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uiet and unassuming . . .
Those are generally the two adjectives most attributed to serial killers and nut cases by those who claimed to have known them best. Surely, you’ve heard the same song and dance routine hundreds of times on the evening news—neighbors and co-workers babbling the usual spiel for a few seconds of screen time:
“He was so quiet and unassuming . . . Such a nice young man, really . . . Kept to himself mostly . . . He wouldn’t hurt a fly . . . Never would have suspected that he would be capable of such terrible acts . . .”
Likewise, I’m sure you never actually believed anything they said. How could they not know that the detached and unemotional miscreant alienating himself from the rest of society could turn out to be a seriously disturbed individual? I, too, scoffed at this implication of ignorance until I met Charlie Merkle.
If ever there were a proper description of Charlie Merkle, it would be quiet and unassuming—so much so, in fact, it took me nearly four years of high school to realize that he even existed! If you were to ask most people in my senior class who Charlie Merkle was, you would most likely be met with a perplexed stare of failed recognition. That was just the way Charlie was; he coasted delicately between the planes of existence and anonymity like a ghostly mist amongst the living. Unfortunately for Charlie . . . not all of the student body was completely unaware of his existence.
Charlie—though a brilliant young mind in his own right—was hopelessly labeled as the school schlep; ignored by most, but tortured and berated by the rest. Guys like Charlie only seemed to be able to attract negative attention and would simply take his daily thrashings by the school bullies in stride, sucking it up like a sponge and burying it deep within his soul. But, as we all know from experience, there’s only so much a sponge can absorb before it begins to leak.
Charlie and I finally connected in our senior year, sitting across from one another in art class. I—like most of my other classmates—took the course as an easy elective and as a way to slack off in class without any serious consequence; but Charlie held a genuine love for the subject. Few people truly realized the natural talent Charlie held inside of him and his sketch book—which was never absent from his side, like some vital organ—was filled with endless drawings and doodlings, each more brilliant and more intricate then the next. I was fortunate enough the privilege to examine first hand his work; a privilege I saw no less than being able to hold in my hand some divine masterwork. Charlie really had an eye for the beauty that encircled him and an inexplicable gift for being able to capture it with his pen on paper. If he would have put his mind to it, Charlie might have been able to achieve much success in the serious art world.
However, despite his marvelous gifts . . . Charlie was more fascinated with comic book art; drawing and imitating, endlessly, the juvenile superhero characters from some of his favorite comics. It was little mystery to me why Charlie spent so much time reveling within the fantasy world of superheroes; they were his friends and saviors, shielding him from the horrible and cruel world around him.
Unfortunately, these same heroes would cause Charlie no end of grief. Our art teacher, Mr. Palin, despised comic books and saw Charlie’s infatuation with them a travesty. Often, Charlie would try to pass of his caricatures as project assignments, to which Mr. Palin would openly ridicule and debase his work in front of the entire class, stirring the classroom into fits of hysterical laughter. On one such occasion, after spending weeks drawing and painting a spectacular portrait of his favorite superhero, Captain Astonishin’, rendered completely in rich textures and color tones, Mr. Palin not only failed him, but exacted a malicious penalty.
“What is this trash, Mr. Merkle?” Palin inquired loudly enough for the whole class to overhear.
“That is my submission for this week’s assignment,” Charlie meekly replied, “You assigned us to draw the human form.”
“Yes . . . but you did not meet the requirements.”
“Well . . . I believe you stated that the portrait depict the human form, detailing both muscle tone and structure. I believe I have met that requirement.”
“All that you manage to depict, Mr. Merkle, is failure to grasp reality.”
Palin held the portrait high in the air for all the class to see.
"Attention class . . .” he announced, “Mr. Merkle has afforded us the opportunity to set an example as to what is art . . . and what is worthless trash. In your books, you may exam closely what is termed by generally society as ‘works-of-art.’ What Mr. Merkle has so ignorantly submitted as art is a prime specimen of third rated hack. I will now demonstrate how such works should be treated.”
Palin removed a lighter from his pocket and process to ignite the paper, burning the work in front of Charlie. When it was fully engulfed with flame, Palin tossed it to the floor and stamped it carelessly with his foot; reducing his masterwork to a black pile of ash. It was at that moment, as I watched appalled by Palin’s despicable display and Charlie’s tearfully gathering up the ashes with his hands, that I felt it necessary to befriend the poor soul. In retrospect, I cannot determine whether this decision to have been initiated out of pity or genuine respect for an under-appreciated artist, but am I certain it would be a decision that may haunt me for the rest of my days.
Skeptical of my intentions at first, it took some time before Charlie could see it in his heart to let me enter into his invisible life. But, whether it be from the long years of social isolation or sheer loneliness, I was able to convince him that my intentions as his friend were honest and that I could be trusted enough to be invited to his house. My other friends could not understand why a person of my social stature within the school would ever want to consider acknowledging the presence of a lowly serf as Charlie Merkle—let alone befriend him—and quite frankly I was unable to answer them directly. Somehow, though, I felt that Charlie Merkle was an important individual and to be able to say that I shared in his presence was something I could boast to my grandchildren one day; though true—it would be for a different reason than I could ever have anticipated.
Charlie’s house was perched alone a top a large hill, looming menacingly over the rest of the neighborhood like some gothic castle. As children, my friends and I would tease each other that the house was haunted and would dare one another to walk up to the front door and ring the bell—typical of the many masculine rituals played out in childhood. However, in the daylight of my dwindling adolescence, the house was no more than a neglected old home, far past its threatening prime. There, Charlie lived alone with his near-invalid mother whom he took care of devotedly; there was never any talk of what happened to Mr. Merkle and he was regarded as though he never existed.
Mrs. Merkle was not a good woman, and her mothering skills were so deficient in affection that she could only be called a mother in the strictest technical sense; she had given birth to Charlie and he was still alive. Other than those two qualifications, the woman lacked any love or warmth to bestow upon her only child. Whether it be the lack of a good husband in her life or the debilitating—and mysteriously un-diagnosable—illness that invaded her body shortly after childbirth, Mrs. Merkle saw it fit to unmercifully degrade her son at every given opportunity while, at the same time, making Charlie feel guilty enough to enslave him into performing every little chore she could imagine. Humiliated and beaten down emotionally time and time again, Charlie would graciously soak up his mother’s negativity and unconditionally pay her back with his love and support.
Charlie’s bedroom was something of a gallery of priceless artworks all given birth through his very own hands. Every square inch was filled with drawings and paintings ranging from serious artworks to his passion of comic book heroes . . . all breathtaking with their beauty and substance. As I absorb every piece of his visual brilliance, I marveled at how such a poor and neglected soul who was denied any kind of love or affection—even by his own mother—could possibly ever render with his imagination works of such beauty and splendor. It was almost as if by the act of being denied human affection, Charlie was able to recognize the true beauty that surrounds the world better than those of us that have and take it for granted.
The centerpiece of the room was Charlie’s work desk, littered with many works-in-progress and discarded art supplies. “Would you like to see my most prized positions?” Charlie asked me like a anxious child.
Located at the top of the desk, was a plain and weathered wooden box that contained inside a collection of antique quill ink pens—the type with the brass nibs on the end which needed to be dipped in ink—that he used to ink all of his most precious drawings.
“These pens once belonged to my great-grandfather,” he explained, “They have been passed down through the generations. I guess you can say they are family heirlooms. They may not be worth much money-wise—but they are priceless to be.
“You know, sometimes, I think these pens have a magically quality to them. Stupid . . . I know. But somehow . . . what ever I draw—no matter how intricate or lifelike the detail I put into it, the drawing never truly comes to life unless I outline it in ink with these pens. Once the ink soaks into the paper, the lines that I had sketched casually with my pencil become definite and can never be erased, much like any living thing. Although it could be destroyed, much like a living thing, once inked it could never truly be eradicated from the memory of existence. Like a life, it leaves behind an indelible mark on the world. I can not truly breathe life into my drawings until I inked them with these pens.”
When his father left, Charlie had to rescue the pens from an almost dreadful fate in the garbage disposal by his mother’s hands. He assured her that they would be better disposed of by pawning them off in exchange for some much-needed money and gave her fifty dollars of his own cash to support his lie. He kept them hidden in his room for fear that if his mother ever found out that he still had them, that she would destroy them once and for all.
Besides his art and supplies, Charlie’s room was also immersed with hundreds of books generally of a fantastical and mythical nature. The covers of these books would feature an illustration depicting of wondrous otherworlds, populated by magic and marvelous beings with features both human and imp-like. Charlie would say that besides his art, these books were his best friends, allowing him the chance to escape his depressing life and into unexplored recesses of imagination. They granted him the greatest pleasure and clarity in his life . . . if only for a limited time.
He was most fascinated by magic and the implications that anything was possible and could be achieved by the power of suggestion. He confided that after giving his mother her supper, he’d escape to the local library until closing time studying many diverse and ancient books on the subject of magic, shunned by most of the academic world—not only for their implausibility—but for there black and satanic attributes.
In his heart, Charlie did not believe magic to be a dark art and felt that it was unjustly persecuted—much like himself—and suppressed by the fearing masses from generation to generation. He believed that the universe was made up of a series of different doorways which could be opened and closed at will and by studying and mastering the art of magic, it would possible to achieve such power. He’d tirelessly jotted down selected passages and brought them home for further study in private.
At the time, I foolishly surmised Charlie’s obsession with the art of magic to be as harmless as his fascination with comics; it was just another form of escape. However, there are some things in life better left unknown and Charlie would find out the hard way . . .
My relationship with Charlie Merkle would forever change one brisk February morning, although at the time I had little notion that the day’s events would have such a ghastly impact. The day started out like most for a young man like Charlie, balancing anonymously through the social planes as he always had. However, hard as he tried to conceal his existence from civilization, he would commit one fatal flaw: he bumped head-on into Lenny Markowitz in the hallway.
Lenny could be best described as the school bully; a title he embraced as though he were christened ambassador to some foreign country. Lenny’s physical features matched perfectly with the despicable and vile soul of humanity in that they concealed. His skin was a bizarre shade of yellow and his face was littered with pimples and sores from habitual picking with his fingernails. His hair was ablaze with fiery red hue that was already showing signs of balding—this could be most attributed to the fact that he had been held back several times in his academic career and was nearly legal drinking age. He had green eyes like a cat and his teeth were nearly rotted through, reduced to blacked spears protruding from his inflamed gums. He had a sickening high-pitched squeal of a voice, which reached almost inaudible levels whenever he laughed—usually at the expense of others.
Seizing an opportunity to cause trouble, Lenny grabbed Charlie’s precious sketchbook and held it high in the air so that he could not reach it. Instinctively, Charlie attempted a few futile lunges to retrieve it, but after regaining his composure, remained silent and stoic as if a possum playing dead.
Growing bored with his taunting, and receiving no physical signs of distress from his victim, Lenny decided to up the ante by opening the book to publicly chastise Charlie’s drawings. I tried to stop the rotten bastard myself, but was held back by some of Lenny’s trusted goons.
With a devilish grin, Lenny began to . . . one by one . . . tear the pages from out of the book and crumbled them to the floor at Charlie’s feet. The crowd gathering around the sadistic scene took delight at the public humiliation and laughed more riotously after each following torn out page. Through it all, Charlie stood his ground, never once letting on that he were being mortally wounded inside—to show emotion would let them win, he once told me.
With all the pages torn out and lying at Charlie’s feet, Lenny tossed the shredded book to the floor and left, laughing maniacally and high-fiving his goons. As the crowd dispersed, I aided Charlie with the retrieval of his pages. I could see that Lenny’s bullying had a devastating effect on my friend as he tried in vain to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes.
“They’ll pay . . . Mark my words . . . they will all pay!!!”
He stormed off down the hallway, a look of fierce determination in his eye and clutching his precious and violated drawings. I attempted to call him on the phone to console him, but Charlie would not take any of my calls. I stopped by several times at his house, but was rejected by his mother who claimed that Charlie was feeling ill and would see no one. Finally, I decided it best to just give him some space with the hope that time would heal Charlie’s wounds.
Later that week, in the small hours of the morning, the entire neighborhood was awakened by the screams of sirens racing towards the old Merkle residence. Hopping into some jeans and a sweatshirt, I raced down to Charlie’s house to find several ambulances and police cars surrounding the property. From the blockade, I could see two EMTs carrying a stretcher with a white blood-soaked blanket covering what appeared to be a body from the back of the house and into one of the ambulance cars. Asking some of the people in the crowd what had happened, I was told that Mrs. Merkle was found dead in the backyard; her body torn to shreds as if mauled by some colossal beast while taking out the trash. The authorities would later concur with the fantastic theory, and determined a bear or some other wild animal must have wandered through the neighborhood for food.
As I watched them drive off with the corpse of Mrs. Merkle, I spied my friend Charlie standing stoically on the porch wrapped in a blue police blanket. What struck me most at that moment was my friend’s complete and utter lack of emotion; he almost seemed pleased by the whole scene. I could have been mistaken, but I could have sworn that I spied a faint smile pursed on his lips. I shudder even now at the mere thought of it.
No longer a minor in the eyes of the state, Charlie was granted complete independence and inherited the house and his mother’s holdings—or what lack there of. He would continue to attend school and would receive several generous grants from the state and community as a sympathetic gesture for having to experience such a tremendous loss at such a young age.
Although I would still see him in art class, Charlie became even more withdraw from society, denying even my friendship. I also began to see other changes in Charlie’s behavior; he seemed more relaxed and sure of himself. He began to dress in suits and took better stock in his personal hygiene, wearing cologne and gelling back his jet-black hair. He no longer seemed to fear the public, but rather confidently rejected them. It was as though he now embraced his detachment from humanity as an elitist rather than a faceless minion.
One Thursday morning, the school was met with the news of the dreadful murder of Mr. Palin. He had stayed late the night before preparing for the next day’s lesson in sculpture, when he was horribly slain in the parking lot; his face clawed so severely that he was barely identifiable. Gossip spread throughout the entire school like a plague, all theorizing about Palin’s horrendous demise ranging from mob hit to werewolf attack. That day’s art class was a collective engagement of speculative chatter with equal doses of nervous laughter.
It seemed to be the best thing that had ever happened to the school and everyone was relishing being part of the morbid conversation . . . everyone except Charlie Merkle.
While everyone chattered and gossiped delightedly, Charlie sat silently and disengaged at his desk with his nose buried in his sketchbook as he busily outlined two figures on the paper. Peering over without his knowledge, I could make out what appeared to be a mammoth and frightening depiction of some unearthly beast which could only exist in the dark recesses of a disturbed imagination. Impossible to faithfully describe with words, the best that I could make the beast was a cross between a bear and hawk, containing a bulky body covered with fur, but also contained a razor sharp beak with complimentary talons for hands.
Most disturbing of all was the second figure, which Charlie had nearly finished drawing. The second figure was that of a person, much smaller than that of the beast cowering in a corner. The face of the victim seemed familiar, though at the time I could not properly place it. Later that day, I was met by a very nervous Lenny, who cornered me in the stairwell. Normally, I would have be stricken with some apprehension if I found myself alone with Lenny and his hoods, but on this particular occasion I almost found myself pitying him. His normal smart-ass attitude had been replaced with a fearful ambivalence; constantly looking over his shoulder and wringing his shaken hands. For the first time, Lenny seemed very small and meek.
“Yo . . . you’re friends with that Merkle guy, aren’t you?” he whispered cautiously.
I replied that I was but didn’t currently seem to be on speaking terms. I asked politely what the nature of his business was, to which Lenny answered with a loud pounding of his fist on the wall—not an action of intimidation but of nervous frustration.
“Just tell him to back off of me, OK?” he proclaimed, withdrawing his fist and fidgeting with her coat collar, “You’re his friend . . . he’ll listen to you!”
I told him I didn’t understand what he was saying and to explain, to which Lenny simply chuckled neurotically.
“Look—I don’t how is he’s doing it and I don’t want to know,” he whispered with a quiver in his voice, “all I want is to be left alone . . . I ain’t going to bother him no more.”
Lenny regained his composure and scuttled off down the stairway with his entourage.
At first, I attributed the entire episode to the paranoia that was sweeping across the town from the two murders. However, my worst fears would be confirmed the next morning with the news of Lenny’s untimely demised, his body mutilated in much the same way as those of Mrs. Merkle and Mr. Palin. The actually police report would later attribute the cause of death as a heart failure produced from sheer fright, with the mutilation occurring after his death.
Determined to get to the bottom of all the death and the fear hovering over the town, I marched off to Charlie’s house to confront him with the strange coincidences of the circumstances the past few weeks. To my surprise, Charlie willingly invited into his house like a proper host, with a smile and a handshake.
Entering his room, I was in shock of the morbid gallery of portraits that he now had displayed on his walls.
The entire room was lit with candles and reeking of incense and exotic fragrances; several sculptures and adornments resembling something out of a black mass passed as decor. Gone were all the magnificent drawings and paintings of colorful superheroes and fantasy beings and replaced with depictions of horrid beasts and death. To my horror, several portraits contained the horrible beast I had seen Charlie drawing earlier, some depicting the beast alone while other contained human figures that resembled his mother, Mr. Palin, and Lenny Markowitz. I asked him what he had done and of the coincidental deaths of three of his worst enemies. Charlie answered me with a queer smile of satisfaction that chilled my spine.
“I found the doorway,” he spoke majestically, “I found the doorway and I opened it! No more will anyone take advantage of me . . . not without paying the price.”
I told him I didn’t understand and his laughed openly, claiming he never would expect to . . . it was just too fantastic for any feeble human mind to truly ever understand. He picked up an old and tattered book that lay on his bed and began to casually flip through the pages.
“Who would have guessed that through these antiquated writings a key to another world could be found?” he said to me with a smile, “But I . . . among the thousands that had tried and failed before me . . . have found it!”
“Found what?” I asked fervently.
“The power . . . the power to control all the magic and energy of the universe!” he proclaimed maniacally, “You could imagine my delight when I first laid eyes upon it. I swiped it from the library and took it home so that every momentous verse and syllable could not be lost in my careless dictations. I had to study the source . . . I had to hold the power in my hands!
“It took me precious little time to decipher the spells and their meanings . . . to think that in this book . . . within its yellowed pages hold hundreds of spells and incantations. The possibilities are endless! I could make women fall in love with me, I could see through time and space, I can call upon life itself---”
“And call upon death . . .” I interjected solemnly.
“Yes . . . precisely . . .” Charlie answered gleefully, “Three weeks ago I stumbled upon a spell that could enchant any inanimate object and transform it into a vessel of tremendous power. I decide to enchant something I held very dear to my heart . . . something that had carried me through all the pain and degradation that I had been forced to endure . . . my precious collection of ink pens. You know . . . a drawing never truly takes upon life before it is inked. Before that, it is just scribbling of graphite on spliced wood—it too fragile and could be smeared, distorted, and erased. But after it is outlined in ink . . . well . . . it becomes permanent—existing like you or I.
“But they are still only drawings . . . a lifeless depiction of life itself. But not anymore . . . now with these pens I can literally breathe life into my drawings. What I draw on paper becomes reality! Think of the endless possibilities! Think of all the power that I behold in my fingertips! I can make anything happen . . . anything that I can imagine.”
“Including a beast that kills your enemies?” I said.
Charlie paused, and then smiled with reassurance.
“At first I could not be sure that it would really work . . . I had to test it out first . . .”
“So you tested it on your own mother?”
“She was not a mother!” Charlie screamed angrily, “A mother showers her son with love and warmth . . . she bathed me with hate and disdain. She was a succubus that only took joy in emasculating her only son and laughing at is shortcomings. She was an ugly stain on humanity . . . no one misses her now. I had to be avenged of all the scars she inflicted upon me. She had to be removed . . .
“But I knew I could not do it alone . . . I knew that in my human form I was too weak. But in my imagination . . . ah! In my imagination I could be strong and all-powerful. So I sat at my desk like I had in the past . . . but instead of toiling foolishly with feeble and silly superheroes to find my comfort . . . I created an avenger . . . a fearful beast to vindicate me of all my victimizers. No more would I have to absorb the abuses of simple-minded drones . . . now I could inflict my abuse on them!”
A maddening glare flashed over his eyes. At that moment I was truly frightened of him, not because of the powers he claimed to possess, but because he believed he possessed them. I tried to laugh off his revelation as some sort of cruel joke to elevate my own growing apprehension, but my dismal of his claims only angered him.
“I thought you were my friend!” he shouted at me, waving his arms violently like a child throwing a tantrum, “Of all people, I thought you would understand me . . . but you’re just like all the rest!”
“I am your friend . . .” I pleaded with him, trying to calm him, “I am your friend . . . and I want to help you. I think you need help, Charlie—”
“I don’t need your help! I don’t need anyone’s help or pity anymore! I am empowered, now . . . I will show you! I will show you like all the rest!”
He chased me out of the house and slammed the door behind me. I didn’t know what to make of my friend at that moment, but I was fearful of what he might be capable of with three bodies in his wake. I had to alert the authorities. I jumped into my car and drove off to the local police station.
I remember a quiet night. The sky was pitch black without the presence of the moon, and as I drove down a remote section of Highway 9, I had the disturbing feeling that I was very much alone . . . but not completely alone. The distinct sensation of being watch invaded my thoughts as I drove . . . the feeling of a pair of cold-blooded and hungry eyes itched upon the back of my neck. I kept peering into my rearview mirror like a paranoid fiend, but finding only behind me a vacant back seat.
And yet, the feeling persisted and grew with each passing second. I pressed my foot down further on the accelerator, pushing my vehicle to a blinding speed; I had to get to the police station, although I was not completely sure why. The unshakable realization of my own mortality and the finality of death assaulted my every thought; I could think of nothing else. Without really knowing it, it was as if I was racing against death itself.
Suddenly, a tremendous weight slammed down upon the ceiling of my car, bending it downward like a crushed soda can. I lost control of the car under the colossal force the weighed down on me. My wheels squealed painfully as I swerved across the yellow dividing lines and crashed into a tree, immersing me within the airbag of my steering wheel. As the powder and dust settled, I could hear the hissing from my radiator through the hood. Through my cracked windshield, I could see that my entire front end was crushed.
From the rearview, I spied from the corner of my eye the shadow of a massive beast run across the back of my car. I became stricken with a fear I never thought possible; my muscles convulsed uncontrollably. I wanted to runaway, but the steering wheel and airbag pinned me in upon my chest.
I could feel the unseen beast climb atop my car; its tremendous weight pressing the suspension of the tires like a rubber ball. It sat there breathing savagely and clawing at the roof, its sharp talons scratching upon the metal like razor blades. The entire car began to shake furiously, as the beast became more and more enraged; I could actually feel the hunger it had for my flesh.
I reached into the backseat and grabbed a tire iron that lay on the floor. Grasping the sharp end of the iron ratchet, I stabbed upwards with all my might, piercing the thin metal roof. I stabbed at the beast for my very life, but my best efforts seemed to hold no effect; the beast’s determinations grew only stronger with each stab of the iron.
It had nearly broken through the rooftop, when suddenly the beast’s frenzied assault ceased. There was a horrible howl from the beast, as it seemed to vanish into thin air.
With my vehicle still again, and after several minutes to regain my composure, I wiggled out from the steering wheeling and smashed open the passenger window with the ratchet, escaped down the highway . . . running for all my life back to Charlie Merkle house. I’m not quite sure why I decided to return to his house. It was like I was being manipulated by some invisible force against my will; I was too weak to deny it.
Returning to the house, I found Charlie in his room crouched in a corner and cowering with fear. The pictures and drawing that adorned his walls were all torn down and reduced to a pile of shredded paper on the floor. Noticing my appearance, Charlie leapt to his feet and embraced; tears were streaming down his eyes.
Still possessed by anger, I grabbed my friend by the jacket and threw him against the wall, pinning him helpless.
“You tried to have me killed!” I yelled.
“I’m sorry . . .” he pleaded, his body shaking uncontrollably, “I’m so terribly sorry. It’s true—I began to draw you being attacked that fiendish devil I have created. I had become so perverted by my power that I actually wanted to do harm to the only true friend I ever had. You must forgive me . . . I was so blind . . .”
I released my grip from his jacket and Charlie’s feet dropped to the floor.
“What happened?” I asked, “Why didn’t the beast kill me like all the others?”
“Half way through inking the portrait . . . I began to have second thoughts,” he explained, pacing about the room hysterically, “When I finally realized what it was that I was doing . . . condemning to death my only friend . . . I stopped myself. I refused to ink anymore. But the beast could not be restrained. To my horror . . . the picture began to outline itself!”
“That’s not possible,” I retorted, “How can a picture draw itself?”
“Don’t you see . . . if the picture is not outlined in ink, it can not truly become alive,” he answered, “The beast had to satisfy its bloodlust . . . a lust I gave it and now it craves more! It could not be dissuaded unless it gorges itself upon a sacrifice. Like Lenny . . . or Palin . . . or my mother . . . all lambs to the slaughter . . . and it wanted you next!”
“But it didn’t get me!”
“That’s because I prevented it before it was too late . . .” he continued, “Before the picture could complete itself—and thus sealing your horrible fate—I tore the picture out of my book and burned to ashes. It managed to prevent the foul beast from killing you, but I fear that it was only temporary.”
Charlie grabbed the ancient book of spells and began sifting through the pages at a frantic pace.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I created the beast through magic . . . through this very book!” he answered, never once taking his attention from off of the pages, “Perhaps . . . there’s a spell that will vanquish the foul abomination once and for all!”
Suddenly, there came aloud crash from somewhere downstairs. Charlie froze, his skin turned pale and ashen. He leapt to his feet and began pushing a dresser in front of the door to his bedroom.
“It’s too late!” he exclaimed, “The beast is here! Quick help me.”
Together, we proceeded to move several large pieces of furniture in front of the, barricading ourselves inside. We could hear the fierce demon thrashing and ransacking the house downstairs as it sniffed at our hiding place.
Catching my eye, I turned towards the art desk and to my horror found that the blank papers were now forming images as if drawing upon their own accord. I could make out the figure of the horrible beast and could witness its assault on the house as it played out downstairs. Grabbing the paper, I placed it over the flame of a candle and watched it as it burned to ashes. There was a horrible scream, as though the beast were being mortally wound . . . yet, the beast continued to exist.
“That’s useless now . . . “Charlie said to me, “The beast is far too powerful now . . . it cannot be stopped that way anymore.”
Charlie directed me to guard the door as he returned to his book. Pressing my ear against the wall, I could hear the beast stomping up the staircase, bending and splitting the wood under its tremendous weight. Looking back at the art desk, a drawing was beginning to form on another blank piece of paper; it was the beast climbing the staircase!
“Charlie . . . this is madness!” I proclaimed, “We have to get out of here!”
“No!” Charlie shouted back to me as he continued searching through the book, “It will only to continue to stalk us . . . never ceasing until its hideous lust has been fed. No . . . I must vanquish it here and now.”
The beast, now at the door, smelled our scent through the wood. With its massive talon, it pounded upon the wood shaking the entire foundation of the house. Each subsequent blow from the beast was more powerful and more fervent than the next; it could taste our fears, which only made its terrible clawing even more ferocious. I placed my entire weight against the blockade, but feared it would not hold much longer.
“Quickly, Charlie . . .” I yelled desperately, “I don’t think it will hold.”
“I’m trying . . . I’m trying . . .” he screamed back, “I can’t find it . . . but know it must be here somewhere!”
The wood of the door was beginning to splinter under the fierce assault of the beast; plaster from the ceiling started to crack and fall to the floor. I could now smell the foul breath of the monster, and could hear its mouth salivate as the door continued to give way.
“I’ve found it!” Charlie announced, jumping to his feet, “I’ve found a vanquishing spell!”
Just then, the beast burst into the room with one enormous blow, sending both me and Charlie crashing to the floor; the spell book flying out of his hands and to the far end of the room. The room began to twist and swirl as if a tornado had entered the room, books and papers flew around us as the light from the candle extinguished, plunging us into darkness. The beast, in all its fury, began to ransack all the furniture, sending hefty pieces flying through the air as though they were made of paper.
The room was so dark, that I could only make out the fierce outline of the beast. It was massive and frightening, an unstoppable force of energy that destroyed anyone or anything in its path. I could only lie on the floor, petrified with fear.
I turned to clutch my friend, but found that he was now across the room where the book had landed. Through the darkness, I could barely see him as he crouched over the book and waving his hand above a small wooden box as he mumbled passages from some ancient language I could not understand.
The beast turned its attention over to Charlie and before I could warn him, the beast had him firmly in its talons around the neck. I could see Charlie struggling against the massive fiend in vein, blood spiting up from his mouth as his wind pipe was being crushed. I lunged at the beast and smashed a chair into its back with little effect; the beast simply threw me across the room with the flick of its huge arm.
I watched helplessly on the floor as my friend struggled for his life, but in my stupor I could have sworn I saw Charlie smiling. He raised his right hand high in the air, poised to stab down on the beast; an ink pen firmly in his grip and pointed down at the fiend’s jugular.
“I drew you into this world . . .” my friend struggled to speak as blood poured out of his mouth, “I now erase you from it.”
With a decisive blow, Charlie plunged the ink pen deep into the jugular of the beast. In sheer pain, the beast howled, throwing my friend across the room like rag doll. Thrashing and clawing at his neck, the beast frantic tried to remove the pen from its neck, but it was imbedded to deep into its flesh. It collapsed to floor, its body convulsed and contorted in fits of agony. From its gut, a bright and piercing light penetrated through its flesh, followed by another and another until the beast was a beacon of brilliant light. The beast arched its back and quivered spastically until its body exploded into a gigantic eruption of light, blinding me.
When the dust and paper settled, the room was once again coated with darkness; the beast was vanquished. I could hear the gurgled coughs of my friend and blindly crawled across the room until I found him; barely alive and lying in a pool of his own blood. I cupped his head in my hands and he looked up in me and smiled weakly.
“I did it . . . I killed it . . .” he struggled to speak through the blood rising in his throat, “You don’t have to fear anymore . . . please forgive me . . .”
With that last breath, my friend Charlie died in my arms. I held him in my hands for several hours until the police finally arrived. They interrogated me for some hours before they realized I passed no rational information. I was acquitted from all suspicion due to the extreme nature of Charlie’s death and attributed it to the same unknown causes that killed the others. To this day I am not quite sure what I had seen that night, but knew that it would never terrorize the town or me again.
The fear that had gripped my small town had been banished back to the great unknown from that which it had been ripped, taking back with it the beautiful and misunderstood talent of my friend, Charlie Merkle . . . |
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