Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (90 page)

The
frame of the glass door slammed against the rubber stop, triggering the door
chime. A gust of wind blew the stranger’s trench coat out in black
billows. His red power tie sat askew on an unbuttoned collar. The
black plastic fastened to his belt pulsed with a steady green LED, waiting to
deliver the next Wall Street report. A copy of
The New York Times
angled out of another pocket, rolled tightly into a news baton. His
chiseled chin pointed towards the open washer, and he pushed a strand of hair,
one that had broken the bonds of styling gel, from a greasy forehead. His
sideburns ruffled up from the intense wind, revealing the gray streaks
underneath. Shiny, black leather shoes tapped the floor beneath the hemmed
pants of navy slacks.

The
man unfolded his arms to let the blue shopping bags of dirty clothes hit the
folding table. Crumpled socks and designer boxer shorts rolled onto the
surface. Two v-neck t-shirts dropped from the bottom of the bag, one
collar smeared with burgundy lipstick.

A
handful of quarters emerged from a pocket, along with a golden money clip and a
diamond-encrusted lighter. The man counted the change in his head and then
looked at the coin receptacle on the washing machine. He shook his head
and peeled seven fifty-dollar bills from the clip before reaching a one-dollar
bill.

Wait,
don’t show me yet
, said the observer.
Let it play out a little
more so I can guess what you’re going to put on the sign.

He
knew the creator played by its own rules, ignoring requests for more
time. The observer turned from the suit and watched the letters on the
sign rearrange themselves: We are responsible for filthy cheaters, broken
homes, and destroyed youth. Use your secretary at own risk.

How
do you know it was his secretary? Could have been a coworker or a neighbor.

The
sign never answered his questions.

The
scene dissolved into tendrils of odorless smoke as the vision cleared. He did
not hear the door open when the next man entered. He carried a blue
plastic laundry basket with “The Writings of Captain John Smith” perched on
top. His hair dropped to the middle of his back, swaying on the smooth
leather coat. The stubble on his face darkened a furrowed brow.

The
man reached into the basket and began to shovel handfuls of pink pajamas,
racecar briefs, and tube socks into the gaping mouth of the fourth washer from
the end. A few beige bras followed, accompanied with a low grumble. The
man pulled his coat tight around his neck and shoved a hand into his front
pocket. Out came a ruffled spiral notebook, the miniature kind used for
shopping lists and quick notes. He uncapped a disposable pen pulled from
deep within the coat.

The
observer watched the stranger’s pen dance across the pages, the white paper
flipping like the wings of a dove.

What’s
he writing?

The
observer glanced up at the sign, but the letters stared back, stuck in their
ancient cadence: We are not responsible for loss or damage of clothes. Use
washers and dryers at own risk.

It’ll
change
, he thought. 
It’ll change
.

The
man walked to the coin dispenser and fed it four dollar bills. The gears
inside vomited sixteen quarters into the tin cup, and he pushed a wisp of long
hair from his face and scooped the quarters into a hand. Before walking
them to the washer, he turned and stared at the space next to the vending
machine.

He
senses something
, the observer thought.
This one feels my
presence.

The
man sighed and rubbed a creased forehead with his left hand. He took a
step towards the washer, looking over his shoulder at the perplexing emptiness.

The
observer stared at the man’s back as the lid came down and the cycle light
pulsed. He looked up as the swirling letters came to rest on the sign: We
are not responsible for finding you an agent or getting a short story
sold. Use creativity and storytelling at own risk.

The
observer walked past the long-haired man scribbling into the notebook and
pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He smacked the light switch with one
hand while pulling the door shut with the other. The man spun the lock to
the right and turned his back on the stories of the day, already pondering what
awaited him on the next visit to the washateria.

Hearts of Ochre
spilled out of my first
manuscript. The setting, clearly influenced by the ceremonies of the
ancient Aztecs, sprang from the page. However, after many revisions, it
did not make the cut. I reformatted the scene into a short story, added an
audio narration mixed with an instrumental by Nine Inch Nails, and posted it on
my website. That recording may reappear in the near future.

Hearts of Ochre

The
turquoise edge of the Great Sea sliced through the expansive sky as I soared
over the mountains, layers of mist gathered under my feet. The One World
stretched out beneath me, and I twisted and turned through the air, thinking
nothing could slow my flight across the empire. The gods had taken the reins
and angled me towards the temple that jutted out from the heart of the jungle.

“Set
me free. Send me across the universe on your wings.”

They
did not respond.

The
temple pulled my body to its altar. The sanctuary stood high above the
forest, towering over the Capitol and its surrounding villages. Thousands
of people gathered at its base, chanting and demanding blood. Torches
glimmered among the masses, and their flames pulsed with the dance of the
dead. The shaman turned. He wore the skin of a warrior, a conquered
foe. Blood still dripped from the mask, and the Shaman’s eyes looked
through me, into an unknown time and place.

“Who
sent you?” he asked.

I
looked to the clouds for an answer, but the gods ignored me.

 “The
One World sent me,” I replied with reluctant clarity.

The
shaman looked away and continued the ceremony, waving his staff of smoke over
the altar. Three sentries stood next to him, and a line of men stood to
one side, their wrists bound together and attached to a long staff. The shaman
approached the men, mumbling and gesturing towards the heavens. He opened
his palm, raised it to his mouth, and blew a cloud of dust into their
faces. They did not struggle with the shackles or plead for mercy from the
guards. The prisoners shook their heads as a distant, calm, yet restless
expression covered their faces. With slowed breathing, they stood like
statues in a sea of chaos. Deep blue dye covered their bodies and their shaved
heads. Various piercings glistened in the rays of the Sun God, and the men
bled from open wounds, creating streaks of liquid purple over their painted
skin.

Warriors
at the base of the temple pointed towards the prisoners, recognizing ones they had
captured in battle. Two priests stood near a large stone table, behind the shaman. They
also wore the skin of prisoners of war.

From
down below, the cheers and chants bounced off the stone structures and
reverberated upward. I looked over the edge of the shrine into a
festival. Men drank and women danced. Vendors sold wares to an
orgasmic crowd of bloodthirsty villagers. The mass of humanity spread out
before me, undulating like a giant serpent moving across the jungle
floor. My heartbeat fell into the thumping rhythm of the skin drums.

”Are
you here to nourish?” the shaman asked.

“No. The
nourishment comes from the prisoners of the Flowery War.”

This
elicited a crooked smile from the shaman. His tongue slithered between
three rotten teeth.

“You
arrive clothed in ignorance,” he said.

“They
cannot see me?” I asked, ignoring his statement.

“Only
I can see beyond this plane.”

He
turned away with more chants. The priests secured a young warrior to the
top of a stone table. The rock arched up towards the Sun God, forcing the
warrior’s chest into the air. He wore a thin covering of limestone dust
with a circle of red ochre painted over his heart. He did not scream, beg,
or cry. This warrior held the same gaze as the others, a distant but
troubled stare. I lost myself in his eyes, which glistened under the mask
of skin placed over his face. His mouth fell open and he turned to face
me.

“Are
you here to help with the ceremony?” he asked.

The
shaman stopped his chant and looked at me, awaiting my response.

“I
don’t know why I am here,” I replied.

“You
serve as a witness. Through barbarism and savagery comes life and
evolution. The Sun God needs nourishment for his journey.”

I
gawked at the spectacle and shook the man’s arm. “Justice does not serve you,
noble warrior. Rise from your shackles and demand it.”

The
man laughed at my words. A wide grin creased his face. “Honor supplants
justice. Accusations weigh heavy on your heart. You would do better
than to insult the Giver.” He turned to face the shaman and spoke again. ”Do it
now.”

The
shaman danced around the stone table. The sound of the drums fluttered in
my chest, vibrations running down my legs and into the temple. He removed
a short dagger from underneath his tattered robes, and the crowds bellowed in
approval. I stepped between the shaman and his intended sacrificial
warrior.

”You
cannot do this. It violates the laws of the Empire.”

He
pointed to the bound victim with the dagger. “The gods pay no mind to the laws
of mortals. The blood of Flowers fuels the Sun God.”

“He
gives his life through hazy eyes. You steal what is not yours.”

The
shaman raised his fist to my face, his entire body shaking with anger. “You
cannot ascribe ownership to the One World. The blood of the weak will sow
the seeds of the strong.”

I
stumbled backwards from the altar and felt heat emanating from the stone wall
at the top of the temple. The chants of the shaman grew in volume and
intensity, and the music and drums below matched him in tempo. He raised
both hands above his head, holding the dagger between them. With one swift
motion, the shaman plunged the dagger deep into the warrior’s chest until the
hilt stopped. The shaman made a circular motion with his right hand and
removed the dagger. He held the blade to his face and licked the blood
from it, but the warrior did not move. He continued to stare at me, wide eyed
and without emotion.

The
shaman shoved his right hand into the bleeding chest cavity and gripped the
beating heart. He held it before his clerics, the sentries, the other
captives, the One World. The heart pulsed, a final spasm before stopping,
and the warrior’s eyes froze. Blood spilled from his body and through a
stone gutter to the edge of the temple as the shaman put the heart into the
mouth of the Sun God. Red lines of blood raced down the mortar joints and
pooled at the base of the stone. The crimson puddle expanded back towards
the sacrificial altar, and the priests untied the straps that held the warrior
to the stone table.

I
walked to the altar and stood over the body. One of the guards turned the
man’s head away from me while they released his arms and legs. I could not
move, speak, or breathe. My vision narrowed as darkness constricted it to
a fine point. I lost all feeling in my arms and legs. My lungs
refused to hold air, would not deliver life to my heart. I gazed upon the
warrior’s face before he raced beyond the Region of the Dead, and I recognized
it as my own.

Ten Days
won the 2009 New Writer Short Story
Contest.  It is one of the first short stories I wrote, a nod to Poe’s
Cask
of Amontillado
.  Writing in the first person can be a liberating
experience.  Vengeance is a timeless theme.

Ten Days

It
takes ten days to die. The gods give you time to devour your sins before
the Call to Judgment, and they laugh at the weak.

***

I
had no choice. Honor lives long after the creatures of the dirt eat your
flesh—long after your sun-bleached bones poke through the shallow
grave. Legacies live on the tongues of others.

At
first, they shared glances across the fire. Night covered her face, but
not the sparkle in her smile. Hane tried to mask his feelings, but the
eyes always mirror the truth.

Sasha
would greet me from the hunt with a kiss, a slight touch of hands.

“I
am happy for your return. I will prove my love to you,” she would say,
leaving her passion unspoken, untapped.

The
seasons cycled, and her greetings faded like the ebbing tide of the Great
Sea. The distance grew over time.

“Welcome”
replaced her original expressions.

Sasha
served me through empty, ritualistic motions. Her change made me aware but
did not lead me down the path of revelation. What one treasures as new and
exciting often turns routine, predictable. Through the flames of the fire,
I saw the magnetic pull of Hane’s eyes on her. And I knew.

***

Generations
had hunted the abundant game and used the sprawling canopy of the Northern
Woods for lumber. I turned to her in my time of need, holding out a hand
for the solution I desired. She revealed it during the heat of the summer
season.

I
followed the ancient trail into a secluded valley. The Sun God blasted the
One World with unforgiving heat. Even in the shade of the living sentries,
the oppressive air filled my lungs like cotton. A small stream ran through
the floor of the valley on its eternal voyage to the Great Sea. I stopped on
the trail to pick up a large, green leaf and placed it under the band on my
forehead, which kept the salty sweat from burning my eyes. Creatures of
the Northern Woods buzzed with midday activity, although some chose to hide
from the scorching rays of the Sun God.