Muse
Life sucked. The damn pills couldn’t change that fact. They just made him happier about it. Or at least indifferent to it. The upside was that they were keeping him from driving his car full speed off the lookout point along the Lady Young. The trade off for his life, however, seemed to be career suicide.
He sat staring at the computer screen, the blank page of the open word document taunting him. The empty whiteness glared with a harshness that made his eyes burn. Or perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the long hours staring at the monitor waiting for inspiration to come. The ringing of the phone did nothing to stir his stagnating mind.
“This is Mike,” came his voice over the answering machine, “you know what to do.”
The long beep was followed by the all too familiar rant of his agent, asking him where the hell he was and if he’d forgotten about his deadlines. A couple more rants, some expletives and the usual request for him to pick up the goddamed phone. Or at least write something and send it in. And then the click of the receiver, followed by blessed silence, leaving Mike to his nothingness.
After a few more moments of staring at the screen, Mike gave in. He shut the computer off, pushed away from the desk and got up. He crossed the small space in his bedroom that separated his desk from his closet and opened the door. A pile of dirty laundry, maybe more than a few weeks worth, avalanched on to the floor. He stared down at the dirty clothing, a reminder of that phase of his depression when he refused to get out of bed to do anything. Food, clothes, writing, even hygiene, all were neglected in his dysthymic haze.
He’d been depressed before, but nothing like this. Most of the time he was able to put his dark mood to use. In fact, it was what had fueled his writing career, allowing him to produce tale after tale of twisted, macabre horror. True, he wasn’t exactly Stephen King, but he’d sold enough to get by, without having to worry about keeping his mundane secondary school teaching job. Secretly, Mike wondered if that was the real reason he never sought help before. Most people, including the solemn faced shrink, assumed it was because he was, like most patients, embarrassed by his condition. But maybe what he was really afraid of was killing the muse, killing that dark part of him that gave birth to his creativity. And it looked as though he was right.
He had been on the pills for roughly six weeks now. His mood had improved sufficiently to allow him to return to some semblance of a normal life. But the writing was dead. Day in, day out he had stared blankly at his computer screen hoping for something. But the ideas refused to come. All he had, if he had anything at all were empty words and an agent breathing down his neck about deadlines. And Mike knew that if he didn’t write something soon, he’d have to start worrying about bill collectors breathing down his neck too. Worse case scenario he’d have to resort to giving English lessons.
With a sigh he gathered up the laundry and stuffed them in a basket. If he couldn’t write, he may as well find something useful to do with his time. Heading out into the small room that served as kitchen, living and washing area, Mike dumped his load into the washer and started the cycle. Grabbing a coke from the fridge, he bee lined for the couch, flopping down on the stained cushion as he turned on the television.
He sipped at his drink as he watched some man talk about how wonderful the slap chop was. For a brief moment he wished he had something stronger than coke, or at least something to mix it with. But then, that was how his father dealt with his problems, not how he did. Taking another sip, he flipped through the channels until he found a movie to watch.
He awoke in darkness, unaware of when he had fallen asleep. His t-shirt, dank with perspiration clung to his chest. He sat up, tugging at the material with one hand, while the other swatted at the mosquito that buzzed near his ear. It took a few seconds for his sleepy mind to realize that the power was out. He wondered if this had anything to do with an unpaid bill, but a glance out his window towards his neighbour’s home draped in shadow, and the darkness stretching out into the distance made him realize it might just be a blackout.
Getting off the couch, he stumbled into the kitchen, and with the aid of faint moonlight, rummaged through his cupboard till he found his flashlight and several previously used candles, already mounted in old tin cans. It didn’t take him long to set them on his tabletop and light the blackened wicks. He stared at the tiny flames, watching them dance; their small bodies casting long shadows. He studied the colours, blue bodies embedded in a halo of orange-yellow. It was oddly mesmerizing to watch. As he stared at the flames, he contemplated trying meditation. Maybe it would spark his creativity. Or maybe it would just put him to sleep again. What the hell, it wasn’t like he had anything else to do now that the current was gone. Closing his eyes, he steadied his breathing, taking long, slow breaths in and out, just like how the yogi guy on You-tube had instructed. Slowly, he felt himself drawn into the silence.
A faint, scratching sound broke his concentration. Mike opened his eyes. He listened intently for a moment, but heard nothing. Dismissing it, he closed his eyes again, trying to resume his meditation.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The noise came again, a bit louder this time. Opening his eyes again, Mike got up. He stood still, waiting and listening.
Scratch… Scratch…. Scratch…Scratch.
It sounded like an animal, a cat maybe, clawing at a door. Maybe it was stuck somewhere. The odd thing was that it wasn’t making any other sound and it sounded like it was coming from his room. Maybe it was right outside his bedroom window. Picking up his flashlight, he headed to his room to investigate.
He entered the room and headed for the window. Yanking it open, he stuck his body halfway out, aiming the flashlight along the narrow alley between his flat and his neighbour’s. The yellow light cut dimly through the gloom, revealing nothing in its wake. Mike pulled back in, his free hand scratching the back of his head. He was sure the sound came from this direction. But there was nothing to see or hear outside. Shrugging his shoulders, he sat down on his bed, deciding to forget about it. Maybe he should just go to bed. Before he could lie down, he heard it again. The sound froze him in position. It was louder now, more distinct. And it seemed to be coming from his closet right in front of him.
Scratch…scratch…click…click… creek.
What the hell? He thought he heard the doorknob on the closet turning and maybe the door opening. A cat couldn’t do that. Grabbing the flashlight he aimed it at the door. It stood silent and unmoving. Mike let out a sigh. Maybe he was just imagining it. He was wondering if it was a side effect of the medication. Didn’t too much serotonin make you schizophrenic? Anyway, he better just check the closet just in case, maybe some poor dumb animal did wander in and got stuck at some point. Getting up, he walked over to the closet and opened the door. There was nothing there. He had imagined it all.
Turning around, he let out a scream. His flashlight hit the ground with a clatter. It didn’t matter. The moonlight was enough for him to see the thing, sitting on his bed; it’s red eyes blazing like torches from hell. It looked like a cross between a skeleton and a nightmare, like death itself, something he would write about in one of his horrors.
“Jesus Christ!” Mike exclaimed, fear lacing his voice.
“Wrong guy,” it said in a husky voice. It jumped off the bed and took a step towards him. Mike backed away, his body hitting the closet door. The creature stood its ground and then made what seemed like a short bow.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Mike. I’m Dante, your muse.”
“This isn’t happening.” Mike said. “You’re not real. You’re just a figment of my imagination…a side effect of the Prozac. If I close my eyes and reopen them you’ll be gone!”
“Oh, geez…” the creature muttered.
“I’m counting!” Mike exclaimed, eyes closed. He could barely keep the hysteria out of his voice. “One…two…three.”
He opened his eyes on the last count.
“Boo,” Dante said flatly.
Mike screamed again. The red lights in Dante’s hollow sockets flickered in an odd manner. If he were human, and had eyeballs, it would have been the equivalent of rolling them.
“Okay, Mikey-boy. Let’s cut the crap. Trust me, if I wanted to hurt you I’d have done it a long time ago. No I wouldn’t do that, ‘cause I need you, and from the way things have been going it seems you need me too. Now, why don’t you pick your jaw up off the floor, sit down and let’s chat.”
Mike moved woodenly to his chair. He looked dazed, almost as though he thought he was in a dream. Well, it was to be expected. It wasn’t every day a muse dropped in on their writer. Especially one that looked like death incarnate. Maybe that’s why there were rules about this sort of thing. It didn’t really matter much to Dante, as long as Mike didn’t start screaming again. True, he wasn’t the bravest of men, but he was curious. And desperate. And that was all Dante needed.
“Hey, Mikey, you wouldn’t have any cigarettes by any chance? I’m dying for a smoke?” Dante asked, grinning wickedly.
Mike shook his head no, the motion stiff and mechanical. Clearly he was still in shock. And he obviously had no sense of humour. Dante figured he’d just get straight to the point: offer Mike what we wanted most so Dante could get what he wanted.
“So Mike, having problem writing lately?” Dante didn’t wait for an answer, instead he continued on. “Well, I’m here to fix that. I’m here to give you a big break. Inspiration for horror like you’ve never had! The REAL DEAL Mike. You’ll be famous.”
“I’m dreaming,” Mike muttered, shaking his head, “Or crazy.”
Dante made a sound that could have been a sigh but came out sounding like a course hiss. He was wondering why people thought writers were smart.
“Look, Mike, your mental status is between you and your shrink. As for if this is a dream, well maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t. Either way, what have you got to lose from talking to me?”
“Nothing…I guess,” Mike said hesitantly. Some of his fear was beginning to fade, replaced by a sense of curiosity and morbid fascination with the thing before him.
Despite his appearance, Dante didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Assuming that he wasn’t a figment of some newfound psychosis.
“Good boy!” Dante exclaimed, “Now we can get down to business.”
“So, you’re really my muse?”
“The one and only,”
“So, what happened? Where’ve you been? Was it the pills?” Mike was feeling braver.
Dante was silent for a minute, his red eyes flickering. He appeared to Mike to be thinking.
“Well Mike, writers, like you are kind of like conduits, between my world and yours. You can tap into our minds and make real, on paper at least, the things beings like me dream up. I guess the pills messed with that. But look, none of that matters now Mike. Because I’ve found a way past it. All you have to do is agree to release me. Do that and you’ll have inspiration like never before.”
Mike’s head was swimming. He felt like he couldn’t make sense of any of this.
“Release you? But how, I don’t have you imprisoned.”
“Well, as your muse you kind of do. So all you have to do is say you free me.”
“But wait…if you’re my inspiration, how do I know you won’t just up and leave?”
“Oh, I won’t. We’re bound Mike, as long as you’re alive, I’ll be around. I’ll be your inspiration. I just want to leave the house. I think my influence will be greater if I get out. So what do you say Mike? You want to be the next big thing in horror. Just say the words Mike, what do you have to lose?”
Mike thought about it. It somehow felt wrong. He wasn’t even sure if any of this was real. But a part of him was very tempted. Where was the harm? He needed to get over his writer’s block and Dante’s offer sounded good. And if this were all a dream or a delusion, well then those three little words wouldn’t change anything.
“All right,” Mike said, deciding. “I…free…you.”
Dante threw his head back and laughed, over joyed at how easy it had been. The sound, a deep husky cackle, made Mike’s blood crawl.
“All right Mike, let the TERROR begin!”
* * *
Dante was good on his word. Mike could hardly believe his good luck. It seemed he wasn’t crazy after all. Plus he had inspiration in excess! In the weeks following, Mike turned out some of his best work. Tales of gruesome, horrific murder and torture. His agent was ecstatic. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on his new manuscripts. And Mike couldn’t wait to finish the one he was working on, so he could get started on the other ideas that were literally pouring into his mind. Mike paused his typing long enough to take a sip of the red bull that sat on his desk. Cracking his knuckles, he resumed his work. The ringing of the phone cut through the led zeppelin rift that was playing on his cd player. He ignored it. His friends and family knew that when he was writing he practically ignored everything else, no phone, no television, his internet used only for research, nothing else. If it were something important, the caller would leave a message.
“Mike, you deh boy? Pick up nah.”
It was Jason, Mike’s friend since childhood, and now his contact in the police service whenever Mike needed advice for writing about crime scenes. Jason sounded slightly alarmed.
“Yeah,” Mike said, grabbing up the cordless.
“Mike you send that story to anyone but me yet? Anybody else read it?”
“No, why?”
“Boy, you watch the news lately?”
“I’ve been writing,” Mike said sounding annoyed. Jason wasn’t coming to the point and it was making him nervous. Usually, when he felt like that, he covered it with annoyance.
“Is seven o’ clock, turn on the news now.”
Mike turned the TV on. A reporter was talking against the backdrop of an image of a body, covered under a sheet, lying on a blood splattered floor .My God, Mike thought as she continued to describe the grisly details of the murder. Details that were all too familiar to Mike. Even after the story was gone, Mike still couldn’t get the image of the body out of his mind. This had to be a mistake, an unfortunate coincidence.
“Mike?” came Jason’s voice from the receiver. He had almost forgotten about him. Mike put the phone to his ear and spent the next few moment talking to Jason. Apparently this wasn’t the first such murder. The rest of the conversation consisted of Jason asking him questions about who else had access to his work, any possible leaks of his manuscript over the web, maybe a psychotic fan who was acting out some sick fantasy. Mike entertained the idea of telling him about Dante. But he could imagine Jason’s reaction: disbelief, worry, an instant call to St Ann’s, or maybe all three. No he had to deal with this on his own.
Hanging up the phone, Mike went back to his computer. Closing his word document, he clicked on Google. He needed to know if this was merely a coincidence as he had hoped. Being skilled at this type of research, it didn’t take him long to pull up several news articles, in different papers, some foreign. As he read the stories, he could feel his stomach churning, could feel the vomit rising into the back of his throat. This was all wrong! Sick and wrong, and all his fault. And the worse part was he had no idea what he could do to stop it.
“Damn you, Dante!” Mike screamed to the empty room.
“You called?” a raspy voice said from behind him.
Mike whirled around, to see the leering face of Dante staring at him.
“You!” he shouted.
“What’s the matter, Mikey boy, you don’t like the gift I’ve given you?”
“Gift…” Mike stammered, “You sick…freak! You did those awful things…”
Dante laughed, a black sadistic sound that echoed with evil.
“Now Mikey, you’re the one who likes to write about this stuff, so who’s the sicko. Besides, you’re the one who let me into your world. And then set me free to do more than just dream. You let me make it real, Mike. And I’ve been soo hungry for soo long, waiting, hoping for a chance to do that.”
The creature licked its disgusting, mandible with a black, serpent like tongue. The motion filled Mike with revulsion.
“This ends now,” he yelled. “I take it back. You’re not free. You have to stop.”
“Mikey, Mikey,” Dante replied, clucking his tongue. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. No, I’m free and I won’t stop. Way I see it you have two choices. Keep on writing, enjoy what you can get from it, or just keep seeing what I do, keep having nightmares and not let it be worth anything to you…you’re choice.”
“No, I’ll stop you…” Mike stammered. He couldn’t keep the fear out of his voice.
Before Mike could do anything, a skeletal hand launched forward, grabbing Mike by the throat and lifting him with superhuman strength.
“You,” Dante said derisively, “won’t do anything. You can’t do anything. You can’t hurt me Michael.”
It was the last thing Mike heard before the world went black.
He woke feeling sore all over. The creature had tossed him un- ceremoniously in the corner of the room, like a discarded rag doll. Mike groaned and sat up. He stifled a sob at the memory of what happened. All those innocent people. God, he had to do something. But what? Clearly Dante was too strong for him to fight, even if he could find him. He couldn’t go to anyone for help. No one would believe him, mental history aside.
Why did he make this stupid deal? Why? Because he had thought it was all a dream? Or because he had hoped it was real and he had wanted an easy solution to his problem. A free ride to fame and fortune.
“God help me,” Mike sobbed, remembering the night he had encountered the thing. And then he remembered something Dante had said. About needing him, about being bound. Could it be possible? It might explain why Dante didn’t kill him.
“God help me, forgive me.” Mike whispered.
He had one last story to write. Then he would be taking a drive to the look out point along the Lady Young.
End
He sat staring at the computer screen, the blank page of the open word document taunting him. The empty whiteness glared with a harshness that made his eyes burn. Or perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the long hours staring at the monitor waiting for inspiration to come. The ringing of the phone did nothing to stir his stagnating mind.
“This is Mike,” came his voice over the answering machine, “you know what to do.”
The long beep was followed by the all too familiar rant of his agent, asking him where the hell he was and if he’d forgotten about his deadlines. A couple more rants, some expletives and the usual request for him to pick up the goddamed phone. Or at least write something and send it in. And then the click of the receiver, followed by blessed silence, leaving Mike to his nothingness.
After a few more moments of staring at the screen, Mike gave in. He shut the computer off, pushed away from the desk and got up. He crossed the small space in his bedroom that separated his desk from his closet and opened the door. A pile of dirty laundry, maybe more than a few weeks worth, avalanched on to the floor. He stared down at the dirty clothing, a reminder of that phase of his depression when he refused to get out of bed to do anything. Food, clothes, writing, even hygiene, all were neglected in his dysthymic haze.
He’d been depressed before, but nothing like this. Most of the time he was able to put his dark mood to use. In fact, it was what had fueled his writing career, allowing him to produce tale after tale of twisted, macabre horror. True, he wasn’t exactly Stephen King, but he’d sold enough to get by, without having to worry about keeping his mundane secondary school teaching job. Secretly, Mike wondered if that was the real reason he never sought help before. Most people, including the solemn faced shrink, assumed it was because he was, like most patients, embarrassed by his condition. But maybe what he was really afraid of was killing the muse, killing that dark part of him that gave birth to his creativity. And it looked as though he was right.
He had been on the pills for roughly six weeks now. His mood had improved sufficiently to allow him to return to some semblance of a normal life. But the writing was dead. Day in, day out he had stared blankly at his computer screen hoping for something. But the ideas refused to come. All he had, if he had anything at all were empty words and an agent breathing down his neck about deadlines. And Mike knew that if he didn’t write something soon, he’d have to start worrying about bill collectors breathing down his neck too. Worse case scenario he’d have to resort to giving English lessons.
With a sigh he gathered up the laundry and stuffed them in a basket. If he couldn’t write, he may as well find something useful to do with his time. Heading out into the small room that served as kitchen, living and washing area, Mike dumped his load into the washer and started the cycle. Grabbing a coke from the fridge, he bee lined for the couch, flopping down on the stained cushion as he turned on the television.
He sipped at his drink as he watched some man talk about how wonderful the slap chop was. For a brief moment he wished he had something stronger than coke, or at least something to mix it with. But then, that was how his father dealt with his problems, not how he did. Taking another sip, he flipped through the channels until he found a movie to watch.
He awoke in darkness, unaware of when he had fallen asleep. His t-shirt, dank with perspiration clung to his chest. He sat up, tugging at the material with one hand, while the other swatted at the mosquito that buzzed near his ear. It took a few seconds for his sleepy mind to realize that the power was out. He wondered if this had anything to do with an unpaid bill, but a glance out his window towards his neighbour’s home draped in shadow, and the darkness stretching out into the distance made him realize it might just be a blackout.
Getting off the couch, he stumbled into the kitchen, and with the aid of faint moonlight, rummaged through his cupboard till he found his flashlight and several previously used candles, already mounted in old tin cans. It didn’t take him long to set them on his tabletop and light the blackened wicks. He stared at the tiny flames, watching them dance; their small bodies casting long shadows. He studied the colours, blue bodies embedded in a halo of orange-yellow. It was oddly mesmerizing to watch. As he stared at the flames, he contemplated trying meditation. Maybe it would spark his creativity. Or maybe it would just put him to sleep again. What the hell, it wasn’t like he had anything else to do now that the current was gone. Closing his eyes, he steadied his breathing, taking long, slow breaths in and out, just like how the yogi guy on You-tube had instructed. Slowly, he felt himself drawn into the silence.
A faint, scratching sound broke his concentration. Mike opened his eyes. He listened intently for a moment, but heard nothing. Dismissing it, he closed his eyes again, trying to resume his meditation.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The noise came again, a bit louder this time. Opening his eyes again, Mike got up. He stood still, waiting and listening.
Scratch… Scratch…. Scratch…Scratch.
It sounded like an animal, a cat maybe, clawing at a door. Maybe it was stuck somewhere. The odd thing was that it wasn’t making any other sound and it sounded like it was coming from his room. Maybe it was right outside his bedroom window. Picking up his flashlight, he headed to his room to investigate.
He entered the room and headed for the window. Yanking it open, he stuck his body halfway out, aiming the flashlight along the narrow alley between his flat and his neighbour’s. The yellow light cut dimly through the gloom, revealing nothing in its wake. Mike pulled back in, his free hand scratching the back of his head. He was sure the sound came from this direction. But there was nothing to see or hear outside. Shrugging his shoulders, he sat down on his bed, deciding to forget about it. Maybe he should just go to bed. Before he could lie down, he heard it again. The sound froze him in position. It was louder now, more distinct. And it seemed to be coming from his closet right in front of him.
Scratch…scratch…click…click… creek.
What the hell? He thought he heard the doorknob on the closet turning and maybe the door opening. A cat couldn’t do that. Grabbing the flashlight he aimed it at the door. It stood silent and unmoving. Mike let out a sigh. Maybe he was just imagining it. He was wondering if it was a side effect of the medication. Didn’t too much serotonin make you schizophrenic? Anyway, he better just check the closet just in case, maybe some poor dumb animal did wander in and got stuck at some point. Getting up, he walked over to the closet and opened the door. There was nothing there. He had imagined it all.
Turning around, he let out a scream. His flashlight hit the ground with a clatter. It didn’t matter. The moonlight was enough for him to see the thing, sitting on his bed; it’s red eyes blazing like torches from hell. It looked like a cross between a skeleton and a nightmare, like death itself, something he would write about in one of his horrors.
“Jesus Christ!” Mike exclaimed, fear lacing his voice.
“Wrong guy,” it said in a husky voice. It jumped off the bed and took a step towards him. Mike backed away, his body hitting the closet door. The creature stood its ground and then made what seemed like a short bow.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Mike. I’m Dante, your muse.”
“This isn’t happening.” Mike said. “You’re not real. You’re just a figment of my imagination…a side effect of the Prozac. If I close my eyes and reopen them you’ll be gone!”
“Oh, geez…” the creature muttered.
“I’m counting!” Mike exclaimed, eyes closed. He could barely keep the hysteria out of his voice. “One…two…three.”
He opened his eyes on the last count.
“Boo,” Dante said flatly.
Mike screamed again. The red lights in Dante’s hollow sockets flickered in an odd manner. If he were human, and had eyeballs, it would have been the equivalent of rolling them.
“Okay, Mikey-boy. Let’s cut the crap. Trust me, if I wanted to hurt you I’d have done it a long time ago. No I wouldn’t do that, ‘cause I need you, and from the way things have been going it seems you need me too. Now, why don’t you pick your jaw up off the floor, sit down and let’s chat.”
Mike moved woodenly to his chair. He looked dazed, almost as though he thought he was in a dream. Well, it was to be expected. It wasn’t every day a muse dropped in on their writer. Especially one that looked like death incarnate. Maybe that’s why there were rules about this sort of thing. It didn’t really matter much to Dante, as long as Mike didn’t start screaming again. True, he wasn’t the bravest of men, but he was curious. And desperate. And that was all Dante needed.
“Hey, Mikey, you wouldn’t have any cigarettes by any chance? I’m dying for a smoke?” Dante asked, grinning wickedly.
Mike shook his head no, the motion stiff and mechanical. Clearly he was still in shock. And he obviously had no sense of humour. Dante figured he’d just get straight to the point: offer Mike what we wanted most so Dante could get what he wanted.
“So Mike, having problem writing lately?” Dante didn’t wait for an answer, instead he continued on. “Well, I’m here to fix that. I’m here to give you a big break. Inspiration for horror like you’ve never had! The REAL DEAL Mike. You’ll be famous.”
“I’m dreaming,” Mike muttered, shaking his head, “Or crazy.”
Dante made a sound that could have been a sigh but came out sounding like a course hiss. He was wondering why people thought writers were smart.
“Look, Mike, your mental status is between you and your shrink. As for if this is a dream, well maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t. Either way, what have you got to lose from talking to me?”
“Nothing…I guess,” Mike said hesitantly. Some of his fear was beginning to fade, replaced by a sense of curiosity and morbid fascination with the thing before him.
Despite his appearance, Dante didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Assuming that he wasn’t a figment of some newfound psychosis.
“Good boy!” Dante exclaimed, “Now we can get down to business.”
“So, you’re really my muse?”
“The one and only,”
“So, what happened? Where’ve you been? Was it the pills?” Mike was feeling braver.
Dante was silent for a minute, his red eyes flickering. He appeared to Mike to be thinking.
“Well Mike, writers, like you are kind of like conduits, between my world and yours. You can tap into our minds and make real, on paper at least, the things beings like me dream up. I guess the pills messed with that. But look, none of that matters now Mike. Because I’ve found a way past it. All you have to do is agree to release me. Do that and you’ll have inspiration like never before.”
Mike’s head was swimming. He felt like he couldn’t make sense of any of this.
“Release you? But how, I don’t have you imprisoned.”
“Well, as your muse you kind of do. So all you have to do is say you free me.”
“But wait…if you’re my inspiration, how do I know you won’t just up and leave?”
“Oh, I won’t. We’re bound Mike, as long as you’re alive, I’ll be around. I’ll be your inspiration. I just want to leave the house. I think my influence will be greater if I get out. So what do you say Mike? You want to be the next big thing in horror. Just say the words Mike, what do you have to lose?”
Mike thought about it. It somehow felt wrong. He wasn’t even sure if any of this was real. But a part of him was very tempted. Where was the harm? He needed to get over his writer’s block and Dante’s offer sounded good. And if this were all a dream or a delusion, well then those three little words wouldn’t change anything.
“All right,” Mike said, deciding. “I…free…you.”
Dante threw his head back and laughed, over joyed at how easy it had been. The sound, a deep husky cackle, made Mike’s blood crawl.
“All right Mike, let the TERROR begin!”
* * *
Dante was good on his word. Mike could hardly believe his good luck. It seemed he wasn’t crazy after all. Plus he had inspiration in excess! In the weeks following, Mike turned out some of his best work. Tales of gruesome, horrific murder and torture. His agent was ecstatic. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on his new manuscripts. And Mike couldn’t wait to finish the one he was working on, so he could get started on the other ideas that were literally pouring into his mind. Mike paused his typing long enough to take a sip of the red bull that sat on his desk. Cracking his knuckles, he resumed his work. The ringing of the phone cut through the led zeppelin rift that was playing on his cd player. He ignored it. His friends and family knew that when he was writing he practically ignored everything else, no phone, no television, his internet used only for research, nothing else. If it were something important, the caller would leave a message.
“Mike, you deh boy? Pick up nah.”
It was Jason, Mike’s friend since childhood, and now his contact in the police service whenever Mike needed advice for writing about crime scenes. Jason sounded slightly alarmed.
“Yeah,” Mike said, grabbing up the cordless.
“Mike you send that story to anyone but me yet? Anybody else read it?”
“No, why?”
“Boy, you watch the news lately?”
“I’ve been writing,” Mike said sounding annoyed. Jason wasn’t coming to the point and it was making him nervous. Usually, when he felt like that, he covered it with annoyance.
“Is seven o’ clock, turn on the news now.”
Mike turned the TV on. A reporter was talking against the backdrop of an image of a body, covered under a sheet, lying on a blood splattered floor .My God, Mike thought as she continued to describe the grisly details of the murder. Details that were all too familiar to Mike. Even after the story was gone, Mike still couldn’t get the image of the body out of his mind. This had to be a mistake, an unfortunate coincidence.
“Mike?” came Jason’s voice from the receiver. He had almost forgotten about him. Mike put the phone to his ear and spent the next few moment talking to Jason. Apparently this wasn’t the first such murder. The rest of the conversation consisted of Jason asking him questions about who else had access to his work, any possible leaks of his manuscript over the web, maybe a psychotic fan who was acting out some sick fantasy. Mike entertained the idea of telling him about Dante. But he could imagine Jason’s reaction: disbelief, worry, an instant call to St Ann’s, or maybe all three. No he had to deal with this on his own.
Hanging up the phone, Mike went back to his computer. Closing his word document, he clicked on Google. He needed to know if this was merely a coincidence as he had hoped. Being skilled at this type of research, it didn’t take him long to pull up several news articles, in different papers, some foreign. As he read the stories, he could feel his stomach churning, could feel the vomit rising into the back of his throat. This was all wrong! Sick and wrong, and all his fault. And the worse part was he had no idea what he could do to stop it.
“Damn you, Dante!” Mike screamed to the empty room.
“You called?” a raspy voice said from behind him.
Mike whirled around, to see the leering face of Dante staring at him.
“You!” he shouted.
“What’s the matter, Mikey boy, you don’t like the gift I’ve given you?”
“Gift…” Mike stammered, “You sick…freak! You did those awful things…”
Dante laughed, a black sadistic sound that echoed with evil.
“Now Mikey, you’re the one who likes to write about this stuff, so who’s the sicko. Besides, you’re the one who let me into your world. And then set me free to do more than just dream. You let me make it real, Mike. And I’ve been soo hungry for soo long, waiting, hoping for a chance to do that.”
The creature licked its disgusting, mandible with a black, serpent like tongue. The motion filled Mike with revulsion.
“This ends now,” he yelled. “I take it back. You’re not free. You have to stop.”
“Mikey, Mikey,” Dante replied, clucking his tongue. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. No, I’m free and I won’t stop. Way I see it you have two choices. Keep on writing, enjoy what you can get from it, or just keep seeing what I do, keep having nightmares and not let it be worth anything to you…you’re choice.”
“No, I’ll stop you…” Mike stammered. He couldn’t keep the fear out of his voice.
Before Mike could do anything, a skeletal hand launched forward, grabbing Mike by the throat and lifting him with superhuman strength.
“You,” Dante said derisively, “won’t do anything. You can’t do anything. You can’t hurt me Michael.”
It was the last thing Mike heard before the world went black.
He woke feeling sore all over. The creature had tossed him un- ceremoniously in the corner of the room, like a discarded rag doll. Mike groaned and sat up. He stifled a sob at the memory of what happened. All those innocent people. God, he had to do something. But what? Clearly Dante was too strong for him to fight, even if he could find him. He couldn’t go to anyone for help. No one would believe him, mental history aside.
Why did he make this stupid deal? Why? Because he had thought it was all a dream? Or because he had hoped it was real and he had wanted an easy solution to his problem. A free ride to fame and fortune.
“God help me,” Mike sobbed, remembering the night he had encountered the thing. And then he remembered something Dante had said. About needing him, about being bound. Could it be possible? It might explain why Dante didn’t kill him.
“God help me, forgive me.” Mike whispered.
He had one last story to write. Then he would be taking a drive to the look out point along the Lady Young.
End
Quite enjoyable.
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