Pranks

Winter wind swept briskly across the motley group of four, swirling the flurries from a nearby snowdrift and making them shine like sparkly diamonds in the moonlight. Michael shielded his eyes and braced himself against the frigid air, wondering for the third time how Debbie managed to rope him into this. “Come on,” she said, motioning towards a glass door. A large orange Keep Out sign stood nearby, tattered and torn, its message faded and long since ignored. “Be careful on the stairs,” she spoke. “They’re stable, but it’s hard to see and you might trip.” “Are you sure we can be here?” asked Jane, her voice shaky, nervous. “What if we get caught?” “We’re not going to get caught,” Replied Wendy, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t even know about this place until Debbie told you, right?” “Well, yeah,” mumbled Jane, twirling a strand of black hair. “Then what’s the big deal? There aren’t any people in sight, and even if there were, I doubt anyone would care.” “But what if we do get caught?” she repeated, hands on her hips. “My parents think I’m at a movie right now. If they found out I would do something like this…” “Jane,” Michael reasoned, cutting into what would soon to escalate into a familiar argument. “It’s too late to go back now. Just come on up. What’s the worst that could happen” “I’m not going, alright?” Jane’s eyes flared. “I’ll sit here and hold down the fort, make sure no one tries to go up.” She sighed, and sat down with a loud clank upon the hard metal stairs. Michael and the others pushed on past her, he opened the door after a moments hesitation, the others following suit. “Don’t be long.” Jane called up to them. Michael found himself wishing for a flashlight as soon as they turned towards the hall, the darkness enveloped them like a black shroud. But Debbie had said that a flashlight would ruin the mood, that it would make things less exciting, that it would scare the spirits away. Michael didn’t really believe in spirits or that the simple vacant office building sitting just a few miles from their neighborhood could be haunted. But it was the kind of opportunity a free thinking adventurous teenager couldn’t just pass up, and as he sat with Jane and Wendy and listened to Debbie go on and on and on about this place, he knew there was no getting out of it, now. “Are they evil ghosts?” Jane had asked. Debbie had simply shrugged with an indifferent manner. The hallway opened up to a large main room, the moon drawing thin slits of light upon the floor. A damp moldy smell hung in the air, like years of dust motes had settled, become wet and hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Cobwebs draped about like decorations throughout the room, and Michael started to swipe blindly into the dusky air, making sure that none of them caught his face. A chill breeze blew through a nearby broken window, its jagged edges grinning like the monstrous teeth of an enormous jack-o-lantern in the feint moonlight. Debbie grabbed both Wendy and Michael’s arms and led them to a dark corner of the room. It was so dark that Michael couldn’t even see her face; only her ghostly hand hung out in front of him, guiding him. “Sit here,” she commanded, steering them towards a pair of padded seats. They silently obeyed, and soon the three were sitting around some vague central object, a fourth seat sat empty. “Now listen,” whispered Debbie. “You have to be absolutely quiet for this to work. You may want to close your eyes too…” “Wait,” thought Michael, aloud. “For what to work, exactly?” “To hear the ghosts, or something. Call it whatever the hell you want. You need to really concentrate though. If it works, you’ll start to hear or feel something. Just stay calm and let it pass.” “Whatever,” said Wendy, her voice strained, trying to stay calm “Let’s just try it and get out of here.” “You’re not scared, are you Wends?” taunted Debbie, her tone anything but reassuring. Wendy didn’t respond, and a deafening silence fell upon them. After a few minutes of hesitation Michael closed his eyes, focusing his attention entirely to sound and touch, determined to give Debbie the benefit of the doubt and concentrate as she requested. Nothing but the slow, rhythmic breathing of his two companions punctuated by a few creaks of the building registered for several minutes. Disbelief began to crawl into Michael’s mind. Then he felt it; something light and thin and cold brushing up against his cheek, tickling his neck like a feather and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it before any words come out. It’s what he came for, right? “Mike,” whispered some voice, so faint Michael wasn’t even sure it came from outside his head. He heard Wendy shudder, then fall silent. Even her breath was restrained, coming out only in silent yawns. “Mike…get out…Mike…get…out…” it whispered again, louder this time. He grabbed the sides of his chair and squeezed tightly, trying to ignore the fear building up in his chest. Something
hard and cold touched his shoulder, sat heavily upon his senses, stealing the warmth away from his body. He shivered. Suddenly the thing on his shoulder gained weight and pushed hard, sending Michael flying across the room. Ghostly, ethereal screams pierced the air, accentuated by the more earthly cries of Wendy. A blinding white light flashed into Michael’s eyes, blinding him. “BOO!” Yelled a more masculine voice, followed by raucous laughter. It took a few moments for Michael to figure out what was happening, but when he finally did he simply shook his head, embarrassed. “You got me, Jim,” he laughed as he picked himself off the floor. Jim shined the light onto his own face, still smiling. “I guess you were in on this too, right Debbie?” Jim shined the light onto Debbie’s face, who was also smiling. “Yep. We got Cindy and Kevin the same way, though they screamed a bit louder than you two.” “It’s all good,” said Michael. He was still breathing hard, but laughing all the same. “You doing alright Wends? Those were some pretty intense screams coming outta you.” “Wends?” His words were met with silence. Jim shined his light where Wendy’s chair sat. Where Wendy was supposed to be. But Wendy wasn’t there. “Wends?” Michael called out again, loud enough this time to hear his own echo bounce across the room. Nothing. “Come on Wendy,” cried Debbie nervously. “It was just a joke. Come on out.” Jim cast his light across the room, letting it bounce onto the tables and chairs and cubicles that were too long abandoned. “Ugh,” he muttered. “You guys took forever in getting here. My hands were getting numb.” “From what?” asked Michael. “From the snow. I figured that cold hands would be a nice touch. It’s the little things that count, right?” “I guess,” said Michael. “It’s probably a good thing Jane didn’t come up.” “Why didn’t she?” “She was afraid we’d get caught breaking and entering, or something. She seemed really scared.” “Lame.” “Will you two shut up and find Wendy?” demanded Debbie, her voice cracking. “Maybe she’s hiding, or hit her head or something. Maybe she’s in trouble.” “Listen Debbie,” said Jim. “I’m sure Wends is fine. Just relax. We can split up and search all the cubicles. She has to be in one of them.” “Slight problem there,” said Michael. “When you shined that light in our faces, you ruined our night vision. I can’t see a damn thing.” “Me neither,” said Debbie. “Whatever. It should only take a few minutes to find her no matter what. This place isn’t that big.” But as they went from cubicle to cubicle, searching every nook and cranny they could, checking under every desk, every table, the abandoned office felt very large indeed. It was like the girl had vanished into thin air. “Is everything alright up here?” Jane asked from behind, causing Michael to jump. “Kind of,” replied Michael, reaching out to touch the girl, to see where she was standing. His hands found skin, but quickly draw away like he got an electric shock. “Jesus,” he yelped, rubbing his hands together. “You’re freezing.” “It’s really cold outside. It even started snowing a little. I was going to come inside earlier, but I heard screaming and I got scared. But then I heard some really weird noises outside and got even more scared, so I decided to come up and try to get one of you to figure out what it was.” She paused. “What happened up here, anyway?” “It was all a joke,” said Michael. “But Wendy disappeared and we don’t know where she went. We think she ran into one of the cubicles around here and hit her head or fainted or something.” “Oh.” Her voice was flat and steady, never wavering. “Well, could somebody go downstairs and see if there’s anything wrong? I’m really scared.” Michael was quiet for a moment, considering. “I’ll go,” he spoke finally. “Oh come on Michael,” said Debbie in a nearly hysterical shrill tone. “I don’t think you realize what the hell is happening here. Wendy is gone. People don’t just vanish like that. She’s in trouble, wherever she is. We have to help her.” Michael moved a hand to Debbie’s shoulder, hoping to console her. Her body felt like fire compared to Jane’s. “Listen Debbie,” he said. “Everything is going to be alright. We’re going to find Wends, we’re going to help her with whatever she needs, and then we’re going to go home, because you know like everything will just be fine. But I really am concerned about whatever it is Jane heard. If there are some other people here, or worse, a cop, then that should be our main focus. The last thing I want is to get into real trouble.” “Always a voice of reason, huh Michael,” said Jim. “Let me go with you though. Never know who or what you might run into. Besides, if Wends really did hurt herself, I doubt that I’m the first person she’d like to see.” “Oh, great,” said Debbie. “The big strong boys are leaving the poor girls all alone in the creepy dark room. At least leave us the flashlight,” she demanded, holding out a hand. He sighed, and placed the light into her fingers, muttering something bitter under his breath. The two boys headed towards the stairs. “Be careful!” Jane called out after them. “Those stairs can be tricky.” “So,” said Michael as they passed out of the doorway and into the open night air. “You see anything?” “Nothin’ at all.” Muttered Jim. “It’s weird, huh?” observed Michael, looking up at the sky. “I didn’t even hear Wends get up out of her chair.” “It’s not that weird. You were just more focused on getting the shit scared out of you by me.” “True,” said Michael, laughing a little. “I mean you were really good. Especially with the thing on my neck, and the little whispers to get me softened up and everything.” An unexpected silence followed, and Michael turned his gaze down to see Jim staring straight at him, deadly serious. “What are you talking about?” he asked. A sudden yelp and the sound of a crack floated down from the loft, and in a moment the two boys were running, their feet harshly pounding staccato rings with every step on the hard metal stairs. They reached the room, only to find a flashlight rolling across the floor and no girls to be found anywhere. Michael ran over and grabbed the light, shining it all around, trying to find somebody, anybody. The light flooded over a table near the broken window, and Michael held it steady, his mouth gaping open. Debbie lay slumped against the wall, a neat trickle of blood flowing from the back of her head like red drops of rain from a leaky gutter. She looked out with unseeing eyes, blinded by the light of the flashlight. The two rushed over. “Debbie,” cried Michael, carefully cradling her head. “Can you hear me, Debbie?” “What the hell…” she moaned softly. “What the hell…the puddle…I swear it…it moved…what the hell…” The light began to fade from her eyes, and Michael shook her gently. “Come on,” he said. “Stay with me Debbie. Where’s Jane?” Her eyes open wide. “Jane…she’s…she’s…” Her throat lets out a faint croaking noise, then nothing. “Aw, what the hell man, what the hell,” said Jim, pacing back and forth. “First Wends, then Jane and Debbie…what the hell is this?” “Calm down Jim,” said Michael. “She’s still breathing. But we need to get her to a hospital, and fast.” “Oh, and leave everyone else behind?” said Jim, pacing back and forth even faster and more erratic than before. “Great freaking idea. Real freaking compassionate.” “Jim, there’s something going on here. I think we should do what we can and just get the hell out of here.” “But what about everyone else, huh? What the hell are we supposed to tell everybody? ‘Uh, they disappeared or something. We just couldn’t find them.’ No one’s going to believe us Michael. No one. Shit, this was all supposed to be some stupid little joke. How the hell did this happen?” “Jim,” said Michael, eyeing a stream of blood on the floor moving in a curious fashion. “Stop moving around like that.” “Or what?” asked Jim, pacing faster still. “Jim, look out!” Michael yelled, but it was too late. A thin stream of Debbie’s blood had flowed right into Jim’s path, just enough lubricant to make his feet slip, to compelling him to fall forward. Forcing him right onto the broken windows jagged teeth, piercing his neck. He struggled for just a moment, but dark crimson quickly blossomed on both sides of his neck, the blood spurting out and gushing in time with the rhythm of his heart. His mouth, his jaw, his limbs, all going limp, made his body hang like a marionette cut from its strings. Then all was still. Michael shook his head, breaking his gaze from the horrible scene, and focused on Debbie. He moved to pick her up to take her out of this place when she suddenly awoke. “Wait,” she whispered. “We…I think we found Wendy…the cubicle over there.” “Okay, okay, I got it,” he said, speaking quickly. “Just stay here and try to stay conscious.” “Thanks, Michael.” He moved as fast as he could towards the distant cubicle, taking care not to step in or trip over anything out of place, but stopped just short of entering. A weird thought had entered his mind that he should just leave everyone and go, that he would be all right if he simply dropped everything and headed out the door. “No,” he muttered to himself, and peered inside.It took a few moments to find Wendy, curled up in a fetal position under a desk, her face frozen in a macabre stare of dazed fear, her jaw locked up leaving her mouth frozen in a terrified O. He checked her pulse, but deep down he knew that he didn’t have to; she clearly died a while ago. “Come on, Debbie,” said Michael, turning around. “I’m going to carry you out, okay?” “Whatever you say Michael,” she said, smiling warmly, blindly. He scooped her up, careful to keep her head up and supported, and carried her to the stairs like a baby. He stayed so focused on keeping her alive and leaving that he didn’t even notice Jane right in front of him, and nearly tripped over her. “Oh…oh thank god,” he said. “Listen Jane, we have to get out of here. Debbie’s hurt, and the other two, they’re…they’re dead. There’s something in this place that’s just wrong.” “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, her voice as flat as the last time he heard it. “I’m right behind you.” Michael walked past her, a little confused by her lack of emotion, but still just glad to be leaving. Jane’s hand stayed on his back, so cold that shivers ran up and down his spine. The hand stayed there as he approached the stairs, and Michael stopped. Be careful, she had said. Those stairs can be tricky, she had said. The cold hand gave a quick little push, and for a moment Michael stood on the edge of falling, teetering back and forth. Another quick jab and he was flying down the stairs, his vision exploding into blinding stars as his head bounced onto a metal step, pain ran like an electric current through the rest of his body as his spine landed on another, breaking apart like a soggy branch with a sickening wet snap. Pain mixed with nausea, and Michael’s vision clouded over. He heard the clang, clang-clang of Jane slowly, patiently walking down the stairs. She stood over Michael’s body, her eyes glowing like rubies in the moonlight. “I told you to leave,” she whispered, though no longer Jane’s voice; now the voice of something otherworldly, something evil. “I told you, but you didn’t listen. But don’t worry, my dear boy,” she said, leaning closer. “It will all be over soon.” His screams pierced far into the twilight, but soon all was quiet. All was still, but for the winter wind that swept briskly across the orange Keep Out sign, tattered and torn, its message faded and long since ignored.

Pooky

Fred Hobson returned home after an early October afternoon at the local VFW, where he had been drinking cheap draft beer with the other old cronies. He was in a foul mood, as he had lost yet once again in the weekly fantasy pool. Pooky, his wife’s new beloved miniature Doberman, was curled up in Fred’s recliner in the living room. Fred picked up the little dog and tossed him to the floor. “Stay out of my chair, you little bastid,” he snarled. If Harriet hadn’t been so attached to Pooky, Fred would have cheerfully tied him to the car bumper and gone on a cross-country road trip. Pooky sniffed disdainfully, uttered a low growl and ambled into the kitchen where Harriet was preparing dinner. “Hello, dear,” she called out to her husband. “The meatloaf will be done in a few minutes.” Fred merely grunted, and turned the television to ESPN. Harriet bent down and patted Pooky on the head. “Is daddy being mean to you again?” she crooned. Pooky fixed his dark, gleaming eyes on her, and she stared back, her hand pausing in mid-stroke. They remained fixated on one another with their eyes locked in a sinister moment of mutual understanding. Harriet Hobson rose and walked to the knife block, and selected the largest butcher knife. She turned and slowly approached the living room door, as if in a trance. Fred obliviously sat in his recliner with his back to her, watching television. The noise of Sports Center covered the sound of her approach, and Fred sat and cursed at the scores of the previous weekend’s games, not knowing that his wife of forty years stood just behind him with a knife raised. Harriet silently plunged the knife into the base of Fred’s neck, just behind the left clavicle. The long blade sliced cleanly down into his heart, which immediately began pumping blood through his entire chest cavity instead of pulsing through intended arteries. Fred died instantly, without even knowing anything had happened. Harriet then pulled the knife deftly from out of the near bloodless incision with glazed unfocused eyes, and neatly sank the blade into her own chest. The self-inflicted wound was perfectly aimed, and she crumpled to the floor. Pooky sat in the doorway and watched silently, his beady Doberman eyes gleamed briefly red. Harriet and Fred’s grandson, Steve, found them the next afternoon. He had come over to pick up Fred for a golf outing at the country club. Soon, police were swarming the house, and quickly determined that it had been an obviously successful yet malicious murder–suicide attempt. Pooky patiently sat quiet in the corner of th living room during the fanfare, and licked Steve’s hand when he finally noticed the little dog and reached down to scratch behind an ear. “Hey there, little buddy,” Steve said with a deep sadness weighting his heart. “I forgot all about you! I bet you’re starving to death, huh?” He picked up Pooky and took him into the kitchen in search of some dog food. “What are we going to do with you? Somebody’s got to take care of Grandma’s little Pooky,” he said, pouring a large bowl of Chunky Chuck Wagon Kibble. He scratched the dog’s ears some more and sat him down to eat. Pooky ate ravenously, and Steve smiled as he watched. Steve decided to take custody of the dog until legal arrangements could be made. None of the family members argued, since he was the only one who came to visit regularly over the last several years, and the only one who offered. He loaded the bags of dog food, and assorted dishes and toys into his trunk when the police were done with their investigation, and put Pooky into the passenger seat of his Explorer. Pooky rode around with Steve almost everywhere he went for the next several weeks. Steve had become attached to him, and hated to leave him home, cooped up in the house all day. On a Wednesday, three weeks after he took Pooky home, they were headed downtown together. Steve stopped at a red light, and reached over to scratch Pooky behind the ear. Steve’s hand stopped in mid motion as he and the dog locked eyes in a moment of clarity. Pooky’s eyes appeared coal black, but flashes of thriving flame seemed to be visible deep within them. The light turned green but Steve sat, transfixed. At last, he heard the sound of car horns behind him, and pulled out across the intersection. Steve drove on in a daze, and seemed to possess tunnel vision as they sped down the street. The Ford Explorer rapidly approached a tee intersection and directly before them was a restaurant, with large white-linen clothed tables out front under a green awning. It was lunchtime and the restaurant was packed with people. Steve drove straight into the middle of the crowd, and the SUV smashed through tables and people, and then through the plate glass window and over several more tables, finally coming to a stop when it hit a main support beam halfway across the floor. When it was all over, seventeen people were dead, including Steve. The airbag had deployed when he hit the window, which forced his head back against the seat. Simultaneously, a large jagged piece of glass sailed through the open car window and lodged in his throat, nearly severing his head from his spine. Steve’s eyes remained open, but there was no expression of surprise or shock. To look at him, you’d think he was listening to a boring lecture, or waiting in line at the bank, except for his being dead with a nearly severed neck. Pooky came through the crash without a scratch, and was eventually found curled up in the passenger floorboard of the bloody Explorer. A young policeman pulled him out, and took him outside to the sergeant in charge. “Look at this, sir. He was in the vehicle. What do you think, should I call animal control to come get him?” the young corporal asked. Sergeant Collins petted Pooky, and scratched under his chin. “Nah, let’s just bring him down to the station,” he said. “The family will probably want to take him this afternoon anyway, so there’s no point in bringing those money-suckers into it. You know what they charge to get your gol’durn dog back? Seventy-five freaking bucks!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t send anybody’s dog down there, if I could help it.” He picked up a piece of half-eaten steak from the mess on the ground and gave it to the corporal. “Here, put him in the backseat of my squad car, and give him this to eat. I’ll take care of him ‘till this guy’s family shows up at the station.” No family came to claim the dog, and Pooky ended up staying at the station overnight. He was sitting on Sergeant Collins’s desk the next morning, eating a doughnut, when the day shift arrived. “Look at this little guy,” chuckled Sergeant Collins. “Isn’t he something else? I may take him home if nobody comes to claim him today.” Pooky stood up on the desk, stretched, and looked straight into the man’s eyes. The smoldering blackness of Pooky’ stare seemed to suck the liveliness right out of Sergeant Collins, and at last he sat back and sighed. Pooky returned to his doughnut, just as the corporal who had found him walked over. “Morning, Sarge,” he said cheerfully. “I see you’ve still got your new sidekick.” He pulled a doughnut from the box. “Sit down, Turner,” Sergeant Collins said coldly. “Okay, okay, sorry,” Corporal Turner, muttered. “What’d I do now?” Sergeant Collins gave him an icy stare. “Are you sleeping with my wife, boy?” he finally asked. Turner choked on his doughnut, and managed to spit it out on the floor. “Wh-what?” he sputtered. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never even met your wife, except for that one time at the Police Ball... where is this coming from?” He sounded genuinely confused, and was blushing furiously. “Well, I think you are,” said Collins. He pulled out his service revolver and cocked it. “I think you have been for a long time.” He emptied the gun into Corporal Turner’ chest from four feet away. Three other policemen in the room leaped up, and one of them quickly shot Sergeant Collins three times, twice in the chest and once in the head, killing him on the spot. Pooky simply sat on the Sergeants desk eating his doughnut, and never even flinched at the noise. After finishing the cakey morsel and licking the desk clean of stray flecks of blood stained doughnut glaze, Pooky jumped down off the desk, and in the confusion following the brief gun battle, no one noticed a little miniature Doberman slip quietly out the door. He trotted lazily down the street and turned into a deserted alley just a few blocks away, stopping alongside a putrid dumpster filled with rotting fish bones and discarded cat skins tossed from the nearby neighborhood Chinese restaurant’s flimsy kitchen door. There he began to transform; all his doggy hair fell out, and his small body grew and contorted. Twisting until at last, he completed the shape shifting process and stood proud and massive in his truly sinister form. The miniature Doberman known as Pooky ceased to exist and Lucifer stood, then threw back his horned and leathery head and laughed a maniacal dark snicker. “Oh, how I love my little holiday’s up here,” he chuckled to himself. Satan suddenly evaporated and returned to the depths of Hell, already making plans for his next years visit to earth. A small piece of paper much like one of those found in fortune cookies fluttered to the ground where he had stood, and it bore this message: “Don’t be so quick to laugh when someone says ‘my dog told me to do it’...lucky numbers 6,6,and 6…”

Let's Be Frank

I suppose you’ll want to know exactly how it all happened, every gory detail, and every random step I took that led me to this point. Hell, for that matter, I’d like to know myself. I’ve been trying to piece it all together, trying to figure out what it was that happened that got me here, trying to see where I could have changed the course of events. I might have been able to avoid the whole thing if I had known what was about to come.
I think back on all of this, and it looks like a maze. Each path I have walked on split, and each new path I chose split, and so on and so forth. It reminds me of those books I read as a kid, those ‘choose your own adventure’ types where you had a choice at the end of each chapter: If Ricky decides to talk to the old man, go to page 124. If he keeps on walking through the forest, go to page 61. When you start at the end of the story and try to go back to where you made the wrong choice, it can get very confusing. I’m still not sure how far back I’d have to go to completely undo this mess, perhaps all the way to the beginning, maybe not quite that far. If you don’t believe in aliens, and you were presented with one, would you then believe in their existence, or would you manufacture a reasonable explanation for what you were seeing, or would you simply not see it at all? Aliens don’t have anything to do with what is going on with me, but I’m trying to create an analogy to help me explain my situation, which is completely and utterly bizarre. You see, I didn’t believe in bad guys. I mean real bad guys, the kind who are crazy and cold and heartless, whose soul has become corroded with malice and evil. I saw them on the news, I heard stories about them, but they were always distant, doing things to other people. In my experiences, they didn’t really exist because I had never come into contact with one. To me, they were a fictional character. So, when I was faced with irrefutable evidence of their existence, and to elaborate, their existence within me, my mind/body/soul, you can imagine that it was an earth-shattering experience. I still don’t know if I was crazier before I was aware of their (my other personalities) existence, or after. It’s a tough call. Because my doctor is not so forthcoming with information, and I am not currently allowed to read books or access a computer or anything like that, I haven’t really been able to learn much about my “condition”. The doctor says that once he has “figured me out” we can start thinking about what I will and won’t be allowed to do. I hope he is making faster progress than I am on that subject. I do think, despite my lack of expertise on the question of insanity, that there was a defining moment in my life where my brain split into two parts: one part erased a specific memory and continued on like nothing happened, and the other part turned to page 124, and then on to page 7, etc etc. If that part of my brain continued to split like a fast-growing stock on Wall Street, which my good doctor alluded to (quite nonspecifically), then I really don’t know how many ‘people’ I have become. As I said, this is all new to me. I only found out a few months ago that there was anything wrong at all. Well, I had my suspicions that everything might not be 100% in the old noggin, but I had no idea how far from that empirical number I actually was. I still don’t know for sure, but based on my current situation, and the length of time it seems to be taking that asshole doctor to decide what my “condition” is, I’m guessing it’s a lot closer to 0% than 100%. Does that make me a bad person? I guess that all depends on which me we’re talking about, huh? Right now I’m so confused I don’t even know if I am the dominant personality, the original (I remember my childhood, but what if the other[s] do to?), one of a hundred manifestations, or simply a momentary flash. That uncertainty is a bitch to live with, trust me. It’s like being trapped in a game of Clue with a maniac rolling the dice. Right now you’re probably dying to know what I did. Whad’ya do Freddy, hack your family up with a garden trowel? Shoot your boss? Snipe some people on the Interstate? Did you KILL somebody, George? How ‘bout it, huh? Rape a little girl, Bob, maybe a boy? Did ya like it? What was it, you psycho freak, what did you do? The truth is, I don’t know what all I did. I can tell you what they told me, what I am in here for, living with a bunch of psychos in an “institution” (and I find that name to be a little funny, institution being a place of learning and all, but this one is rather specific in its selection of courses; namely learning about one’s self in my case) but as far as the completed story is concerned, I’m afraid I may leave you a bit disappointed. On the morning of February 22, I woke up in jail. I was totally disoriented, as you can imagine, because the last thing I remember before that was leaving work and getting in my car the day before. I was going to go to Wal-Mart, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in a cell. Some lawyer finally came to talk to me, and instead of clearing up the matter for me, he made me more confused than ever. He said that I had been arrested for breaking and entering (he called it B & E, a term I was not familiar with, and had to ask him to explain) as well as Assault and Battery. “Breaking and Entering, Fred. You broke into a house that was not yours, beat up the occupants, and refused to leave.” He sounded a little exasperated, which made me feel stupid. “What do you mean, broke into someone’s house, why would I do that?” I asked. I was honestly bewildered. “I don’t know, Fred,” he responded. “That’s what I’m here to find out.” “You keep calling me Fred,” I said, suddenly excited. “This is just a case of mistaken identity!” I felt a sudden sense of relief, as the rational explanation of the whole situation finally presented itself to me. “My name is Frank. Frank Thomas. Frank Anthony Thomas. You guys picked up the wrong person,” I announced in triumph. He looked at me with surprised eyes before he caught himself and regained his guarded composure. “Mr. … Thomas, then. Why did you give the police a false name last night? Or are you giving me a false name now? Since you have no identification, it seems that you are grasping at straws to get yourself out of trouble here. I’m your court-appointed lawyer, your defense, so we might as well be honest with each other, huh?” He looked me in the eye with a steadfast gaze. I immediately reached into my left hip pocket to produce my wallet, and found it empty. “I… uh… The police probably took my wallet, right? They have my Drivers License. That will clear all of this up.” He looked at me with a tired expression. “Mr. … Fred, what are you trying to pull here? You know you didn’t have anything in your pockets when they arrested you. Can we just be honest with each other?” he sighed. “You are making my job very difficult right now.” “Look… I’ve forgotten your name, forgive me,” I began. “Mr. Jackson,” he responded. “Look, Mr. Jackson, I’m trying to be honest with you. My name is Frank Thomas. I don’t remember anything that happened last night after I left work. I’m not a criminal, and I can’t imagine breaking into someone’s house. The only thing I can think of for an explanation to all this is that someone drugged me, or something and left me at the scene of their crime. I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I’m not guilty of anything.” I paused to think for a moment. “Where is my car?” I asked in a sudden burst of inspiration. “The real criminal is probably driving it around right now with all the stolen goods he took from that house!” “What sort of car do you drive?” He pulled out a small notebook and a pen from an interior pocket of his suit. “’98 Escort, white.” I immediately recited. “License plate 162 YXC.” I watched as he scribbled furiously in his notebook for a moment before putting it away and turning back to me. “So, you are claiming that you don’t remember anything, huh? So you don’t remember going to…” he pulled a piece a paper from his briefcase and quickly consulted it, “…903 Choctaw Street, beating on the door, demanding that someone named Carol open up the freakin’ door before you kick it in?” I sat stunned for a moment, unable to open my throat to speak. “I… I used to live at 903… before Carol died…” I stuttered. “But that was several years ago, before she was killed. In a wreck,” I hastily added. He had the notebook back out and was writing again. “What sort of car did you drive then, Fre… Frank?” “I had an ’86 Bronco II, why?” I asked. “What does that have to do with anything?” He consulted the sheet again. “Bronco II, that’s what was in the driveway last night, presumed stolen…” he paused. “When did your wife get killed?” He looked up at me, and had a spark of interest in his eye for the first time since entering my cell. I finally got most of the story out of my lawyer, and pieced it together over and over again after he left. I guess I stole a Bronco II out of the Wal-Mart parking lot, one just like I used to drive, and went to the house where I used to live. Carol was my wife for three years, and we lived together in that house the whole time. I moved out after she was killed in a car wreck, which was about two years ago. Anyway, the people that live there now told the police (who told my lawyer, who told me) that I parked in the driveway, walked right up to the door, and tried to open it. It was locked, and they said I tried to unlock it with a key on my key ring. When that didn’t work, I rang the bell and beat on the door, yelling at Carol about changing the lock, and screaming for her to unlock the freakin’ door before I kicked it in. The man inside finally opened the door to confront me, and he says I charged inside and demanded to know what he was doing in my house. My lawyer said I beat him up pretty bad, and repeatedly accused him of sleeping with my wife. I really find that hard to believe, because I am not the violent type at all. Anyway, I guess I threw him out on the lawn, and then discovered the woman in there, who was not Carol. I guess that probably messed me up too, because I started yelling at her, asking her what in the hell was going on, where was Carol, where was all of our stuff, whose shit was in my house, that kind of stuff. I guess I was pretty wigged out when the police got there. So, that is where I have come up with my theory about my mind splitting. I think part of my brain must have blocked out Carols death, and tried to go on like nothing happened. If I still lived in the same place, it might have even worked, for a while at least, then again, maybe not. When Carol never came home, I’d have been forced to deal with the situation anyway. It’s hard to figure out how crazy stuff like that would work. Trust me, my asshole doctor is still working on it, and he’s a professional. The second day in jail, my lawyer came back to see me. He had some other people with him, and they all seemed pretty interested in me. My lawyer started off the conversation. He didn’t bother with introductions. “Good morning, Mr. Taylor. The police found your car. Your wallet, which included your Drivers License, on the seat. Also, I found out quite a bit of information about you that I didn’t know yesterday.” He looked at me with a smug, satisfied expression, as if to say gotcha. “It’s Mr. Thomas,” I replied. “You should know that by now, if you’ve seen my license. Frank Anthony Thomas.” “No, it’s Frederick Albert Taylor. Your insurance card confirms that, as well as your registration, some mail that was in the car, and your police record. That includes fingerprints.” The smug look was more defined now. “Police record?” I was genuinely shocked. “I don’t have one! I’ve never had anything…” I trailed off as one of the other men with him stepped forward. “Mr. Jackson,” he said to my lawyer, “If this gentleman is in fact schizophrenic, which we don’t actually know yet, he will most likely have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Presenting him with facts of his identity will do nothing but confuse him.” He turned to me. “Hello there, I’m Dr. Martin.” He offered his hand. “And you are?” I automatically shook his hand, but my mind was churning this up at a furious rate. “Frank Thomas,” I mumbled. “What in the hell is going on here? And did you say schizophrenic?” My lawyer was determined to be in charge of the discussion. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, Fred. Why don’t you quit playing games with us?” “I have never been here before in my life,” I shot back. “I really don’t think this is something that I’d forget.” Dr. Martin appeared to believe me, because he pulled my lawyer and the other fellow out into the hall for a quick whispered discussion. When they came back in, the doctor did the talking. “Frank, this other gentleman here is the District Attorney. We are going to make arrangements with the judge to take you to a treatment facility to run some tests on you. You may end up being there for some time while we make our evaluation. You are in some trouble here, but we are trying to help you out. Do you understand?” “No,” I cried, “I don’t understand at all! Is what he said true? Have I really been here before? I wish someone would tell me what the hell is happening!” To my horror, I realized that I had tears streaming down my face. “Frank, we believe you are sick,” the doctor said kindly. He offered me a tissue, which I gratefully accepted. “Mr. Jackson told you that you broke into your old house night before last, right?” I nodded. “Well, it seems that you have done that several times before, although the couple that lives there now didn’t live there then. The first few times it was empty, and you’ve given several sets of tenants there quite a scare since then. This is the first time you’ve ever gotten violent, though.” He paused to look at the paperwork in his hand. “There is also the matter of the Ford Bronco II. You sold it to Jeff Hickey, who works at Wal-Mart, and have stolen it from him four times now. He’s never pressed charges against you, and he says that you always bring it back and apologize for it, which I find to be rather surprising. If you honestly don’t remember any of this, and I don’t think you do, then you may have a condition called schizophrenia. That’s what we are going to find out at the treatment center. We’re going to try to make you better.” He winked and gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I know this is all terribly confusing for you, and I don’t want you to think about it too much.” He pulled a pill bottle from his jacket pocket and gave me a small white tablet. “Take this, it will calm you down. We’ll be back to transport you as soon as we get the paperwork finished.” He gathered up the other two, and they left me with my head spinning. They took me to this so-called treatment center, which I soon found out was just like every nuthouse you see in the movies. I keep expecting to see Jack Nicholson in here, from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Anyway, Dr. Martin started seeing me every other day or so, but instead of telling me anything, he kept hypnotizing me. He said he was exploring my psyche, trying to determine how many personalities I was maintaining. Of course I don’t remember any of these sessions. Between that, the medication, and the boredom, I finally decided to confront him about it at our next meeting. I jumped right into my speech before he got rolling with the penlight. “Look, Dr. Martin, I’m here because you guys said I did a bunch of crazy stuff that I don’t remember doing, right?” He nodded. “Well, you said you were going to try to help me. However, all you’ve been doing is hypnotizing me, so now I’m to the point where I can’t even remember the treatment you’re giving me for doing things I can’t remember.” I took a deep breath. It was hard to concentrate on my speech with the medication they kept me on. “I’m really starting to question this whole thing, doctor. I really don’t know if anything actually even happened to begin with. Do you get what I’m saying?” “Fred, we have this discussion every time you come in my office. Are you aware of that?” I looked at him in shock. He continued. “Oh yes, almost word for word, three days a week for close to ten years now.” He leaned back in his chair, and I came out of mine. “Ten years? Who the hell are you trying to kid?” I half-laughed as I sat back down. “Nice try, Dr. Martin, but I’m not crazy, and I haven’t lost track of time. My name is Frank, and I’ve only been in here for a few weeks. Now, seriously: when are we going to start being honest with each other, and when are you going to have a conversation with me that I’ll remember?” “Yes, Frank, I apologize. Fred doesn’t give this speech, he gives the ‘I’m gonna kick your ass and bust out of here’ speech. And here’s yesterdays newspaper, which I always show you, to confirm the date.” He tossed the paper over the desk with the air of a man who is trying to convince a child that the sky is blue, not green. I took the paper and glanced at the date, then looked at it again, slowly. According to the paper, ten years had gone by. How in the hell was that possible? “I think you had this paper made just to screw with me, didn’t you?” I challenged. I noticed with some fear that he had mouthed the words as I was saying them. “Go ahead, look in the mirror over there in the corner,” he said with a flippant wave of his hand. “Take a look at your face; that will convince you. It always does,” he added rather slyly. Almost as an afterthought, he called me back. “Do you want to talk about anything else before you go over there? I only ask because once you realize the truth, you generally revert to another personality. Sometimes it’s Fred, sometimes Bob; sometimes you bring out a new one. But Frank never walks away from that mirror. So, anything else you want to discuss while you’re here?” “You’re crazy,” I told him, and turned back towards the far wall. “Yes, that’s what you usually say.” He sounded disappointed. I hesitated, and thought about it for a moment. What if he was telling the truth? If he was, what did it mean? It would mean that I was crazy, and was living the same day over and over. That wasn’t the case, because I didn’t feel crazy at all. I felt like I was being screwed by a bunch of mad scientists who were trying to see just how far they could push me before I lost it. I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself. I woke up back in my room to the sound of the crazy bitch down the hall shrieking at the top of her lungs as she did every day. Once again, I didn’t remember any of my session with Dr. Martin. I was really going to have to give him a speech about his therapy techniques. I rolled over, thinking back once more. I was trying to define the moment when all of this had started. Not waking up in jail and ending up here, I remembered that just fine. Hell, it was only a few weeks ago. I was trying to go back further, to my first blank spot. If I really was schizophrenic, as everyone seemed to think, then those occasional blank spots might be when I flip, or whatever it’s called. I don’t know if I ever had one before Carol died, but I don’t think so. They started right after I got the news; at least that’s when I seem to remember the first one. They didn’t happen very often usually just a few hours of lost time at work, or sitting on the couch in front of the tube. Carol. God, I miss her. I took her to dinner one night, and she… Pop! I suddenly felt a whole section of my brain shift, as if a balloon had burst inside my skull. I sat up, desperately grabbing at the memories before I lost them again. We were at dinner… …and a man had walked up to our table. He sat down beside Carol as if he belonged there, and she said… she said… I struggled to force it to the top. What did she say? She said she was leaving me. She said this was her new boyfriend, and she wanted a divorce. How could I have forgotten something like that? The memory seemed to blur at that point. I couldn’t remember what happened after that. I tried, but the next event to come to mind was getting a knock on the front door, and a policeman telling me she had been killed in a hit and run automobile incident. Memories of racing to the hospital, doctors shaking their heads, patting me on the back, referring me to the staff minister; before that was a blank spot. The very first blank spot. I lay back on the bed, panting from the mental exertion. I have a session with Dr. Martin tomorrow. I’m going to tell him to quit hypnotizing me and listen to what I have to say. I’m going to tell him about the blank spots in my memory, and that the new ones he is creating aren’t helping any. Hopefully he will listen to me, and we can fix this little glitch so I can go home and get my life back together. My boss isn’t going to like it that I’ve missed several weeks of work, but once I explain the situation to him, I think he’ll understand.
After all, it isn’t as if I killed anyone, right?

Curses And Sin

It was near the stroke of midnight and a darkness fit for the tomb gripped the soundless village. The brisk coolness of an autumn evening joined the assault of an early evening’s rain to chill a body down to the very marrow. In the darkness and the cold and damp, a sound of footsteps on cobblestones pierced the silence. “Click-clack,” they announced to the world that a visitor was approaching this woeful town’s lone church. The tall late night visitor wore a cloak as black as sack cloth. When he had reached the top of the church’s granite stairs, he pounded on the broad age worn oak doors. Thunderous booms that echoed through the still night burst from his massive fist. “Grundler! Murdering priest! Come out of there!” Shouted Dark-Shroud above the thunderous pounding. After many blows and many more curses were thrown at the door it finally creaked open and in the dim light inside the face of a tired monk appeared. “Can I help you?” “Tell Father Grundler that Cenarius has come to collect his due.” The monk stepped back from the door, frightened by the tone of the man before him. A timid voice squeaked, “I know what you are, demon. You have a lot of nerve in showing up here.”“But…” Cenarius’ voice took on a gentler pitch. “But it is cold out here. Will you not invite me in?” “The Father said I was not to offer you entrance in any manner. He said you could not enter if I did not invite you in.” “Damn his eyes! Tell him…” The voice grew quieter. “Tell him I accuse him of murder. Tell him he must come forward to defend his name.” “You cannot issue a challenge to a man of the cloth. We are not warriors, here.” “The church is judge, jury and executioner. I wish for the priest to be judged in the eyes of the church.” “This is most unusual. We do not…” “Bring him. He has murdered an innocent, and I want him to be judged.” The door closed, and for several minutes the stranger could hear the murmur of animated conversation. Then finally the door opened. A priest stepped out, accompanied by five robe-clad monks. Dark-Shroud gave the priest a terrible stare and said, “I accuse you Father Grundler of the murder of my beloved Draenda.” So saying, he grabbed a fistful of the priest’s robe and tossed him down the stairs.

The monks hurriedly gathered at the bottom of the stairs with their priest. The stranger raised his voice to address them all. “He murdered her! That man!” Grundler yelled back in defiance, “I destroyed evil. That is not murder! Your woman was a servant of Satan… just like you.” “A servant of Satan? So this is how you justify murder, Grundler? You place your own titles upon people and then drive stakes through their hearts? My beloved was no more a servant to Satan than you, less by your actions. Her only sin was to be cursed – cursed by another who was cursed.” “You lie! You attempt to deceive us all.” “Do I?” The stranger leaped down the stairs to land beside Grundler. The other monks stepped back. In an instant the man grabbed the cleric and sunk his teeth into the priest’s neck. He drank the priest’s blood with one hand out in warning to the monks. Fearful, the monks did not move to save their priest, but huddled closely together like frightened children. At last as the stranger finished he laid the priest on the ground gently. He stood and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Listen to me. For three days he will lie in a deathlike trance, but at the end of the third day he will rise. He will have a thirst for blood, so have some warm animal blood ready, or your blessed Father will attempt to drink from one of you. In the beginning he will not understand what he is so you will need to protect him from himself. He will only be able to come out at night. The daylight will kill him. He will no longer be able to gaze upon your God’s cross, and any object blessed in the name of God will cause him agony if placed upon his skin. He will have great strength and no mortal man will be able to best him in combat. The only way to truly assure his death is to drive a wooden stake through his heart.” The man in the dark cloak began to back away from the courtyard. The dark of night was faintly lighter with the warning of a sun about to rise. From across the courtyard he yelled, “When he wakes up in three days - cursed as I am cursed – you will need to make a decision. Is this cursed man a servant of Satan? That is the title he placed upon my love and with that title he committed murder in his God’s name. So, if he is a servant of Satan it is your sworn duty as men of the cloth to purge him from the face of the Earth. However, if you decide this is but an illness, then you must assume he committed murder when he drove a stake through my beloved’s heart. What sort of man gives succor to the ill by slaying them? I care not what you decide, but know you this: if any of you decides that this curse makes me an enemy, then an enemy I will be, and you will rue the day you made Drak Anthony your enemy. Adieu!” In the quiet courtyard all that could be heard were the sounds of a man’s footsteps on cobblestones, growing fainter. The sun of a new day was struggling to peek above the distant horizon, and the five monks found themselves pondering the meaning of curses and sin.

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