So i may or may not be right about this, but I believe that he's very afraid of slipping unexpectedly into a parallel dimension. The old Twilight Zone episodes must have been hell for him to watch.

So I suppose you're wondering what has prompted this loud wondering about the man I consider to be one of the more gifted pulp writers of the latter half of the Twentieth Century (and possibly the best). I have quite a collection of King books on my bookshelf (which I shall take a picture of and post up someday for your viewing pleasure), and I have found a recurring theme in his short stories. Quite a lot of them involve the protagonist(s) slipping into a parallel dimension. Sometimes they come back (The Langoliers from Four Past Midnight) and sometimes they don't (Crouch End in Nightmares and Dreamscapes). It is due to this flimsy evidence that I believe he is somewhat obsessed with going into another dimension.

It's been a long time since I've been writing, but I finally decided I wanted to put my stuff out there. I submitted what I considered my best piece of work to Aphelion Magazine and they accepted it for publishing. My thanks go out to Aphelion for including this story in their October issue and I hope I can provide more to them for future editions. Thanks to all who read my work.

Please don't be afraid to comment on this, I'd appreciate all comments you have to spare.

( Junkyard Days Part I )

THE BETRAYAL


( And Now Onto our Story )

My taste in literature is as varied as my taste in music. The Bartaemius Trilogy is possibly one of the best alternate-reality fantasy novel series I have ever read. Golden Compass eat your heart out. The books follow a Djinn of the name Bartaemius and makes the understanding of the world very easy. The footnotes are very very humourous on occasion, usually coming from bartaemius' own mouth. Most of the book is from his point of view and it's rather amusing to see how he deals with things. It'd be rather impossible to sell this story out, mainly because the world is so intensely different and inherently amazing that it would be selfish not letting you discover it yourself. So I advocate buying this series, or just the first one to see if you like it. Very few books made me belly-laugh as much as Bartaemius did.

Chapter I

Wet. The word formed on his lips before he could even prompt his mind not to say it.

“That’s true, it is”, she said. The rain had fallen on the ground and left both of them stranded, stuck under a lonely bus-shelter in the middle of nowhere.

It’s strange the people you meet when you’re travelling via public transport, he thought to himself. He was taking the bus because his car had broken down a couple weeks before. He looked at her. She couldn’t be much younger than him; twenty-two, maybe twenty three at most. She had a dark, reddish hair colour that he could tell wasn’t all natural. This part of the world almost everyone had black hair and brown eyes. Her eyes, however, were hazel, and it is this that he first noticed about her.

He gazed at her, and by some instinct bred in her through generations of paranoid women, she felt his stare and turned to him quizzically. He fumbled for his words.

“Um, excuse me, hi, my name’s Jeremy”, he started lamely. Almost as soon as he had started he felt the hot blush of shame on his cheeks. She probably thinks your crazy, he thought to himself. She stalled for a moment, and for that crucial moment he thought he had lost her. Then she spoke, her voice filling his heart like the song of an angel.

“Hi, I’m Samantha, but my friends call me Sam”, she responded. It’s not often one meets individuals waiting for public transport who are willing to speak to their fellow commuters. This is mainly because when one volunteers to speak to someone on public transport, most of the general population thinks that such a person is crazy at best or soft-headed at worst. She, not being the general populous, viewed such exchanges as exciting, bordering on adventurous.

“Nice to meet you Samantha…” he said, holding his hand out for her. The soft touch of a woman was no new feeling to him, but as she stretched her hand out to meet his, he felt as thought something would pass between them that would be impossible to ignore. The feeling passed as her hand clasped his and he felt the smooth, gentle grip of her hand.

“…You can call me Sam you know”, she responded with a smile. She always thought that smiling was the easiest thing one could do in a new situation. It always put the other person at ease. She read somewhere that a smile in the animal kingdom meant something totally different. To bare one’s teeth was a sign of aggression, something of a threat or a warning. Human beings were definitely strange creatures.

“I thought only your friends were allowed to call you Sam?” he asked, a small smile dancing on his lips. She smiled, so that was a good sign. At least he hadn’t freaked her out by his sudden outburst about the place being wet. That wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to do; it was liable to get him labelled as “captain obvious”. Among his friends (or acquaintances really) he wasn’t known for much, aside from saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Well, that’s true, but for the sake of brevity, ‘Sam’ is a lot easier to say than ‘Samantha’, don’t you think?” she asked him, her teeth flashing in a wide smile that lit up her whole face. Something about this boy…no…this man made her think about things she hadn’t thought about in a long time. It’s true, she was far from the homeliest girl around, but she hadn’t gotten many offers lately. She suspected it was mainly due to her attitude towards men in general that had her feeling the way she was feeling. This man was something special; she could sense it.

“It is a lot easier to say ‘Sam’, but that begs the question of if you like being addressed as ‘Sam’” he countered. Speaking to her was a lot easier than talking to someone else. He had had a lot of awkward situations with women before. At the back of his mind he recalled a situation where he started a conversation that invariably led to him denouncing the woman he was talking to for her taste in music. It seemed that fate didn’t like his approach to conversation much and almost always threw a wrench into his works when the opportunity presented itself.

“I don’t mind it very much” she responded. “Do you have any nicknames that people call you?” she asked; a glint dancing in her eyes. Nicknames had always been one of her fascination with the human species. In the name a person was called by his peers, one could gauge what kind of person he or she was and what sort of things that person was interested in or embarrassed about.

“Well I do have a few”, he returned, “but I’m not proud of any of them” he finished lamely. This too was true, since among other things, he had been called many degrading names in the past. They didn’t do much to encourage his self esteem to grow very much, but that’s just the way things worked around here. Nicknames tended to be a bit of a sore spot as far as he was concerned.

“Sam isn’t really a nickname anyway, just a shortening of my own long and unwieldy name” she said, fixing his gaze with hers. She felt the anxiety in his voice when he mentioned the unpleasantness of his youth. She thought she had best avoid it for now, but she suspected if topics were lacking, she would return to pick that scab later. What use are scabs if they can’t be picked anyway?

“It’s not so unwieldy, it’s kind of nice, to be honest” he told her, and promptly hung his head to hide his blushing. He looked back up at her quickly, getting his emotions under control at the speed of light. He needn’t have hid his face; for even though he blushed, the chances of her seeing his blushing under his complexion were just above zero. It blended well with his dark, reddish brown skin.

“My parents thought it was nice too, but I’m not very impressed by it. Jeremy, however, is a rather different name” she said and looked directly into his eyes once again. She knew to avoid the nickname subject, but she was determined to talk to him a bit longer, maybe put him at ease long enough for him to tell her his nicknames. Not that they were very important, it was just that she wanted to know them; curiosity and the cat and all that.

“Thank you, I think” he said and laughed. It had been a while since a conversation had made him laugh as easily as this one did. He thanked fate silently for letting him meet her. He looked at her again, and saw the way the weak sun glinted off her hair. Who cares if it was natural or not, if it looked that good on her then maybe she deserved to be wearing it.

“You’re very welcome” she responded and laughed along with him for a bit. “So, what brings you out in this weather? I’m sure you’d have preferred staying home than coming out in this mess” she asked him. His laughter was strange and unique. It didn’t have the booming quality of a man but had the essence of a strong spirit, coupled with the innocence and childishness of a boy. She liked listening to his voice.

“Work; what else would beg a man to leave his warm, comfortable home and face the cold cruel world every day, rain or shine?” he said and made her giggle and nod in agreement. Her laughter was definitely attractive. He found himself wishing he heard more of it. Her eyes sparkled in the late afternoon, the sun peeking out from behind the watery clouds and casting their shadows on the terminal walls behind them.

“Some people enjoy working though” she told him. “I’m a librarian and I enjoy reading so my work is my joy.” It had been ages since she remembered why she entered the field of being a librarian. In this time when the world moved so fast and few people had time for a good read, she was beginning to wonder why she started doing what she did. Talking to him made her realise that she got into it for her own selfish reasons first. She vowed to not forget it in the future.

“So you read a lot then I take it?” he asked. Since the information revolution, more and more people have bypassed the libraries in favour of reading words from the computer screen. He found it both refreshing and uplifting to find someone who liked reading; somewhat of a kindred spirit in a world of few readers and thinkers.

“Well, if being able to chew through a trilogy in a week is a lot, then yes, I suppose I read a lot” she responded, looking at him. A light danced in her eyes as she posed a new question to him. “Who’s your favourite author?”

“Well, I tend to like a lot different types of author and it’s impossible to compare them across genres” he told her. He believed it too. Trying to compare a fantasy author with a science fiction author was like trying to measure weight in litres. Some things just didn’t work.

“That’s true, as a matter of fact.” She nodded, “I believe you’re right about that comparison thing. I’ve never liked comparing Tolkien to King. Both of them are masters in their genres.” She thought about the many times people asked her to tell them their favourite authors and were disappointed when such authors were across many different genres. At least this man understood the subtle differences in genre.

His head nodded in consent as well. “I’m an avid follower of Tolkien’s work myself. I loved reading The Hobbit” he finished with a smile on his face. Just thinking about dear old Bilbo Baggins made him smile. Tolkien’s work was his first foray into the realm of the fantastic, and he fondly remembered the feelings the book evoked.

“I have a copy of The Silmarillion in my apartment, truth be told” she said and giggled self-consciously. She had only just borrowed the book recently, about a week now, but hadn’t had time to start getting into the story. She knew if she picked it up to read it would be a rather long time before she put it back down again. She was a ravenous reader.

“I’ve never actually read The Silmarillion, but I hear it’s just as good if not better than the rest of his work. I heard he wrote it as a history to base his stories upon.” This was true; he had heard it from someone who he trusted on obscure literary knowledge.

Just as she was about to reply, there was a loud honk jolting both of them back to the reality of a bus-stop on a cold and wet April evening. This was her bus and although neither of them wanted the other to leave, they had no choice in the matter. She had to get on because it was the last bus to her area, and he couldn’t get on because if he missed the last bus to his area, he would very possibly be stranded until the next day.

The pneumatic door of the bus swished open and the coldness of the air-conditioned interior of the buss rolled out like a snowdrift from the south Antarctic. She stepped up and disappeared, pausing once to turn around slightly and smile at him before the door swished close once again, swallowing the woman and breaking the connection they had forged. As it pulled away, he wondered if the connection would remain broken or if he would have a chance to reconnect with it and make it stronger.

Chapter 2

 

April turned into May and May turned into June, and as the seasons passed the image of the girl he met waiting for the bus that day faded, getting dimmer and dimmer, retreating into the great backup storage bin of his mind. And just as soon as he had forgotten her he remembered her again.

“Hey!” came a plaintive shout over the din of the cars passing on the wet street. He turned and noticed a familiar face and a smile came to his lips. It had been weeks since he had thought about her, but there she was, as large as life and twice as real. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself at the irony of life.

“Hi, it’s been a long time Sam!” he responded to her. Her name came to his lips as easily as if it was always there. He felt as though it belonged there, it just felt so easy to use it. He was heartened by her wide grin at the use of her name.

“I didn’t think you would remember it” she said. In the dark recesses of her mind she had pondered calling out to him when she saw him, but in those same dark recesses lurked the fear and doubt of him having remembered her. She felt encouraged when she saw him smile and she grinned when he used her name. “How are you Jeremy?” she asked.

“I’ve been better” he said, looking at her. “Meeting you here sure has brightened up my day.” It did too. Before meeting her he had a quiet, nondescript evening planned (some would even consider it boring) involving a one-thousand piece puzzle and a bottle of scotch. He hated drinking alone, but sometimes it calmed him and helped him think.

“Mine too” she said, and flipped her hair back over her shoulder. She hoped he would notice the small gesture, then thought about it once again, realising that, as a man, his intuition for signals was liable to be extremely low. She fixed his eyes with hers and smiled gently and disarmingly. “What have you been up to?”

In all the questions he had gotten over years, he hated this one the most. He could tell her about how he was working on a novel, that he had a small problem with a rash on his leg, or that he was currently going home to do a puzzle and get drunk. The problem in telling her these things was that she’d either think he was boring, disgusting or lonely…which he wasn’t but he’d rather she didn’t know that about him. Then he put it all out on the line.

“I’ve been working on a book…” he began and she jumped into him mid sentence.

“What genre is it? Are you going to get it published?” In all the men she had ever met before, thinking of any of them writing a novel, or even a short story for that matter, was laughable. She was very impressed and a tiny bit worried. Novel-writing wasn’t an easy undertaking, but her excitement overcame her doubt.

“Well, it’s a bit of a tie-in between sci-fi and fantasy actually. I’ve only fleshed out a few of the characters so far.” He looked in admiration at her eyes and melted inside. She looked as though she was genuinely interested, and that wasn’t exactly a common thing. He enjoyed feeling supported, even if it was by an almost-total stranger.

“It’s really impressive to see someone who’s into writing, even if it’s as a hobby” she said and smiled at him. She hoped he would finish his work, because she knew a lot of authors who started something too big for them, got bogged down and eventually gave up. She even dated a few of them, and hanging out with a man with no ambition is pretty much a recipe for disaster.

“Thanks a lot, I haven’t really been getting a lot of support from the people I thought I would have” he said, smiling back at her. “What you said really means a lot to me.” He wondered for a second what this twisted feeling in his stomach was, then he realised it was knots, or butterflies, or whatever you call them these days. He hadn’t gotten those since he was thirteen years old, and he was acting a bit part in the school play.

“You’re welcome, I guess” she said, blushing slightly. In her mind she cursed her pale skin; it really stood out when she blushed. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. Then she thought about it again and hoped he did. Somehow, letting him glimpse into her feelings by seeing her blush didn’t seem so bad. She could live with him seeing her vulnerable. Then she realised that she could probably live with him for the rest of her life. Then once again she blushed at that thought, and bent her head so he wouldn’t notice.

He did notice though. He noticed both times she bent her head and both times she tried to hide the blush, but it was impossible to hide it. The redness sneaked up to her face and he could see it, but being the nice guy he was he didn’t mention it. He smiled a bit though, trying not to make it obvious that he was smiling at her. “Are you okay Sam?” he asked her, moving his hand to her cheek, taking a step that could never be untaken.

As his hand touched her cheek, a flare of surprise and longing went up in her brain at the same time. It had been years since anyone had touched her like that, and to be honest, she missed it. She missed being close to someone, sharing her thoughts and her deeds with them. In reality, she missed being with someone and she felt as though she needed someone. Fate stepped in to give her that someone, but why did it have to be now? Fate sure plays some cruel tricks on one at times. “I’m okay Jeremy. Thanks for asking though” she said and raised her head so that her hair brushed his hand.

“No problem. You’re beautiful you know that?” He had no idea where that came from. It just crawled out of some hole that he pretty much wished was vacant so he could go crawl in there and die. He could almost predict the way she would look at him now, with eyes that told him he was a creepy guy, or at the very worst tell him she didn’t want to talk anymore because he was making her feel uncomfortable. This wasn’t just uncomfortable. This was Uncomfortable City.

“Thanks, you’re going to make me blush again if you keep that up” she said and giggled. She shocked herself with that one. When was the last time she giggled? Maybe it was since she had left high-school all those years ago. She liked the happy feeling it gave her, but at the same time it left her feeling like she had embarrassed herself in front of him. Giggling was for girls, and she was a woman.

He laughed with her. “That doesn’t make you uncomfortable? A guy you barely know telling you that you’re beautiful?” This was just too good to be true. Maybe he found someone he could be with who was willing to overlook the quirks that made up his personality. Someone who saw through the Hara-kiri mentality that forced him to sabotage each and every one of his relationships because they were just not working out. Maybe this time it would be different.

“You’re cute too. I should have asked this a while ago, but I suppose I was too caught up in you to think about it. Do you have a girlfriend?” She felt her will waver as she waited for the inevitable answer. If it was in the affirmative, she would be pretty disappointed.

“I haven’t had a girlfriend for a while” he said to her. When she asked that he felt a shiver of expectation run through him. It left him feeling strangely disconnected. This seemed a bit too good to be true. He pinched himself covertly in order to ascertain it wasn’t. Her smile told him all he had to know about this situation.

“It’s been the same for me” she said sheepishly. Her ears reddened at this, feeling embarrassed for her as well as for himself. But even though his ears felt hot, his smile shone through. It seemed a bit too good to be true. She smiled along with his, and it degenerated into an all out laugh.

He felt good about having her laugh. “You look amazing when you laugh” he said to her, and couldn’t help but fix her eyes with his as they shone. Her giggle evoked feelings deep within his beings that he wasn’t sure he still had. It had been a while since he had felt like this. Her laughter petered out and she looked at him.

“Would you like to go out sometime?” she said. This was new territory for her; she had never asked someone out before, but it seemed the natural thing to do. She waited for his reply, but she didn’t have to wait too long.

It shocked him that she liked him. It shocked him even more that she asked him out. He didn’t know which one surprised him more. As soon as he got over his initial surprise his words seemed like they were taking too long to get out. “Sure!” he said enthusiastically.

She grinned at him and then ventured “Dinner Thursday at eight you think? Here’s my number”, she held out to him a scrap of paper with tiny numerals on it, “Call me.” Her mind raced with the possibility as the bus rounded the corner. As she made her way up the steps into the bus, she turned back wistfully and looked at him standing there, looking at her, his smile still firmly affixed in place.

Chapter 3

Jeremy got home on Thursday and quickly took a shower, then set about getting rid of the stubble of a beard that had started growing on his cheek. The Shaving Razor’s Cold, and it Stings, he thought, unconsciously quoting the lyrics of the old Turtles hit “Daydream Believer”. Tonight of all nights did feel like a daydream.

Time passed way too quickly, faster than she thought it would have, and before long Thursday had snuck up on her. She left work early and got home, preparing a nice dinner for him. She thought about him a lot as the days passed and she wondered if he had thought about her. She smiled as she cut carrots up into a boiling saucepan, the light catching the glint in her eye.

He walked down the stairs from his apartment and walked over to the car he drove. It wasn’t anything fancy; in fact it was far from being fancy. It was a pretty much run-of-the-mill Ford. After the breakdown and finding Sam, he had started using transport more often, so the beaten up old Ford rarely got any exercise. He hopped in, checked his rear-view mirrors and set out from the kerb, whistling. He turned out into the main street and started his drive to destiny.

She finished up her sauce, turned off the stove and went hurriedly to get ready. She had bought a dress especially for this meeting. She wasn’t one to shop very much, but she had made time to get herself a dress from one of the nicer stores at the mall. She hoped he liked it, she sure did. It was black and simple, with a small silver trim along the neckline and along the hemline. She thought it looked fetching. All of a sudden she was nervous. What if he didn’t like it? Maybe, she thought, he didn’t like the colour black. She retreated to the bathroom to do her hair and hopefully stop worrying.

The traffic tonight was terrible. He found himself in a snarl of traffic heading into the city. If he knew he was going to face this, he would have taken the scenic route and bypassed the city-centre altogether. He turned on the radio and was greeted by the familiar song:

“Wake up Sleepy Jean
Oh what can it mean?
To a daydream believer;
And a Homecoming Queen”

He grumbled and fiddled with the radio, trying to find a news report on the current situation. He found one and it told him that two trailers had collided in the middle of the central business district. He sighed and turned his car around, taking great care not to hit anyone in the process and headed for the longer way around. He thought he would have enough time to get there.

She came out of the bathroom, and half-walked, half-ran to the bedroom to get the final touches done and get the dress on. She partially hoped that he would be late so she could finish dressing. She looked at the time, the minute hand ten minutes away from eight-o-clock. She would have to hurry.

He glanced at the clock on his dash reading five minutes to eight. He would make it, he though, but barely. He usually liked to be early, and being just barely on-time unnerved him. Was she really making him this nervous that he was losing his edge? He shook his head. It was the traffic, that’s all. Caught up in his own thoughts he didn’t even see the van which broadsided him from a side street.

It was ten past eight. He was late. She wondered if he was even coming. When he called Tuesday night he said he would be there for sure. She cursed herself for believing him. Maybe all men were not worth it. She thought seriously about becoming lesbian and was still thinking when the phone rang. She picked it up. Less than a minute later it dropped from her fingers as she headed for the hospital.

At reception, she hurriedly looked around and approached the first nurse. She looked dishevelled, but personally she didn’t care. Some things were more important than how one looked. She addressed the young nurse at the reception desk.

“Excuse me? There was a man who was admitted here a little while ago, he was in a car accident…”

“…Ah yes I remember, Are you his wife?” the nurse asked.

“No, not really, just…a close friend. Is he okay? Can I see him?” she asked. She hoped he was okay.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait until the doctor’s finished with him. You can wait here if you like” the nurse responded with a kindly smile.

She thanked the nurse and took up a spot on the waiting chairs, beside a man with an ice-bag over his head. He looked at her.

“You’re here for the guy who was in the accident?” he asked. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Highly doubting that he couldn’t help but overhear, she nodded. She didn’t feel like speaking to strangers at this point. It was that which had got her in this mess in the first place. He seemed unperturbed by her curt silence as he plugged on.

“I was the one that called you ma’am. We found your number on a scrap of paper inside his wallet. It was the only one we could find so we called it and got you. I’m sorry ‘bout what happened…” he finished sheepishly.

“Is he going to be okay? How bad is he hurt?” she asked concernedly.

“He wasn’t hurt much, but he went unconscious after we pulled him out of the car” he said.

She lapsed into a morose silence and after a few minutes the man moved away, leaving her in a world of her own. Minutes passed and time drew on. She started wondering where the doctors were and wondered if anyone bothered to inform his family. She wondered if he even had a family. There was so much about him that she didn’t know. She wanted to know what she didn’t know as yet. She felt as though the rug was being tugged out from under her feet slowly.

After about an hour and a half, a doctor approached her and she sat up, expecting the worst but hoping for the best.

“Mrs. Devarr?” he asked her. Was Devarr Jeremy’s last name? She didn’t know. She just nodded. The doctor soldiered on. “Your husband came in earlier with minor bruises and cuts from an accident he sustained earlier tonight. He will recover from his wounds, but that all depends on if he lives to recover from them. Mr. Devarr is suffering from a brain tumour and he has lapsed into a coma. Chances of him coming out of it are not good, but these things are unpredictable. The illness is terminal, and in my professional opinion, due to his sustained injuries and head trauma, he will not survive tonight. I’m sorry.” The doctor closed his clipboard and walked on, leaving her in a daze.

In the harsh glare of the doctor’s station, the word terminal hung on her. It was where she had met him, and now it was his condition. She sat down and let the tears fall, not caring who saw as the word “Terminal” echoed in her head.

The lights above her glared on mercilessly as outside the clouds split and rain, once again, began to fall.

The compass spun around and around idly, not settling on one direction, just turning around and around. The little magnetic needle (if it was indeed still magnetized) rotated about the central pin, turning and turning around and around.

“I’ll make you a bargain” the old man said to Terri. “Give me ten dollars and I’ll give you the compass.”

“But it doesn’t work anyway” Terri complained. “How about I give you five dollars and take it off your hands.”

The old man rubbed his fingernails on his dingy lapel and looked at them in the bright sunlight. “Price is ten dollars young miss. You’re not getting it for a dollar less.”

Terri looked on at the compass spinning around and around and her mind started spiraling. She didn’t want a compass. She never went outdoors and was never a brownie or a camper. What on earth would she do with a compass? Still a nagging thought, like a fishhook embedded in her head tugged at the idea. The compass needle spun, catching the light from the sun and reflecting it back to her eye. Her heart leaped as the shard of light flashed over her left eye and sunk into her soul.

“You drive a hard bargain mister...” she paused. Had the old man given her his name? She couldn’t remember.

“Name’s Oscar”, he said reaching out to shake her hand. He had a firm and steady grip, quite the opposite of what she was expecting. “So missy, are you buying the compass?”

“Please don’t call me missy, and why would I want a broken compass anyway?” Terri queried again.
“If you offered me a name, my dear young woman, I wouldn’t have to call you missy” Oscar replied, rubbing the back of his head as his eyes shifted upwards to take in the blue sky above them.

Terri looked at the compass again and once again that strange pull arose in her. She must have that compass. She must possess it. She pulled her eyes away with some effort to look at Oscar, her eyes narrowing.

“Okay, okay, I know it looks broken, but it ain’t.” Oscar leaned closer to her and whispered conspiratorially “This compass belonged to a very important man!”

Terri looked at him, disbelief evident on her face. “I find that a little hard to swallow” she replied.
Oscar sighed. “Give me five bucks and you can have the darned thing. It’s only been trouble since I found it.”

Somewhere inside Terri rejoiced as she handed over the five dollars and collected the compass from Oscar. His eyes lit up as he gazed upon the five-dollar bill. It was quite a large sum of money in those days. Terri pondered in the back of her mind if the old man was going to spend it all on liquor and the glint in his eyes made her think that this was very possibly the case.

“Caveat Emptor and all that” Oscar said and hoisted his duffel bag unto his back. “I’ve never run up against a soul I couldn’t sell something to and my record remains intact. Good day my dear.” He lifted the small hat off the crown of his head and bowed, then returned it to the crown from whence it came, standing upright and starting to walk off into the distance.

Terri stood gazing at the fine metalwork that made up the housing of the compass. It was heavier than she had expected, and in addition to the needle idly wobbling about the pin mounted in the centre of the face there were inlaid designs wrought of some highly polished metal. Terri thought it looked too shiny to be silver. A breeze blew through the cotton plants and raised her hair, but she didn’t even notice. The spinning of the needle was almost hypnotic.

“Terri!” shouted someone. The voice seemed to come from miles away. She could barely make out the words, much less where it was coming from. It wasn’t important now though, it was too far away to matter. She heard the call again, this time from a little nearer, but her mind was enveloped in a mound of fuzz. The voices drifted as if they were seeping through the cotton ear-pads she used to make to keep out the drunken noise when the plantation hands had a party.

“Terri! Laws alive girl!” The voice came sharply and snapped her out of the trancelike state she was in. “Whey you’s a-goin Missus?” Talitha, the old maid that they hired at the plantation was holding her shoulder.

“I wasn’t going anywhere Talitha” Terri replied. She really wasn’t, as far as she knew anyway.

“Laws chile, you’s almost been land fill” the old woman replied, spinning the girl around. Terri looked at the ditch which dropped away for what seemed like forever in front of her and shuddered. How did she get there?

“I-I’m sorry Talitha” Terri stammered. “I-I don’t know...”

“It alright honeychile” the old black woman replied and clasped the child to her ample bosom. Terri felt safe in the arms of her former nursemaid and relaxed a little. Her hands sought the familiar safety of her own pockets. As she slid her left hand into her left pocket, the icy cold compass housing touched her fingers and she shuddered again. Talitha hugged her tighter, but no amount of warmth could take the dirty feeling of that icy draught up her spine.
*
The sun was slowly sinking behind the cotton plants as the labourers came in, their large sacks holding cotton latched onto their backs. Their shadows lengthened across the field as the late evening sunshine drew their shadows out like exorcized spirits from their frames.

Terri looked at them, not concentrating much on their faces, but looking through them. She tried to figure out how and why she came to be on the lip of the cliff she had almost fallen into earlier, but to no avail. Absentmindedly she slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt and touched the compass. She had first thought the compass had made her go there but considering that the compass was just a tool without a voice or soul of its own, the idea was simply ludicrous.

She had never had episodes of losing total recognition and control over her body. It seemed strange that it would happen to her just as she bought the compass. She shook her head to clear it of the suggestion that the compass could have anything to do with it.

“There’s my girl!” A strong, deep voice floated out of the darkness and Terri smiled. Her father had finally come home from his daily inspection of the plantation boundaries. He placed his arms around her, hugging both her and the chair in one massive embrace.

Terri giggled. “How was the inspection today Pa?” she asked.

Her father got up from behind the chair and proceeded to the edge of the veranda to look out over the cotton plants swaying in the disappearing sunlight. “We might be in for some trouble”, he said simply.
“What’s wrong?” Terri asked.

“Nothing you should worry your pretty little head about. How was your day princess?” Her father turned back to face her, leaning on the balustrade of the veranda and smiling at her. Even in the approaching darkness, she could see the shine in his eyes and grass stalk he was perpetually chewing. She had gotten so used to it that when it wasn’t there on mornings she found his face looked incomplete.

“Went over to the creek for a bit. Trout’s not biting. Walked around the cotton flowers and found a penny on the ground.” She hadn’t told her father about the compass, something inside her told her that he wouldn’t understand and might take it away from her. Even though the nagging feeling remained in her mind that it had almost killed her, she simply could not let the thing go.

“Penny on the ground’s good luck”, her father replied and walked past her into the house, ruffling her hair. “Don’t come in too late, reading in the lamplight ain’t good for ya.”

She giggled again. Her father had always made fun of her for reading by lamplight and anytime she sat out on the veranda past sunset, he would tell her that. It never failed to make her laugh. Her mind was a thousand miles away tonight and the laugh was just a pretence. Looking around to make sure her father had gone inside, she pulled out the compass.

The needle had started shaking and vibrating, pointing to the big ‘W’ marking the west-point of the etched face. No matter which way Terri spun it, the needled remained on the westerly point. The bushes to the west rustled suddenly, causing her to start. Out of the darkness came Jonah, one of the field hands. His face was a mixture of fear and worry as he ran up the veranda stairs.

“Massa Colt! Massa Colt!” the man shouted, his baritone echoing off the walls.

Rapid boot falls announced the urgency of Terri’s father’s arrival. “What is it?” he asking simply.

“De blade sah. Dem sharpen eet and it ah cut him. Him ah bleed.” The black man’s skin caught and reflected the lamp’s glow. Terri looked down at his hands and saw they were dripping, but the colour of what was dripping from his hands remained in the shadow.

Colt rushed inside and came back out a few seconds later with the old medicine bag they kept around for emergencies. “Stay there Terri!” he commanded as he and Jonah disappeared into the darkness to the west.

Terri took the compass out of the hiding place she had hastily stuffed it – under her skirt – and watched as the needle twitched eagerly, still quivering to the west. Terri was torn between leaving the compass to point where it wanted and following it. From the darkness she heard a harsh scream, the pain in it grating her nerves. She closed her eyes, wincing and almost feeling the pain. She looked down at the compass and the needle again swung idly about.

The bushes rustled and she hastily returned to the chair she had been sitting in. Jonah and her father came back up the veranda stairs, both of their hands covered in blood as she could see from the brownish-red glow as it reflected the yellow light. Their faces were solemn and she could hear the soft voice of her father giving instructions to Jonah to tell the priest about the death and prepare the body for burial.

And the needle spun around and around, pointing at everything and nothing at the same time.
*
Sunlight flooded the little room, first falling over the windowsill then slowly inching its way across until it brushed its fingertips on the face of the sleeping girl. Unperturbed she kept on sleeping and it wasn’t until four knocks in quick succession rattled her door did she finally open her eyes. Quickly she slid out of bed, half of her brain still asleep as she walked towards the solid wood door. Four sharp knocks came again.

“Terri? Are you still asleep?” her father’s voice boomed through the closed door.

“Just a minute Dad” she replied, slipping the latch on the door loose. He pushed the door gently and stepped inside the sunlit room.

“We had an accident last night and one of the field-hands died. I know you’re not blind and I know you saw us last night, but I thought I should tell you before that McNamara kid starts making up dodgy stories again.” He fidgeted. “I would like if you weren’t here for the burial, he isn’t in good shape even after the treatment we gave him. I can take you to town and let Talitha keep you company while you get some hopping done. How bout that?”

Terri’s mind turned around and around, quite like the compass needle did. She didn’t feel a great urge to go to town. Stranger still, she didn’t feel any urge to go shopping either. Her mind rested uneasily on the compass the way one’s hand rests on a bowl that is covering a deadly creature that can bite you at any time.

“I think I’d just like to walk around the plantation a bit Dad” she said, putting a note of sincerity into her voice. “I promise I won’t hang around near the house or the churchyard.”

Colt looked at his daughter. It wasn’t like her to turn down a free shopping expedition. Still, she didn’t want her to see the hideous cuts and scars that were left on the body of the young man who had died that night. The field-hands were already talking about some evil spirit. If he was a religious man, he would have believed in evil spirits too. The scars on the man’s body were too regular to be anything random. He had a cut on his lower arm, near the wrist...

“Dad?” Terri interrupted him. “Can I stay around the plantation?”

“Only if you promise me not to go to the church, then we have a deal. Shake on it?” He held out his hand and she took it, giving it one strong pump.

Colt left the room thinking about the knife-sharpening cut that had spread across the man’s body as if it were a sickness and the strange eight-pointed star that had appeared over his heart.

Terri got out of bed and slipped on her clothes, thinking about what her father had said. There was something he didn’t want her to see and that was fine by her. More often than not he had a good reason for not wanting her to be in some places. He had always been her guide and he hadn’t led her wrong yet.

After she dragged on her pair of old shoes, she dug around in her drawer for the compass. She had placed it in a small box that held a collection of black, smooth stones that she collected on her ramblings around the Plantation. She pulled out the drawer and stopped. The black stones were now drained of all colour and looked a sickly gray-white colour. The compass needle spun along its track and quivered now and again, but nothing else happened. She reached out her hand to touch the compass and the stones beneath it crumbled as if they were dust.

She dusted off the compass, wiping the dust off the shiny bottom of the instrument. The thing felt cold and dead in her hands as she looked at the back of it. She could make out a small inscription, very faint, running in a small rectangular space near the top of the back plate. She ran her finger over it and it seemed to fade and disappear. She changed the angle the light hit the back plate but the engraving refused to return.

Terri shrugged and turned the compass right side up again. The needle had started quivering again. She felt a slight jolt go through her, but she wasn’t sure if it was just the compass or excitement about the movement of the instrument.

She looked at the compass pointing to her left. Hopping off her bed and running down the stairs she followed the direction the compass dictated. She ran past tall rows of cotton plants, the white, fluffy balls drifting and floating on the wind. The compass had stopped quivering and was pointing unerringly ahead of her. She looked up and realised she had come about midway into the middle cotton field to the south of the plantation. This was the part of the field most of the workers avoided. A sudden rustle of the plants to her left made her duck down and hide behind a small clump of cotton plants.

Out in the middle of the lane she had just been was a dog. The animal seemed miserable, its eyes were rolled back in its head and unfocused and its walk was the staggering gait of an animal that was in the last stages of rabies. Terri knew the shuffling uncertain movements of such an animal and knew damned well enough to stay away from it. If it bit her, she was a goner. She gripped the compass so tightly her knuckles started to lose feeling. The metal from the casing of the compass suddenly turned massively hot and then dropped back. Terri was shocked but the temperature change didn’t last for more than a few seconds.

Almost immediately, the dog let out a woebegone howl and started twitching. Dark spots formed just behind its ear and just above its back leg and black lines started moving across the animal’s body. The howls became more painful and were accompanied by what seemed like choking sobs as the animal groaned and pleaded with some unseen power. Blood started flowing from the black gashes as they linked up with each other. With a final strangled yelp the animal fell on its side, still shaking in convulsions. The other side of the poor dog was also covered in the same spidery marks and blood was running like a river down is side. It twitches and Terri suspected if it had a voice it would be screaming in agony. A final tremble went through its frame and it was still, its warm blood soaking into the ground beneath the corpse.

Terri looked down at the compass and the needle once again swung idly around and around.
Terri wandered around for a bit, trying to avoid going back to the field where the dog died. It sickened her and she had thrown up twice since then. She didn’t know if she had anything in her stomach left. She looked down at the compass which was still clasped in her hand. The needle spun around describing a half and arc then spun back, not pointing at anything. Was this the reason the dog and the man last night died?

The man! That’s probably what her father didn’t want her to see. The dark spots and the blood and the spidery lines... She shook her head trying to clear it from the vision of the dog’s blood flowing blood pooling and soaking into the ground. In the distance she heard the church bell ringing. The compass seemed to vibrate for a second in her hand but it settled back rather quickly.

She started walking towards the church, slipping the compass warily into her pocket. Yard after yard of cotton plants she passed, swaying in the light breeze. The sun was just beginning to get hot, it was past midmorning and the fishes were just starting to bite. She stopped. Her father had explicitly asked her not to go to the church. But she had to see for herself what happened to the man. She had never seen a dead human body before and the thought of seeing one made her shudder.

Closer, yard by yard, furlong by furlong she walked, every step taking her nearer to something she had no permission to see. A flash of heat in her pocket took her mind off confronting the dead body. She slid her hand into her pocket and touched the warm metal of the compass. It seemed to get hotter the closer she got to the church. She knew that the churchyard grounds began over the next hill, and apparently the compass knew it too.

She took out the compass, her hands shaking, and looked at it. The metal seemed to glow with some inner light and the instrument, usually cold or at least cool was now on the verge of burning her hand as she held it. The needle was going crazy, spinning erratically around, pointing behind her for a second before spinning to the exact opposite point and pointing ahead of her. Her brow furrowed, wondering if it was trying to give her a choice.

The needle suddenly spun violently to the midpoint between directly in front and directly behind her and stopped dead. She moved her hands along the outer face of the tool and ran her fingertips along the back plate. Her fingers encountered something rough towards the top, centre of the back plate and she recalled seeing the flash of engraving. She turned it around hurriedly and saw, engraved in small sober letters “Property of L. Cipher”.

She didn’t know any L. Cipher around here, but chances are that it was some person from out of state. The man who had sold it to her didn’t seem like the kind to sit around and settle down for a long period of time. She turned the compass right side up again and saw the needle vibrate, straining to point to the left of her. She wondered what she would see if she went where the compass commanded.

Morbidly curious after her morning adventure, yet still slightly shaken from seeing the death of the dog, she turned so that the needle would face ahead of her and followed it through the cotton-lanes. The breeze ruffled the leaves of the cotton, making her stop more than once and turn around, suspecting of being followed by someone.

After a short while of running and stopping she emerged at the furthest end of the field and stopped short. Rows of cotton had stopped for a bit and there was a clearing between the fields a mite wider than a lane, possibly as much as three lanes if they were able to be lined up side by side. There was a large red stain running as far as Terri could see from one part of the lane to the other. She looked down at the compass and the needle resolutely pointed to the left. She followed it, glancing between the compass and the red stain. She could tell it was blood of some sort, but she didn’t know what sort, whether human or animal.

A sharp, piercing scream floated from up the lane and Terri ran, forgetting to look at her compass, half-interested, half-worried about what she would find. Within seconds she could see a small figure, sitting in the middle of the divide with its legs tucked under it. A few seconds more revealed it to be a young girl, probably one of the field-hands’ children. She couldn’t be any more than four or five at most, and all along the child’s skin were the black marks, slowly spreading and moving, snaking like worms beneath her skin, searching for each other.

Terri’s mouth dropped open and she dropped the compass, running up to the girl to help her. “What’s wrong?” she called out to the little girl.

“Mi nah know!” she replied. “It burn mistress, it burn hard!”

Terri leaned down to the girl and stroked her hair. She looked at the spidery marks on the girl’s skin. They had stopped moving. They weren’t getting any darker or spreading any wider, but they had stopped moving altogether. “How are you now?”

“Mi feel better miss” the child replied. “You touch musta stilled the demon.”

Terri smiled. “Maybe we should get you cleaned up, what do you say?” she asked as she got to her feet, helping the little one up. They walked back towards the barracks where the field hands were living.
Behind her, left in the lane, the compass needle twitched in their direction, pointing at Terri and the little girl as they went towards the barracks, then idly spinning past only to come back and point at their rapidly disappearing backs.
*
Terri’s newfound friend was called Amaya and together they saw her mother who was puzzled as to what the lines were. By now the black lines had almost faded to nothing and Terri wondered as well what significance the lines and the compass had together. Amaya’s mother insisted they go to see the spirit-woman that lived in the barracks.

In an old shack near the edge of the barracks area was the woman who it was rumoured could speak with spirits. The threesome entered the yard which was littered with tin cans and other odds and ends. Although there was garbage all about, the yard seemed to have a sense of order. The doorway of the shack they were going to was covered with a faded pink cloth that Terri thought looked like one of the old bed spreads they used to have when she was little.

“Di little girl an’ di massa daughter can come, but you is to stay outside miss lady”, came a voice floating out of a nearby window. “Di to ah you walk up to di do’ and spread di curtain. I go send Amaya home when we done Madam Lessey.”

Amaya’s mother nodded and quickly walked out of the yard, making a beeline for her tenement. Terri thought she had never seen a woman move so briskly or purposefully. She held Amaya’s hand, feeling the warmth of it flow through her own. She squeezed the girl’s hand gently and Amaya squeezed back, gazing up at her. Together they approached the old woman’s house.

Terri parted the curtains and the light in the room seemed to dim for a second. Her eyes got used to it and at the far corner of this first room in the shack, she could see the old woman whose voice they had heard outside. Amaya squeezed Terri’s hand again and Terri responded with a squeeze as well.

“Mi sense a uneasy about you...” the old woman’s voice said. She stood up and moved towards the children. As she came into the muted light that was filtering through one of the side windows, Terri could make out the wrinkles on her face and the shawl she wore around her neck. “Come hold mih hand, and I see what wrong aye?”

Terri reached her hand out to the woman and in the instant they touched, Terri’s mind seemed to shift and her eyes went blurry for a split second. She didn’t like this feeling of being invaded. The old woman’s eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped open as her eyes rolled back in her sockets. She seemed to have a fit for a few seconds then stopped and returned to normal.

As her eyes returned to normal, they narrowed as they looked at Terri, her gaze locked on the girl. “Amaya, go tell you mumma dat di evil be gone from you fuh now.” Amaya turned to go and terri turned with her. “Not you yet. You stay.” Terri froze. Had the old woman seen the thing that happened to the dog that morning? Was she going to tell someone that she had been thinking of going to the church?
Questions flashed through her mind as she let go of Amaya’s hand.

“Go on then”, she said to Amaya. “I shall come see you later.”

Amaya opened the curtain, letting a single short shaft of light enter before the curtain fell again, blocking most of it out. Terri turned to face the woman who was still fixing her gaze on the teen.
“Come and sit. We have to talk.” The woman’s sentences were terse and short. Terri wondered if she did anything wrong as she followed the old woman to the table near the back that she had been seated at first.

“What do we have to talk about Miss...?” Terri began.

“You can call mih Ezme, and me ah priestess. I see you been in contact wit’ some evil things.” She looked at Terri again with narrowed eyes. “You ha’ one of di devil possessions.”

“Which devil?” Terri asked.

“There be only one devil chile, where you learn yuh religion from, eh? Many years ago him put his possessions on earth to cause havoc. Plenty times mi try to find them and plenty times mih fail. Dem all over the country now, people killin’ people over them, thinkin’ dem be somethin’ desirable. Dem twist you to think so too. Befo’ you know it, you has one and it use you de way dat you use ah plate or a spoon. You has one of dem, but me nah know which one...”

“I have a compass”, Terri responded.

“Ah, de devil pointing glass”, the old woman said, her eyes closed as she seemed to visualize something. “Yuh need to destroy it befo’ it kill again.”

“Again?” Terri asked.

“Yes chile! You don’ tink dat man dead yesterday dead by himself? Or dat dog I see in your mind dat you see this mornin’? De devil glass doin’ it. It does use you mind as fuel for it to project itself to ah target. Den it tears it apart from de inside till it dead, dead.”

“How do I get rid of it?” Terri asked, the hair on the back of her neck standing up.

“Go get it and bring it to me. I go fix it proper” Ezme said.

Terri nodded curtly and got up from the chair. She heard the old woman start to bustle around with things inside the room as she parted the curtain and headed out to retrieve the compass where it lay.
*
Terri walked out to the lane where she had dropped the compass. The sun had started dipping down, not yet sinking, but just hanging in the sky. The evening had begun and during this time of year it didn’t last long. She would have to search quickly and find it before the sun went down. She didn’t know what it would do to anyone or anything that encountered it in the middle of the night and she didn’t particularly want to find out.

She hadn’t bothered searching near the start of the dividing lane, but continued on toward the far end where she had found Amaya in the throes of agony. She saw a silhouetted figure approaching her and quickened her pace. She didn’t know who it could be since all the field hands were at the church. As the distance closed between them, she made out the weatherworn clothes and body of Oscar.

“Hey you! Peddler!” she called to him. His eyes which had been downcast up until now looked up. She could see that he hadn’t slept in a while from the bags under his eyes.

“Do...do you still have that...that compass I sold you?’ he asked. He licked his lips nervously. He wasn’t the same man she had bought the compass from, he just couldn’t be, but he was. The same face, although more worn. The same eyes, yet filled with weariness.

“I’m here looking for it, I dropped it here...” Terri began but he interrupted her.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have sold it to you, I need to get it back!” he said, fidgeting.

“I know its evil, there’s a woman here who says she can destroy it” Terri responded.

“She’s lying, isn’t she?” he asked, but a small glimmer of hope entered his eyes.

“Why are you back for it after selling it to me? If you knew it was dangerous why did you part with it?” Terri asked. She was just getting over the shock of meeting the salesman again and was just about to lambaste him for selling her something that killed people and animals.

“It was...was given to me. I didn’t know...know I couldn’t give it to...to someone else.” Oscar looked haunted, as though something was following him, dogging his steps.

“I...I’m sorry. I’ve been dreaming...dreaming of the horrible things it does. It speaks...speaks to me in my sleep...” Terri looked at the troubled old man and her heart softened.

“When we find it, we’ll take it to the old woman and she’ll get rid of it for us, ok?” she said, trying to comfort the scared man. He simply nodded.
Together they searched for the place where the compass fell and the sun had sunk low in the sky before Terri decided that it would be fruitless to look for it any more.

Oscar’s eyes had drooped a bit, but his face still twitched. She didn’t know how she was going to tell him that she had given up. She just looked at him and explained to him the problem with looking for it since the sun was going down.

“We have to find it now!” Oscar exclaimed. “I don’t know...don’t know what’ll happen...” his voice trailed off as he reached his hand to his throat. Fine black marks reached up his neck, dancing like flies around a piece of fresh steak. Oscar turned to face her, his eyes popping now as he struggled to speak. His voice wheezed with effort as the lines linked to others. In one flash his body was covered in running torrents of blood as his skin seemed to dissolve into nothingness, large gouts of red blood falling over the ground and painting it as he struggled to hold on to life.

Terri looked on at him and started backing away. She didn’t know where the compass was and it seemed like it wanted revenge for being left all alone. She had gone but a few steps before she felt a tingle along her back which felt like a fly had settled there, she swatted at it and kept running. As she drew her hand back to the front it was covered in blood. Looking down at her arms she saw the telltale spidery lines circling her arms and then her legs.

“Please stop! Please!” she pleaded to the compass but wherever it was it didn’t listen to her. A sharp pain ran down her spine and in an instant it felt as though she was split from head to toe, her skin burning, flaying, ever pain sensor in her body activated and singing. Her screams seemed to echo in head and as the blood coated her face and covered her eyes and filled her ears they seemed to fade. Soon the entire world faded and nothing was left.

From the edge of the lane stepped the little girl, Amaya, holding the compass in her hands. She turned it around and around and shook it a little. “Did I do good Mama-san?”

“You did well darling. Very, very well indeed.” The old woman stepped out of the lane right behind her, placing her gnarled hand on the girl’s shoulder. With a practiced efficiency the old woman quickly broke the girl’s neck and smashed in her head. As the little girl’s body crumpled to the ground, the old woman changed, becoming a man with a grey, long cloak carrying the name-tag L. Cipher. He slowly took his compass from the lifeless hand of the little girl and turned into the night whistling a tune as he wiped the blood from the compass and put it in his pocket.

Thunder roared overhead. A bright flash of lightning lit the silvery-green windowpane, casting an eerie shadow where the moss cut out a bit of the incoming light with its growth. The rafters moaned in protest as their form was whipped and tossed about. Darkness loomed in the eaves of the old house, filling even the smallest of chinks with its omnipresence.

The rain drummed down in its monotonous voice, beating and hammering on the corrugated galvanized aluzinc that made up the roofing, filling the loneliness of the dark house with the unwelcome fusillade of sound. Again the flash cut into the darkness like a knife slicing through the flesh of a dead animal. Downstairs a door opened, the creak rippling out through what was once the living room. The rain beat in as a single lonely figure emerged out of the wet night to shake himself on the doorstop before rapidly walking in and closing the door in one motion.

Marcellus Phineas looked down at his wet hands and deftly dried them before switching on the chandelier light that loomed above the living room. The house was not an unfriendly house; quite the opposite really. Phineas had inherited the pile from his older brother who had previously inherited it from their father. Where their father had gotten such a house, or even how he had managed to pay for it remained a mystery. Phineas had asked his brother once if he had ever talked to their father about it, but his brother shrugged and told him that his father just said that they’d know when the time came.

Phineas was a rather solitary man. He did have a social streak about him, but mostly he kept to himself. He had garnered some friends on college but all of these were either overseas or just didn’t fancy his company anymore. Phineas would not have it any other way, for the things that he spoke of were somewhat…strange.

In his youth, he had been a professor of biology at the University of Glendale. He was an aspiring young biologist, some would even say gifted. Something happened to him one day that set him upon the path that led him to being solitary and reclusive, but no one else knew what that was. The chances are no one would either. As the darkness settled in on Phineas he began to reminisce.

*

Summer had come once again and the young Marcellus Phineas was on the verge of a major biological breakthrough. Armed with his biology texts and microscope, Phineas spent many hours probing and experimenting with minute moulds, one of which he suspected may be a cure for cancer. The sun was shining in through his window on the east side of the campus and the wind gently ruffled his hair. Marcellus smiled and looked out the window, closing his eyes and taking a deep whiff of the air outside. It smelled heavenly, as though Persephone herself had come to let him smell her fragrance. A brisk rap on the door shattered the serene images that had been forming in his brain.

“Coming”, he said out loud to the unknown person behind the door.

The knocking continued, becoming more harried. Phineas cursed his rotten luck at being disturbed by someone this early in the day. He had barely opened the door to ask who it was when a young man, no more than twenty, rushed past him carrying something covered with a black cloth. The youth swept in, knocking Phineas away from the door and closing it in one swift motion. Phineas noticed the wide eyes of the young man and the wretched horror with which he eyed the thing he was carrying.

“Professor”, said the young man, “I need some help.”

“What sort of help do you require?” Phineas responded.

“I need you to analyze this” the boy said, uncovering the thing which he had been cradling in his arms.

The black cloth fluttered to the table revealing a large glass jar, inside of which was an oozing material. It looked like a cross between a liquid and a solid as it swirled around in the bottle, dashing itself against the sides but not even making a crack in the glass. Suddenly, Phineas saw something that made him stagger back.

“It…it has an eye!” he exclaimed.

“It has more than just an eye Professor”, the young man with him replied.

“Where did you find it?” Phineas asked curiously.

“Tuesday morning, about three days ago by my reckoning, I heard a loud rapping on my door. Upon opening it I found this jar with this thing in it. There was a note at the top of the jar saying ‘Do Not Open’ so I didn’t, and good thing I didn’t too, God alone knows what would have happened if I had let that thing out.” The boy finished with a sigh, but Phineas couldn’t determine whether it was relieved or stressed.

“What is it?” Phineas asked as he surveyed the liquid form inside the clear bottle.

“Beats me Prof”, the young man answered with a shrug.

“We should test it, but if I can’t open the jar then I can’t test the thing inside”, Phineas said.

“We could still test the reaction to light”, the young man replied.

Together Phineas and the young man put the jar on the counter that housed their gas-valves and set up a small sunlamp next to the jar. Phineas turned on the light and for some seconds, nothing happened. Then the liquid inside the jar started to boil and squirm and an unearthly shriek emanated from the glass container.

“Turn it off!” Phineas exclaimed as the young man ran over to the sunlamp and shut it off. The shrieking ceased almost immediately.

Phineas took his fingers out of his ears and looked towards the innocent-looking glass jar. What on earth was that thing? He turned to the young man who had returned from beside the sunlamp.

“What’s your name?” he asked the young man.

“I’m Efrid, I’m a freshman in your Advanced Biology class” the young man replied. Phineas studied him for a moment. He did recognize the boy’s face but could not place a name to it.

“I think”, Phineas stated, “that we may be on to something here.”

“Should we open the jar, d’you think?” the boy asked.

“We’ll have to eventually” Phineas replied. “It’s only so much you can find out from a closed jar. How about you come back tomorrow and we’ll see about opening it up.”

*

That night Phineas went to sleep early, but he tossed and turned until well after midnight. It felt as though something was prying into his mind. Like steely tentacles reaching into the existence of his very being. A shudder passed through Phineas’ frame as he shifted on the bed, awaiting the flighty arms of sleep to embrace him.

Slowly he drifted down until his eyes fell solidly into sleep. The darkness behind his eyelids was impenetrable, yet out of the darkness a light started to grow. The light grew until it enveloped the entire of his eyes, revealing to him something like a picture show that one used to see in those old projector-film theatres. It flickered for only a second then changed into something slightly recognizable.

He was looking at a rough city street, the sun bleeding its last over the concrete bridge which he was heading towards. The roads that branched off at odd intervals from the road weren’t that clear, but the road he was walking was vivid. From his location he could see that his hands were gloved and he felt a rough cloak about him. Like a thief stealing into the night, the darkness crept up and swallowed the dusk, rushing over him like a huge wave.

From where he stood, he could hear someone weeping. He ran down the street to where the whimper was coming from and he saw a woman, face wrapped in a cowl cradling a child to her breast and crying, her face buried in the child’s chest. He ran over to her and a voice, quite unlike his own, came across:

“Are you okay madam?”

The ‘woman’ turned to face him, and then he saw for the first time that she had no face. The crying was coming from a small hole in her head above her chin that had but a single tooth hanging out of it. Her cry turned to some strange blubbering and he could feel something snaking up his mind, taking it over. He tried to cover his ears and that was when the ‘woman’ held up her ‘baby’. The thing was shaped like a baby, but from the wrappings there was a stench that was wholly inhuman. The face of the grotesque beast was malformed, it’s eyes missing and bare sockets oozing blood and pus staring out at him. The mouth of the beast was filled with crooked teeth and it was this he froze staring at as the face enveloped him and bit him.

Within seconds he felt his body start to lose its form and dribble away, first his legs then his chest, but no matter how he felt his body would not move. Finally the last of him pooled on the concrete. The ‘woman’ said something in a strange hissing language and immediately he felt like he was being sucked up into a large straw. The next thing he knew he was staring through a clear enclosure, looking at the ‘woman’ and the ‘baby’ and one other person, a man from the looks of it, wrapped in a black cloak with a cowl over his head so his face fell into shadow. The ‘woman’ and the ‘baby’ seemed afraid of him, so whatever it was, he didn’t want to meet it on a dark night. Luck was not on his side as the cowl started to fall away…

Phineas awoke with a start, almost falling off his bed. The thing in the glass jar was a person. At least he thought it was a person. Whatever it was, it could communicate…or was he being overly optimistic? It could possibly be that this evening’s action simply pushed him too much and his mind was trying to rationalize it any way it could. He sighed and wondered if that could be it as he returned to the pillow and dropped asleep.

*

Efrid met Phineas at the door to his laboratory. He stood outside the lab, his breath misting in the cold morning air. Phineas greeted him and opened the door. Efrid rushed into the lab without another word. Phineas followed him and closed the door. He saw Efrid tapping dully on the glass jar.

“I had a pretty weird dream last night Prof” the young man said.

“What kind of weird dream?” Phineas asked in response.

Efrid went on to dictate a dream very much like the one Phineas had. At the end of the recitation, Phineas sat down, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

“What’s wrong Prof?” Efrid asked.

“I had the very same dream last night”, Phineas said, his face hanging loose. “I quite believe the thing in the jar was once a man and it’s trying to communicate with us.”

“You think so?” Efrid asked in a hushed tone. “Then those things that turned him into this…”

“I have no idea what they are, nor who the hooded man who took the jar was, I didn’t get a glimpse of his face.” Phineas rubbed his jaw as he was apt to do when a situation puzzled him.

Efrid shuddered visibly as a thought coursed through his mind. “This may not have been the first person this happened to. I’ve heard of people gone missing on campus.”

In truth, Phineas had also heard rumours to this extent but put it down to youthful exuberance rather than something sinister. In the depths of his mind he had suspected it was something a bit more than what met the eye, but he had tried not to think about it.

Efrid walked up to the jar and touched the side of it. The liquid inside seemed to squirm and connect with his fingertips. “Maybe it’s trying to talk to us”, the young man said.

Phineas looked at him and before he could say anything, Efrid was opening the jar, twisting the top, yanking at it. Phineas shouted to him “Stop! We don’t know...” but what they didn’t know was lost in the crash of the breaking jar.

The black thing slithered out of its case and ran up Efrid’s leg. He started pleading “Please sir, call for help, it burns!” to Phineas, but all Phineas could do was look on as slowly the blackness enveloped the student, his skin boiling and his entire body seeming to dissolve form the outside.

Efrid’s screams stopped abruptly and the boy dropped to the floor as the black thing that crawled over his corpse continued to dissolve him, to eat him alive. Phineas fled, locking the room so that no one could re-enter it. He had spent days away from work without calling in sick until one day he was called by the administration letting him know that his tenure was terminated. He didn’t care; he had seen things that nothing could explain. His mind was haunted by the dreams of the faceless child and the black goo eating his student alive.

He had received a letter explaining to him that he was wanted in connection with the missing boy, Efrid and that they would come calling at his house for him. They warned him not to leave the country. Ha! Like he would ever leave his estate! This sacred home was the only place he felt truly safe. Outside was the black thing. Outside was the faceless woman and the faceless child.

They had come for him before, the faceless woman and child. He had seen them outside his window the last few days, each day getting closer and closer. His friends had abandoned him because of the things he spoke of, wanting to warn the world of the evil that lurked. Tonight she would be coming inside and they would know the truth.

The clock struck the hour and a light knock came on the door. Phineas’ heart hammered in his chest as he opened the door, coming face to face with his nightmare.

*

“What do we have inspector?” Bartleby asked the young man who had been there, running the tape around the house.

“Neighbour heard a scream last night sir, when we got here this morning all we found was this.” The man handed Bartleby a glass jar with a black, viscous substance in it.

“Right strange old thing don’t you think?” Bartleby asked the young man as he walked back to the car with the jar in his hand.

“Yes”, said the thing looking like Efrid, dressed in the policeman’s clothes as it turned away from him, a smile crawling out of its mouth. “Singularly interesting.”

He looked like a man who played the harmonica. I came home that evening and there on the steps to my apartment building he sat, a cigarette hanging from the edge of his mouth but not smouldering. There was a smile on his face. Something made me think that this man was more than he appeared to be. As I walked up the pathway to the building door he stood up from his temporary abode on the porch and moved to shake my hand.

“Hey”, he said.

“Hello”, I responded. “New here?” I added.

“Ayuh. Just came up from visiting overseas.” His shake was firm and solid. The wisps of his hair that danced around his crown reminded me of a snowstorm I saw on TV.

“Need a light for that?” I asked him.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be smoking?” he responded, answering question with question.

“I don’t smoke” I replied.  “I’ve been using a lighter to set off fireworks in the Junkyard.”

‘The Junkyard’ was a place on the other side of town that the residents of Mortelleville used to deposit their used appliances. Rested hulks of washer-dryer combos, fridges, freezers and even big things like cars adorned the landscape, making it into some kind of twisted cyber-punk setting. It was there that most of the kids of Mortelleville spent our recreation time setting off rockets, playing inane games, or even smoking, even though we were too young to do it legally.

The man on the porch coughed a bit as he took the cigarette from his mouth. My lighter was handed back to me with a minimum of fanfare. His coughing fit faded and stopped as he took another puff of his cigarette, looking up into the reddening sky. Being the curious boy that I was, I followed his gaze. Night usually came round about five in the afternoons here, steadily throughout the year. Before it, if one was inclined, one could admire the way the stars pepped out of the purplish-mauve sky as the sun set for the day.

“Perhaps we should go inside” the man on the porch suggested, finishing his cigarette. I had been so entranced with trying to see what he was watching in the sky that I had completely missed his smoking. He stood up and walked up to the door, then knocked gently and waited for an answer.

A scuffling at the door was heard, possibly my mother looking through the peephole, and then a harsh rasp as the big deadbolt was drawn back. The door opened and my mother looked at the man. He mentioned that he was there for the apartment, and she showed him in, allowing me to run up to my room which was right across the hall from the room that would be the old man, if my mother liked him enough.

My room was filled with the paraphernalia that a boy who had not yet lost the innocence of childhood would have. Books adorned the home-made shelf that my father had made before he had left on the cruise ship to go make some money. He came home sometimes, once every six months, and when he came home, he would spend some time with me, teaching me things. I missed him, but the old bookshelf in the corner always reminded me of him.

The shelf took up most of one wall, leaving just a little space between itself and the bed (that I had laboriously made that morning). On the far wall was a window, covered over by my mother’s curtains. I had tied up the curtains into two knots to allow the breeze to come in through the louvers. Along that furthest end of that far wall, seated on a hand-made shelf added onto the corner of the wall, was a tin that used to hold Danish butter Cookies some 4 years previous. Presently they held my pride and joy, a collection of marbles that I won playing ‘takes’ down at The Junkyard.

On the near wall was the light switch, which I turned on as I closed my door. My mother was coming upstairs with the prospective boarder, and I thought I would yank out one of the old classics and lose myself in it. Before too long the sun was gone, and close behind it I followed, lulled to sleep by the imagined waves from Herman Melville’s novel.

It seems as though I've had a lot of these so-called "New Beginnings" in my time, but I suppose it comes from the belief that one needs to renew oneself every few years in order to keep alive. Here again I renew myself and set about with a new purpose in mind: To become the best author I can possibly be. When my work gets published, I will probably be able to afford my own webspace, but until such time, this little corner or cyberspace will just have to do. I leave this post with two poems by the man who amounts to no less than my personal favorite poet in all of the world: Mr. Robert Frost.