Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (44 page)

“It’s not your
fault.”

Drew looked at
Brian and pushed a sleeve across his eyes.

“Some freak
hurt her, cut her up, and left her body in the river. And that’s not your
fault.”

“I know, I
know. My brain goes in funny ways. Been thinking a lot about Vivian lately. She
got really weird after college.”

Brian laughed
and slammed his glass on the table. “You sayin’ if she took your schlong she
wouldn’t have been such a nutty bitch?”

“Have some
respect, bro. She’s dead.”

“I’m not trying
to disrespect her, Drew. I’m just sayin’ that you are not responsible for
Vivian’s life. We make a million choices a week. Every day we’re deciding
things that could dramatically change our lives. You can’t hover over that. You
can’t second guess leaving the house a minute later and avoiding a car
accident. You can’t control how the universe deals the deck. Man, you have to
savor the moment because nothing else exists.”

“Thanks,
Buddha.”

“I’m serious,
Drew. And you’re way too serious. Quit thinking seven steps backward and seven
steps forward. I’m not telling you to forsake your future, throw your 401k
money to the casino. What I’m saying is you need to live more in the moment and
enjoy it rather than thinking about what it could have been or what it might
become.”

“Maybe you’re
right. But I’ve always been this way. I’m too metacognitive for my own good.”

“Thanks, Freud.
Call it what you want, but you have to stop taking responsibility for the
universe.”

Drew nodded his
head and looked at the bartender again. He could not help but notice how much
more attractive she became with each rum and coke served. She saw the motion
and pulled the soda gun and bottle of rum, one in each hand.

“Another?” he
asked Brian.

“It’s not like
you raped and murdered Vivian with your own hands. It’s not your fault.”

Drew closed his
eyes and nodded. “You’re right, man. Not like I stabbed her in the back of the
neck.”

Brian squinted
and tilted his head sideways. Before he could speak again, the rum and cokes
arrived with a healthy dose of sugary intoxication, which bent the conversation
back toward the glory days of Soundgarden and the merits of getting Rage
Against the Machine back together.

***

Drew pulled
into the driveway, the streetlights casting a hazy light on the neighborhood. He
fumbled for the keys and caught a glimpse of 2:47 a.m. on the dashboard
clock. The illusion of island happiness from the night’s rum put a smile on
Drew’s face. He hoped Molly would be waiting up for him.

The
refrigerator hummed. Drew dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and kicked
his shoes into a corner, where they landed in the shape of sleeping puppies. He
opened the fridge. The lone lightbulb blinded Drew as he fumbled for the water
pitcher. “Two full glasses and I’ll be good to go tomorrow morning.”

He drained two
and a half glasses to be on the safe side. Two aspirin followed. Drew did not
bother with a shower, and skipped brushing his teeth as well. Any thoughts of
sex with Molly disappeared as his head hit the pillow and Drew succumbed to the
power of a rum-induced, dreamless sleep.

***

“Morning.”

Molly shook the
sleep from her eyes and followed it with an exaggerated yawn that told Drew she
was rested and in a good mood, one of the indicators that married couples use
to measure the worth of the day.

“What time did
you get home?” she asked, watching him stir scrambled eggs in an iron skillet. The
kids sat in the living room, engrossed in the latest cartoon.

“After last
call,” he replied. Drew kissed her forehead before reaching into the
refrigerator for the cheese.

“Omelets for
both?” he shouted into the living room over the rapid-fire laugh of a character
on the screen.

“Yes!” the kids
yelled back in unison.

“You want one?”
Drew asked Molly.

She ignored the
question and put her arms around his waist. Drew felt her breasts on his back
and shook his head.

“Stop that or
I’ll burn these eggs.”

Molly winked
and headed back to the bedroom. She let her robe slip open enough to make Drew
excited.

“C’mon up when
you’re done.”

Drew smiled and
finished the omelets for Billy and Sara. He placed the dirty dishes in the
dishwasher and made sure the stove was off.

“Got some
things to do upstairs. You guys okay?” he asked the kids.

They nodded
without looking up.

They would
sit there through Armageddon if the television still worked,
he thought.

He climbed the
stairs toward the bedroom, where Molly’s robe hung on the hook.

***

The
teapot whistled and demanded attention from its master. The old man sauntered
toward the stove like a bride milking the walk down the aisle. His white hair
sat in wisps on his shoulders, and his beard stretched to his navel. He gripped
the hand-carved cane with his left hand while extending his shaking right hand
toward the pot.

“Let
me get that,” said Ravna.

The
old man whisked the air from in front of his face and wrinkled his nose as if a
foul odor had crept into the room.

“I’m
not feeble,” he replied.

“I
was not suggesting you are, Mashoka. I was trying to be polite.”

“Then
sit down on the couch and allow the master of the house to serve his guest.”

Ravna
put both hands in the air to signal his compliance. He walked two paces from
the kitchenette to the pillows on the floor, chuckling to himself when he
thought of the terms “house” and “guest.” Neither felt accurate, the eternal wordsmithing
and curse of the writer.

Mashoka
turned the burner off and poured the boiling water into two ancient, porcelain
cups. He dropped a hand-filled tea bag into each, instantly releasing the aroma
of citrus and mint.

“Peppermint?”
Ravna asked.

“Spearmint,”
replied Mashoka.

The
old man added two spoons, a cradle of organic cane sugar, and two pieces of
toasted bread to the tray. He leaned his cane on the wall and lifted the tray. Ravna
rushed to his side with his arms extended.

“You
have prepared the tea. The least I can do is carry the tray.”

Mashoka
relented with a nod. “Fifty years ago I would have carried you carrying the
tray.”

“Fifty
years ago I was not even a sparkle in my mother’s eye. Relax, Mashoka. I am not
here to challenge your authority.”

The
old man cracked a smile that sent the lines on his face rearranging at various
angles. His soft eyes shone through the narrow slits created by his Japanese
ancestry. Mashoka pushed the silken headband up a bit on his forehead and
followed Ravna into the seating area.

“How
much of the orange grind do you have left?”

“Enough
for another batch of leaf, provided the spearmint plant produces again.”

Ravna
nodded.

“How
is your mother?” the old man asked.

“Fine.
I guess.”

“A
woman’s mood is not a matter of chance.”

“An
Asian proverb?”

“Obi-wan,
the new Clone Wars cartoon.”

Ravna
laughed and Mashoka did the same. The old man shook his head, trying to hide a
genuine smile.

“Do
you know why I asked to see you?” Ravna asked.

Mashoka
sat still, staring into the younger man’s eyes. “Gaki,” he said to Ravna after
taking a sip of his tea.

“It
has made it here, to our town, so it would seem.”

“It
would seem that way,” replied Mashoka.

“I
thought you might be able to help me.”

“Help
you do what?”

“Banish
it.”

Mashoka
shuddered and let his cane fall to the floor. It rattled on the bamboo hardwood
and rolled to a stop on the cushion between the two men.

“I
am old. Frail.”

“It
has killed twice so far, Mashoka.”

“You
do not know this for certain.”

“I
don’t know for certain that the sun will rise tomorrow, but it will not stop me
from greeting the day.”

“Zhuangzi?”

“Fortune
cookie, Fire Dragon Chinese, East 8
^th
Avenue and Core Road.”

Mashoka
smiled and shook his head at Ravna. “Very well. Let’s call it even.”

Ravna
placed his empty cup on the tray and folded his hands. He ignored the other
treats and stared deep into the old man’s eyes.

“You
know we cannot look away. I will chase it with or without your guidance.”

Mashoka
sighed and placed his cup next to Ravna’s on the tray. He no longer had an
appetite for the toast or frivolous small talk.

“It
has been many years, many decades, since I last fought Gaki. While my body
becomes frail and broken, his spirit remains fierce. These old bones cannot
triumph.”

“I
am not asking for your physical prowess from long ago. I need your wisdom, your
knowledge of the creature. I need to know how to banish it again.”

“Gaki
will return, finding another hole in the dike that has not been plugged.”

“I
can’t worry about that. I can’t be everywhere, all the time. That will need to
be another’s crucible.”

Mashoka
hunched forward and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “If Gaki is
truly here, it will not leave on its own accord. The creature will demand
recompense. Are you willing to be the currency in the transaction?”

“I
have studied hard, Mashoka. I believe I can banish Gaki without sacrificing human
life.”

“By
your count, he has already claimed two souls.”

“Which
is why we cannot delay. We must start preparing, reading, writing.”

“I
have seen several become lost in his spell of consumption, his disease of
greed. You must understand the risk of hunting Gaki.”

Ravna
pulled his laptop from his bag. “My battery is low. Where can I plug this thing
in?”

***

Drew arrived at
the office on Monday morning to hidden stares. His colleagues spoke in hushed
tones when in the proximity of his desk. Several avoided him completely.

The
time spent with Molly made him feel twenty-one again, and he had aches to prove
it. She did not bring up their lunchtime confrontation from the previous week,
and neither did he. The make-up sex was too good to spoil by rehashing the
argument. Drew did not pretend it did not happen, but he resolved the entire
situation to a misunderstanding. His overreaction to Molly’s vibrator damaged
his male ego, thereby creating a situation that did not exist. After all, he
could grapple with the fact that his wife had needs and might seek to have them
fulfilled by another man, but he could not admit defeat to a plastic,
penis-shaped object. Either way, the ramifications of resurrecting the argument
would do nothing but cause unnecessary discomfort for them both. Drew found it
easiest to resume his life on Monday morning and push the incident to the
deepest recesses of his mind.

“Hey!”

Drew turned in
time to see Brian stride past his cubicle, a whirling dervish of slackened tie,
splashing coffee, and conditioner on a wet head.

“He’s still
AWOL,” Drew said to Brian.

“After the
entire weekend?”

Drew nodded as
if taking three sick days in a row was akin to armed robbery. Brian set the
coffee cup down on his desk, where it began to form a perfect, brown circle of
overflow on his desk blotter.

“Maybe the dude
killed a hooker while on a bender and is running from Johnny Law?”

“I can’t see
Johnson with a hooker, and certainly not a dead one.”

Brian slapped
Drew on the back and laughed. He cackled with honesty, unbound and unfettered.

“It wasn’t that
funny,” said Drew.

“I’m happy. You’re
back. The old you. If I had known it would only take a night of letting you
beat me at pool, I would have done that a long time ago.”

Drew’s desk
extension rang, the caller ID showing one of several clients that he had shafted
during his latest funk.

“Gotta take
this. Chiapas for lunch?’

“Served by my
sweet mamasita! I’m in.”

Drew shrugged
and tossed the receiver to his ear. He cocked his head sideways and tucked his
chin down in order to free both hands. He took the call and passed through the
rest of his morning with the efficiency of a top-level manager, delegating
tasks and wading through the ocean of e-mails sitting in his in-box. One day—or
even one afternoon—away from the program could result in a backlog of messages
stretching far into the digital horizon. Lunchtime appeared in an instant. Brian
ordered a margarita with his fajitas, which fostered even more flirting with
the young Latina girl who always worked the lunch crowd. Drew watched as Brian
winked at the young woman, who knew little English besides “Coke” and “check
please.” He found himself back at his desk with five o’clock creeping ever
closer.

Drew managed to
slay hundreds of e-mails while reestablishing contact with several clients that
had drifted from his attention. Brian slapped him on the back on his way out,
mumbling something about Happy Hour at Chiapas followed by a night of dancing. Drew
shrugged off the comment, knowing full well it would not take Brian long to bed
his mamasita, if he had not done so already.

He fumbled
through his internet browser, taking a last look at several social-networking
sites before finishing up for the day. Although the company did not filter
their access, Drew knew the ways of IT, and disciplined himself to dabble
socially only near the quitting hour, a time often left unchecked by Big
Brother. He clicked low on the screen to bring up his e-mail client one last
time for the day.

The “sender”
column sat with its usual list of abbreviated last names and squiggly symbols. All
except for one. Drew’s heart lurched in his throat and his mouth became dry. The
single white space of the column stuck out like a missing tooth, with colors
inverted to reveal a white gap against black text. He glanced at the subject
line of the anonymous message.