The phone is ringing. It rings twice before I fully realize what the noise is. At first I was convinced it was a hallucination. It sounded so completely like the sound of birds chirping, but there couldn’t possibly be birds inside the office building.
It’s my mother. I’d forgotten her ringtone; the chirping of birds in early spring. She’s an avid bird watcher.
“Hello?” I sound cheerful when I answer, like always.
“Riley, it’s mom. I just wanted to confirm what time your flight comes in tomorrow. It’s 10:00 AM, right? Do you want dad to come pick you up from the airport?”
She always does this; she tells me who she is even though her name appears across the top of my phone. I don’t mind. It’s sometimes helpful when I don’t remember her voice.
She continues, her question of timing already forgotten “or were you thinking, of getting a taxi? You know I don’t approve of taxis. I’ll have dad come get you. Call me when you land, okay sweetie?”
I smile, more for the benefit of the other people in the board room than for myself. “Sure, mom. That sounds great. See you tomorrow. Love you too.” I hang up the phone and turn back to my colleagues. “My apologies for the rudeness, I asked her not to call during work hours, but you know how mothers can be.”
Jack Mills, the Vice President of the company smiles knowingly. His scars are bleeding again today.
“C’mon, Castle. No need to apologize. We’re all heading home to see family by the end of the week. Besides, you’re the BMOC this month. I still can’t quite figure out how you managed to close the Vaneer Deal. Those execs were all stone walls when we walked in there. How many lunches do I have to pay for before you let me in on your secret?”
I flash what I hope is a grin “That’s a trade secret, Mr. Mills.”
He laughs good-naturedly. A sore near his left eye weeps a yellowish fluid. “Well boys, it’s been a good year for us. Of course that’s thanks in no small part to Castle, but before we all leave for the holidays I wanted to personally offer my congratulations to each and every one of you. Good work. We’ve all got a bight quarter ahead of us.”
Jack’s motivational speech is met with applause. I’m sure I applauded him too, but I have no memory of it. He droned on for another hour before the meeting ended, lavishing me with even more unwarranted praise I suspect. I’m not special. I do my job. It’s the bare minimum. It’s not my fault if most of my colleagues are under performing.
My drive home took thirty minutes longer than normal. I had to take back roads to avoid a particularly large corpulent lump of flesh on the main highway. This one didn’t seem especially threating, but I prefer to avoid them when given the opportunity. I’m in a foul mood by the time I’m home, but I don’t allow it to show through. I park my car and endure the sickeningly wet caresses of the haddyfatteners for exactly seven seconds as I make my way through the garage. I don’t rush. They’ll notice if I rush.
This is my house, but I don’t live here. It’s never safe here. I’m in a foul mood because I have to spend the night tonight. It’s an unfortunate requirement, but on occasion I must give the appearance that I actually dwell in this glistening palace of festering nightmares. My sleep comes in fits and starts, but I manage to rest for a broken five or so hours total. Good enough. I skip breakfast as normal when I stay here. The food isn’t clean.
By 7:00 AM I’m stepping into my car. As I close the door, one of the haddyfatteners was reaching inside. The severed bone-white hand writhes and scratches at the back of my seat for the entire drive to the airport. I make sure it crawls out before I close and lock the door at the airport parking garage.
Airport security passes in a blur of motion and noise. I do my best to smile. I’m sure I fail. Then I’m sitting in first class. I’m not sure if I checked my luggage or not. The flight attendant comes by to check if everyone has fastened their safety belts. Her lipstick is far too red. It’s blinding. I pretend to look out the window. I can’t remember the rest of the flight.
I have an uncomfortable garage. It’s not particularly messy, or ill-kept, but never-the-less it’s my second least favorite part of the house after the breakfast nook. I won’t get into my objections with the breakfast nook just now, but trust me it’s positively dreadful.
Back to the garage; it’s uncomfortable for a singular reason; a reason I must forever keep to myself and my personal notes. I’ll understand if you begin to entertain suspicions that I’m some manner of serial killer at this point, but I give you my absolute assurance I am not any such thing. I am only looking out for my survival. This is normal. I am normal.
I’ve become distracted again. I apologize. The objection I have with my garage is not one of aesthetics, lack of space, or any number of other perfectly acceptable complaints. Instead, my singular discomfort, and on occasion abject, speechless terror, derives entirely from the denizens who dwell there.
It’s not normal for a man to be afraid of the denizens of his garage. I recognize this quite clearly, and so I have taken delicate care and taken every measure to ensure any potential visible reaction be stricken from my repertoire of social interactions.
In addition to the obvious reasons of avoiding social suicide, it is critically important that the very creatures I am disquieted by are never made aware of my opinions of them. Should for even an instant these writhing, sightless beings recognize my displeasure; I have no doubt they would devour me whole on the spot.
Ya know what the problem with the universe is? No? Well I’ll tell ya.
It’s not very well made. The damn thing’s fallin’ apart at the seams. We got giant holes all through it, bits of matter actin’ all dark and such, and to cap it all off the whole shebang is flyin’ away from itself like it’s runnin’ from a speedin’ ticket.
Now that’s downright shoddy workmanship if you ask me. Ya didn’t ask me though, did ya? No, why would you care what some angry old coot from North Georgia has to say? Hell, you probably don’t even know what Georgia is.
It was a State once upon a time. I’m not gonna give you the whole history, but suffice to say we used to have these things called planets. Now that was livin’! Sky above ya, ground below; none of this “artificial environment” bullshit.
Look, I get it. We ain’t got the protons to spare to make planets anymore. It’s like I was sayin’, the whole shebang’s all flown apart. Damn heat death… I wasn’t even supposed to be alive when this happened. I voted against the digital preservation of human consciousness, ya know.
Ugh… well it’s water under the bridge now I s’pose. Not that we’ve got any water or bridges… Nope, the once-great humanity, reduced to a few light years of server towers all packed around the last remaining matter condensers. Some ending we got goin’ on here. I tell ya, it’s disgraceful.
Well, I guess that’ll do it. That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter. We stuck around way past it was time for us to check out.
This is Geoffrey Devoux, the 89septillionth President of the former United States signing off. It’s been a pain, universe. Next time do better.
A feint flapping of wings, barely any sound at all, but more than enough to set Rhyn’s nerves on edge. He scowled out into the darkness beyond his second floor balcony and waited for the inevitable.
“Rhyn, I know you’re awake in there. Won’t you step out and have a word with me?” The voice from the balcony was one Rhyn knew well, but hoped never to hear again.
“I’ve a better idea. Won’t you kindly piss off?” An exasperated sigh responded to Rhyn’s vein attempt to be left alone. Several tense seconds of silence passed in agonizing slowness. His visitor showed no signs of leaving. Finally, with a disgruntled groan both vocally and from his aching bones, Rhyn picked up his cane and made his way out onto the balcony.
“Thank you, my friend. I know you don’t want much to do with me these days, but as it turns out, your skills are somewhat irreplaceable.” Rhyn looked up to where he knew his unwelcome visitor would be perched, though his eyes still had not adjusted to the darkness.
“Aye, a pity, that. Well let’s be on with this unpleasantness then. Give it here.” He held out one age-weathered hand and a faintly glowing stone was placed gently into his palm. Rhyn closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He clenched his hand into a fist around the glowing stone and for a moment it seemed as though the old Dwarf had died where he stood. Death though, perhaps much to Rhyn’s dismay, had not come for him just yet. His eyes slowly opened as the glow from the stone faded.
“This one’s in a small town called Braken’s Bend, far to the South of Myrd; a wee wisp of a girl, barely weaned, with vibrant green eyes and hair as black as your feathers. Now away with ye, infernal pigeon! Leave me be. This will be the last time; bother me again about these children, and we’ll no longer be friends.” The creature perched on Rhyn’s balcony railing gave a low bow of its horned head.
“I am forever in your debt.” He said, and with another feint flapping sound Rhyn was finally alone again. He settled back into his rocking chair with a great sigh and leaned back.
Rhyn was not a religious man. He’d never found much use for gods throughout his unnaturally long life, but never-the-less he offered up a single brief prayer to any deities who just happened to be listening.
“If there’s any reason left in the world, give that little lass half a brain. Don’t let her turn out like the others.” With that, Rhyn closed his eyes once more, this time for good.
The whirling click of the poorly maintained hydraulic doors was the first sign; someone else was down here. Logically, Herman knew that his odds of winning any fight in his present condition were slim, but who can listen to logic when they’re this close to greatness? He clutched the package close to his chest and took two slow breaths, listening carefully for any additional signs.
Tang…. Tang…. Tang… The slow and steady gait of large metal boots on worn metal flooring edged closer as Herman silently drew his knife. Suddenly, the footsteps came to a halt. Whoever it was couldn’t have been more than 3 feet away, just around the edge of a long dead server tower.
“I know you’re in here, professor.” A woman’s voice, confident and self-assured in her nearing victory. “Come on out and I won’t hurt you.” Herman didn’t reply, he just squeezed the package harder and wracked his brain for a way out.
“Professor, this is very immature. I really don’t want to kill you, but trust me, I will if you won’t cooperate.” She was getting closer, only a few inches now and she would round that corner. It was do or die time.
Herman darted around the corner, knife in hand, and lunged headlong at his pursuer. Rebecca would have laughed at the attempt if she were the kind of person with a sense of humor. Instead she delivered a lightning-fast jab to the good doctor’s arm, slapped the knife away and sent him sprawling with a single well-placed kick.
“Now then, professor, I’ll have that package you’re holding onto so dearly.” She held out one hand expectantly as Herman scurried backward up against another long forgotten piece of equipment. He shook his head nervously and only clutched the package more tightly.
“Never! You’ll have to kill me first! This wasn’t meant for the likes of you!” Rebecca gave an exasperated sigh as she drew her pistol.
“Really, professor? You’d rather me kill you and then just take it off of your corpse? Honestly, that seems wasteful. Just hand it over.” Herman rose shakily to his feet. His eyes flicked back and forth from the barrel of his former student’s gun to the package. He made no movement to surrender his prize.
“Alright then, don’t say I didn’t try to spare you.” Rebecca took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Herman cleanly between the eyes. He was dead before his body finished crumpling to the dusty warehouse floor.
Rebecca holstered her weapon and moved to relieve the dead professor of his still firmly gripped package, but something made the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up as soon as she laid her hands on it. In a flash, she drew her weapon again, clutching the package to her chest as she eyed the room slowly; someone else was down here.
The same whirring click of the old hydraulic doors announced the next would-be grave robber as Rebecca took up a hiding place behind a stack of old monitors.
Tup…. Tap…. Tup… Tap… The sound of moccasin shoes and an old wooden cane… It was him… She wouldn’t let her old teacher win this time… Rebecca gripped the package tightly and readied herself for a fight… this time would be different…
A grey autumn morning in late November; two days after Thanksgiving and on the colder side of chilly, but not yet truly cold. Vinnie sat in a rusting lawn chair on his ex-wife’s front lawn and stared up at the unbroken blanket of grey that made up that sky that morning. It wasn’t immediately clear to him just why he was here, but he’d been here last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Honestly, by this point Vincent Wallace, the not-so-professional “fixer”, couldn’t have told you why he’d ever started doing this.
He wasn’t bitter about his ex-wife leaving him. He’d been cheating on her since the second year of their ten year marriage. Vinnie had never been much of a stand-up guy. He wasn’t the sort to feel guilty about things, but here he was for the umpteenth year in a row, shivering in the pre-winter chill after his ex-wife’s Thanksgiving guests had all gone home.
A light flicked on inside the rundown ranch home and Vinnie hauled himself to his feet. He gave a sigh out of habit more than out of any emotional response to the argument he knew was coming.
The door opened and there she stood; ratty bathrobe, curlers and all.
“You got real nerve commin’ out here, Vincent. Are we really gonna do this again?”
Vinnie didn’t respond immediately. He felt a bit out of sync with reality. This same event had played out over and over again every year for what seemed like his entire life. It was a feeling of intense déjà vu for the 53 year old mobster.
Then, as if a new neural pathway was suddenly formed in his brain, Vinnie did something different. He went off script. He didn’t respond to his ex-wife at all. Instead he calmly and quietly folded up the rusty lawn chair, placed it in the truck of his beat-up Chevy Lumina, and drove away. His ex-wife watched this event unfold with cold detachment. When Vinnie had driven completely out of sight, she went back inside and immediately picked up the telephone. The number she dialed was one she had committed to memory many years ago for this exact moment. It rang only once before someone picked up.
“Mr. Wallace is having trouble sleeping.” She said calmly. “He’ll be needing a sleep aid.” She then placed the phone back on the receiver without waiting for a response.
Somewhere, far away from any civilized place, men in powered armor began to mobilize.
It’s going to be a cold one today. That’s what the weather man said. Cold and dark, and the snows will continue all through the day. We won’t get much daylight. In fact, the clouds around here get so thick that it would seem to be the middle of the night to any tourists. That’s not to say that there will be any tourists to wonder about our cloud-related blackout however; no sir, we’re too far into the winter for tourism.
Still, despite all the dark and the cold, I’m feeling quite blissful this morning. You know, there’s really nothing in the world quite like a dismal, black-as-night snowy day while you’re safe inside your bunker with a hot cup of tea. It’s almost as if this warm cup in my hands could melt away all of the snows and all of life’s problems if only I’d hold onto it and drift for a while.
That’s exactly what I plan to do today. It’s my day off, and even though my cozy shelter will be buried under a good 30 feet of snow by evening, I’m going to sit here in my kitchen sipping my tea and letting the world drift on by.
The support teams will likely have dug me out within a day or so after the snows stop, but if I’m truly honest, I’m always a little disappointed when they show up. It means the I’ll have to put my teacup down and pay attention to the world again.
I got mixed up. That’s simply the best way to put it. She did it on purpose too, the bitch. I’m not really mad though. It’s not like I didn’t know what would happen; she was a baker after all.
It’s 6:00 in the morning, but I really don’t want to go to bed. You know what I’m talking about, right? You’ve been up all night, like normal, and now the sky is doing that thing where it’s turning that grey-blue color of pre-dawn. It’s not sunrise, but it’s light enough that you know you’re supposed to be in bed.
Well, I don’t want to. I’m not even tired, just feeling a little… I donno, introspective? I want to write something, but the only things coming to mind are about me and my aforementioned aversion to bedtime.
I’ve always hated bedtime; I think all kids do. I especially hated it when I had a bedtime set by someone else. When I was little, I had to be in bed by 7:00 or 8:00 in the evening. Hell, it was still light out during the summer. That was a pile of shit. I’ve got nothing to complain about though. My childhood was nothing short of perfect. No abuse, no neglect, no parental divorce. I had video games, and a loving, nurturing environment. Pretty much the best kind of childhood a person can have.
I still hated bedtime. Now that I’m an adult and I’m setting my own bedtime, I still don’t like it. How spoiled does a person have to be to complain about their own self-inflicted bedtime? Is spoiled even the appropriate word here?
I’m not sure about all that; I just know that I’m feeling real weird this morning. I shouldn’t have watched all that horror crap earlier, and then followed it up with reading how absolutely nightmarish my best-friend’s childhood was.
Yep, that’s it. That’s why I’m all weird right now. I’m not gonna get into it here, but seriously, I think I’m actually freaking out over some pale echo of a trauma someone else suffered over 14 years ago.
Throughout the ages, stories of bravery and heroism are common. Countless brave warriors face incredible odds and emerge victorious. The lone solider who risks life and limb to save his captured comrades. A lowly thief, spat on by all of society, who ascends to the throne of a nation. The sheltered princess, secluded in a tower until she’s won like a prize, but instead escapes her fate and saves her kingdom from impending darkness.
Among these tales are also great tragedies, examples of honorable sacrifice by good men and women for the greater prosperity of their respective peoples; of star-crossed lovers, willing even to die rather than be apart from one another, and of course the legend of Leila, the warrior maiden who was tragically cut down before she could rescue her prince.
Oh? Have you not heard that one? Well rest assured, it’s a riveting tale indeed! She fought man, and beast, and demon alike in her quest to rescue her love, the Prince Yuvon of Illar. Sadly though, it was not enough. When Leila at last stood before the Queen of Night, she was already weakened by the dark matriarch’s hordes. The Queen of Night struck her down with two blows, one across her face to mar her beauty, and another through her heart. Leila died then, but not before she uttered these words.
“Though I fail in this life, I will not stop. I may even fail a thousand times more, but no matter how many lives I must live and die, my soul will not rest until your wickedness is undone.”
And then she was gone. The Queen of Night then smiled her wicked smile and returned to her palace in the Shadowlands, where she supposedly still keeps Prince Yuvon captive to this very day, her ever unwilling concubine.
A sad tale, yes, but is that the end of it? What of our lady Leila’s dying words? Whatever happened to her determined soul? Well, dear reader, to know the answers to these very practical questions, you would have to ask Death, for only she can know for sure what happens to the souls of heroes and heroines. Fortunately for you, I’m a very well connected storyteller.
We’ll begin in the middle of the story, because quite frankly I’ve already spoiled the beginning for you. Trust me though, it only get better from here….
Chapter 1
Death’s Toll
Leila slowly found consciousness returning to her. She died, didn’t she? And yet, her eyes slowly opened at the sound of a drawn out yawn that wasn’t hers.
“Ah, finally awake, dear? I never would have pegged you for a late riser, Leila.” Her senses were dulled, vision blurry, and she could barely manage to focus, but despite all of that, the sword maiden managed to get to her feet and draw her sword within the blink of an eye.
“Oh! A bit of fight left in you too, I see. Well that’s good, you’ll need that if you hope to face the trials ahead of you.” The voice was annoyingly mirthful. It seems to come at Leila from all directions, a disembodied chuckling among the swirling grey mists.
“Who are you? Show yourself, coward!” Leila tried to shout her threat, but her voice only managed a whisper. Suddenly, she realized how thirsty and weak she was, but to her credit she remained standing.
“Silly girl, you died. Who do you think I am?” The voice was mocking, yet oddly unthreatening. Leila sheathed her sword and relaxed her stance. “You’re Death.” More mirthful chuckles filled the chilling air at her vocal suspicion, and quite suddenly her vision sharpened, and a middle aged woman with graying hair, adorned in a simple hooded black dress appeared before her.
“Quite so, my dear girl. Quite so. You are indeed dead, and so you belong to me.” Death flashed a smile, exposing eerily pointed teeth and Leila tensed again. She drew her sword once more, unafraid even in the face of Death herself.
“I belong to no one.” She said, her voice more commanding than before. Death shook her head in an unsettlingly mother-like fashion and waved her finger back and forth. “Tsk tsk, my dear girl. You couldn’t be more wrong. Perhaps in life you were your own woman, but now you’re just another soul in my collection.” Death clenched her hand into a fist and all the strength drained out of Leila in an instant. She collapsed to the misty ground, unable to move.
“You see, dearie? All that you are is now mine. If I wish it, you can be as strong as ten thousand armies, or as weak as newborn babe. And don’t waste my precious time by trying the false logic of ‘you may control my body, but you’ll never have my heart!’ or some such nonsense. If I wanted to reforge your soul, you’d be swimming in the Soulstream, being broken down into base energy by now.” Leila didn’t respond at all. She simply stared up at Death from the ground, waiting to see if the Reaper was finished.
“That’s better. I knew you were a smart one, and I’ve been waiting for you to die for a very long time. You still have your memories because, and only because, I have kept you from the Soulstream for a very particular purpose. Do as I ask of you, and not only shall I let you keep your memories, but I shall give you a new life. Perhaps next time you’ll mange to save that prince of yours. Are you interested?” The dead warrior found her strength again and got back on her feet. She sheathed her sword and stared long and hard directly at Death.
“What could you possibly ask of me that you could not accomplish yourself?” Leila asked, and Death released an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes.
“Death is not all powerful, dearie. There are places in the Omniverse that only mortal souls may tread. I would send you to one such place and have you retrieve something of mine; a locket. It was stolen a very long time ago, and I would have it returned to me.” Death’s face turned pale then, the color fleeing from her lined cheeks until, just for a moment, only a bleached skull could be seen under her hood.
“I have waited a long time for you, Leila. I have sent countless other souls on this journey, but none have returned. You however, are different. You gaze upon the face of Death unflinching. Your determination is like none I have ever before witnessed. I believe that you can do what before now could not be done. Succeed, and I return your life to you. Do you accept?” Leila searched the Reaper’s face for signs of deceit and found none. It seemed she had no choice.
It’s Friday, exactly 3:05 in the afternoon. I’m sitting in Dr. Holtz’s waiting room. I have a 3:15 appointment like I do every Friday afternoon. This is normal.
My father abused me when I was a boy, quite badly or so I’m told. It’s socially acceptable to see a psychiatrist about childhood abuse. No one will think anything is wrong if I do this.
At 3:08 an elderly woman enters the waiting room and takes the seat next to mine. I’m fairly sure she’s not real. The receptionist didn’t great her, and no one looked up when she opened the door. Because of that, I cannot react to her in any way. It wouldn’t be normal.
She takes out a pair of knitting needles and begins knitting. The thread is almost surely human hair. It smells burnt. I look up and her features have twisted wildly. Most of her face is melted. She smiles at me warmly.
I do not react. I become aware that I’m gripping the armrests of my chair a little too tightly. My knuckles will turn white if I keep this up, but that’s still a reasonable level of anxiety when you’re about to see a shrink. I allow myself to keep gripping the armrests. This is still normal.
“Mr. Wolven? The doctor will see you now.” At the sound of the receptionist’s voice the old woman is gone. I get up from my chair and follow her back to Dr. Holtz’s office.
“Good afternoon, Dennis. How are you doing today?” Dr. Holtz greets me warmly. His beard has spiders in it. This is normal.
“Oh, I’m okay. Can’t complain. How are you?” We exchange the usual pleasantries before we settle into the session. He asks me questions about my father, and I answer him truthfully. I don’t tell him about the spiders leaking out of his ear.
Suddenly I feel a sharp pain on my arm, and I make a fatal mistake. I slapped a spider that had crawled over to me. I can’t take that back now. He saw me strike at nothing. That’s not normal.
“Goodness! A spider bite! I’m so sorry, Dennis. I don’t know how they get in here. I’m having the office fumigated this weekend. I can’t apologize enough.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “It’s fine, Dr. Holtz. It just startled me is all.” I’m saved by reality for a change.
The rest of the session goes by as it usually does. I tell the doctor things, and he helps me work through problems. I really think the sessions are helping me come to terms with what happened. I can’t ever tell him everything though. When I get back in my car after my appointment is over, a carpet of worms covers the seats. They wriggle all the way home. This is normal.
The manic pixie dream girl; You know the one. She’s the girl that’s always excited, bubbly, happy, and knows just what to say to cheer up the dreary, ordinary, male protagonist. She gets him out of his rut, loves him even though he’s a mess, and fixes his life up for him.
She a bad writing trope. Her name is usually something like Crystal, Molly, or Bell, or something equally short and easy to remember. She’s got fiery red hair, maybe a pair of those hipster glasses, the ones with the plain black rims, and she described herself as “quirky.” She has no personality, and wants nothing other than to cheer you up. She’s a tool, a 1 dimensional character used predominately for wish fulfilment fantasy….
But she is real. She’s a bad stereotype, a caricature of a person, and she suffers from an exotic cocktail of mental illnesses. That doesn’t stop her from bumping into you as you’re leaving the coffee shop like some cliché romantic comedy. It doesn’t stop her from falling in love with you instantly, and doing everything in her power to ensnare you.
She planned this all out, you see. She’s a self-styled dream girl; living out a fantasy of modern media’s creation. She doesn’t know it’s a sickness, and you don’t know what’s wrong with her yet. That comes later. She’s very good at hiding all of her neurosis. She’s a perfectly crafted collection of porcelain masks, each one, immaculately suited to a particular task.
There is no person under those masks, just a monster. It’s not her fault though, it’s yours. Did you really think that a proper lady would be interested in you as you are? Don’t kid yourself. What are you, 27 years old now? And what have you accomplished? Still working on that book, are you? And how many query letters have you sent out this week? None?
She doesn’t want you because you’re desirable. She wants you because she knows she can’t do any better. You’ll love her. You’ll accept her no matter how horrible she is. Even when all her masks crack and you see the beast within, you’ll keep her because you don’t want to be alone anymore. She knows all of this ahead of time. That’s why she chose you. You never had a choice to begin with.
areudirty
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