn't say anything. She'd just finished downloading all the pictures onto her computer. Her mouth hung open.
"Hey? They're not that bad are they?" Veronika looked over her shoulder. Her tone changed. Her voice shook. "Kara, what the fuck?"
"I didn't do this …" Kara whispered.
Each photo had a little girl wearing a dirty white gown standing where Veronika was meant to be. The girl appeared a little more manic in each photo as bruises and cuts appeared on her arms and legs. The photos grew grai
ny and discolored till they were macabre grey blurs. Kara found the photo she'd taken of the house exterior only minutes before. That same filter covered it with but one significant difference; the house appeared new and whole - even the windows were clean. A pale white face stared at her from the second story floor.
Veronika's hands shook. "Kara, this is sick. Why do you have these?"
Kara yanked the camera out of the computer. She thrust it into Veronika's hands. Her fingers shook as she flipped it back on and adjusted the settings.
"Look, you can see an image preview on the screen there. Take a picture of me and see what happens."
"I don't want to take a picture of you!" Veronika yelled. "I want you to delete those awful ones of me as a little girl."
"Just do it, Veronika. Please."
Veronika huffed and stood. She walked backwards a few steps before raising the camera to her face and snapping a picture. Kara watched her expression. Veronika shuddered as she turned the camera so Kara could see.
"What's going on?" Veronika said. "What the hell is wrong with your camera?"
It was Kara, but as a small child. Her face was dirty and cut up and that strange filter was there, and it looked like someone had scribbled over her eyes with an angry pen. A pool of blood and urine lay beneath her stained, white gown. Her tiny ankles were bound in barbed wire.
Kara stood. She snatched the camera from Veronika's hands. She took only a moment to pack her laptop back in its case before she charged inside.
"Where the hell is Rick?" she demanded, waving the camera threateningly.
Kara recognized Jeffrey's matted locks as he approached her with a stoned swagger. He gave the term 'cultural appropriation' an entirely new definition. A nice enough guy, to be certain, but always frustratingly ignorant.
"He stepped out for a minute," his said. "What's the big deal?"
Kara responded by raising her camera and taking his picture. The flash made him wince and before he had a chance to protest Kara showed him the screen. He saw a little boy stripped bare and lying in a bathtub filled with broken glass and barbed wire. Jeffrey stumbled backwards, clamping a hand over his mouth in horror. His frightened eyes mirrored the little boy in the picture.