Kolač u tiganju

“Kolač u tiganju? Nemoguće!” uzviknu devojka. Uznemirena ovim prizorom urušene realnosti, ona nabi palčeve duboko u svoje očne duplje.

Objavljeno u zbirci priča “Nijanse gladi” (Nijanse 3) https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/203940372-nijanse-gladi

Gospodar užasa

Prsti koji nisu prsti prelaze preko nazubljenih ivica kamena. Hrskavičaste izrasline miluju kristal, teraju ga da zablista sjajem milion boja. Oči koje nisu oči pilje u odsjaje, nadimaju se, skupljaju. Svaki odsjaj je jedan život. Bira koji da uništi ove večeri.

Veče i vreme su apstraktni pojmovi u njegovom svetu-mehuru. Nikakav sat tu ne kuca, ne kuca ni bilo šta drugo – Citadelom vlada savršena tišina. Za njega postoje samo letnja ravnodnevnica, zimska ravnodnevnica, i vreme između njih. Tokom letnje ravnodnevnice on napušta svoje utočište, putuje svetovima i lovi užase. Oko zimske ravnodnevnice, oslobađa ih u svet ljudi i sisa strah smrtnika iz etra. Ostatak vremena, vrata njegovog sveta su zabravljena, a on lebdi nepomično nad svojim kontrolnim kristalom. Čeka. Ne spava. Ne poseduje tu osobinu mesa. Srećom, ne zna ni za nestrpljivost.

Pulsirajuće čaure poigravaju u dupljama kamene lobanje dok zaviruje u živote smrtnika kroz mnogobrojne odsjaje-proreze u realnosti: porodice se okupljaju, parovi se grle i ljube, deca se raduju praznicima i poklonima…

Saćaste šupljine na vrhu njegove izdužene gubice tinjaju od iščekivanja predstojeće gozbe. Seća se prethodnih pireva. Najviše je voleo je da proganja one koji smatraju da su nedodirljivi, bitni, besmrtni. Biznismene, političare, bogataše. Šefove podzemlja, takozvane poznate ličnosti, aristokratiju. Njihov strah je tako sladak. Uvek su odbijali su da poveruju da se nešto loše baš njima dešava, sve do samog kraja. Pre trideset pet ciklusa, oslobodio je Zmijedeta u vaginu prostitutke jednog od kraljeva Vol Strita. O, kako je vrištao taj kralj kada je izgubio svoje žezlo! Osetio je na svojoj koži, video svojim očima – a i dalje nije verovao da prisustvuje nečemu što nije sa njegovog sveta. Borio se hrabro sve dok dejstvo kokaina u njegovoj krvi nije izgubilo na snazi a onda umro u lokvi svojih izlučevina, isto kao i svi drugi.

Strah jadnika je pak imao potpuno drugačiji – gorkosladak, gotovo opor ukus. Bilo je to pre deset ciklusa – sećao se – kada je sakrio Manjeg Bauka u tortu tog bednika koji je slavio Novu godinu, u očajničkom pokušaju da zaboravi nesreće svoje prošlosti. Smrtnici su bili veštiji u stvaranju užasa i od njega samog; sve što je bilo potrebno da ga gurne preko ivice već se nalazilo u njihovom umu. Preždirao se posmatrajući čovečuljka koji se tresao, padao i grčio pred prizorom leša njegove nedavno preminule bebe, koji se probijao kroz slojeve čokoladnog deserta.

Najbolje svojstvo straha je to što postoji u toliko mnogo varijanti. Pre četiri ciklusa oslobodio je znatno opasniju zver, Mealitskog žderača stvarnosti, na jedan beznačajni grad u istočnoj Evropi. Kroćenje stvorenja i njegovo vraćanje u statički kavez bilo je naporno i mukotrpno; međutim, kompleksna aroma straha zbunjenih tinejdžera koji nisu mogli da pojme šta im se dešava bila je više nego vredna dodatnog truda.

Treplje na obodu njegove glave se uspravljaju. Odvraća pogled sa kristala i osvrće se u tami kontrolnog tornja. Čeka malo, ne zna tačno koliko jer ne zna za minute i sate. Tišina. Učinilo mu se da čuje nešto. Nemoguće. U dvoranama Citadele nema ničega što može proizvesti zvuk. Sem ako se neko od stvorenja nije nekako oslobodilo.

Izrezbarena metalna palica doleće iz tame, pravo u stisak njegove šake. Njene šare odaju plavičaste bljeskove, jedini izvor svetlosti u celoj Citadeli. Njegovo lebdeće telo napušta toranj i spušta se u lavirint hodnika.

U ćelijama levo i desno, beskrajni namotaji zmija uvijaju se u jamama. Paukovi predu debele mreže, gamižu po zidovima i plafonima. Nebrojeno vrsti stonoga, škorpija i insekata komeša se u masivnim rojevima.

On silazi niže.

Užareni pogledi i gubice prepune zuba blješte iz mase krzna i krljušti sa druge strane nevidljive ograde. Zveri u tami, što sa Zemlje što sa drugih, negostoljubivijih svetova, večito su gladne.

Još niže.

Giganti, kepeci, deformisane abominacije sa previše i premalo udova gegaju se iza granica statičkih barijera. Oni koji imaju oči, posmatraju ga. Jedan od njih razjapljuju svoje nakazne čeljusti, preteći. Simboli na metalnoj palici vibriraju i sevaju. Spodoba pada na pod u bolnom grču.

Niže.

Morbidna parada poluraspadnutih trupala, leševa predugih očnjaka, zlokobnih senki i treperavih silueta nemo iskazuju svoje poštovanje. Njihova poslušnost je apsolutna.

Zvuk, nalik na šuštanje tkanine, čuje se ponovo. Dolazi sa stepeništa koje vodi na sledeći nivo. Nalazi nešto na podu. Hvata ga i podiže na bledu svetlost palice. Dugačko, belo pero. Njegovo lice nema delove koji iskazuju osećanja, ali da ima, prikazivalo bi frustraciju.

Sudeći po poslednjem mestu na Zemlji koje je posmatrao, noćas je doček Nove godine; trivijalna odrednica koja mu je govorila samo to da će prozor ka svetu smrtnika biti otvoren tek još kratko vreme; ako ga provede ganjajući odbegla stvorenja, biće osuđen na ceo ciklus gladovanja – što nije bila prijatna pomisao.

Hita ka tavanu.

Pernate pošasti čame u udubljenjima na zidovima. Kandžama grebu grane. Spavaju u gnezdima od kostiju. Harpije, sfinge, sirene, ljudi-koji-su-gavrani, sve su naizgled tu. I ni jedna nema perje nalik na ono u njegovom stisku.

Vladar Citadele ne zna mnogo o svojoj prošlosti ni o svojoj prirodi – niti ga bilo šta od toga interesuje. On lovi stravična bića, pujda ih na ljude, hrani se strahom – to je sva njegova svrha i priroda. Međutim, nešto u vezi tog pera mu budi davno zaboravljena, uznemirujuća sećanja.

Leti kroz titanski luk, u dvoranu bez kraja. Masivna izbrazdana stena, kapija ka onostranim svetovima, leži u centru tame. Odlučno ide ka njoj.

Vrata koja oltar otključava bi trebalo da budu otvorena samo oko letnje ravnodnevnice, i tako i jeste – zatiče ih zatvorena i pusta.

Najednom, čuje novi zvuk. Odjek udaljenog hora kristalnih glasova.

Onaj čudni osećaj ponovo struji njegovim telom. Čeka da umine, pa se okreće ka stepenicama i spušta u dubine Citadele.

Konačno razume šta se desilo: oslobodio se jedan od agenata ludila ili neki od vajara stvarnosti. Kuje plan: nije bilo svrhe juriti ga po Citadeli. Ta stvorenja previše su moćna i tvrdoglava; bilo je mnogo jednostavnije isterati ga u svet smrtnika i onda žnjeti njihovim tragom. Kada zadovolji svoje apetite, lakše će ga uterati nazad u njegovu ćeliju.

Na stepeništu nema ničega: samo mrak, tišina i kamen koji nije kamen.

Lebdi kroz tminu, sporo kao kroz katran i ispituje ćelije. Omnihedron, sklapač i rasklapač prostora i vremena treperi nekoliko pedalja iznad poda svoje odaje. Šh’al’ghoum, prvi sin Haosa vrti se u vihoru svojih pipaka, kao što je to uvek činio. Iz gomilice peska u trećoj prostoriji vire trepljasti zubi Hitilitia, crva ludila, potvrđujući da je ovaj i dalje tu… Svi su tu. A ipak, neko ili nešto je pravilo čudne zvuke i igre svetlosti.

Nastavlja sa svojom patrolom. Katkad primeti nešto: svetlost, senku poznatih kontura, šapat. Ove vizije se brzo rasplinu u tami.

Pojam ludila mu je poznat: neki od najprefinjenijih ukusa straha proizilazili su baš odatle. Međutim, ludilo je takođe odlika mesa. Njegov um sačinjen je od drugačijih tkanja, koje se ne mogu umrsiti. Baš zbog toga što zna to, nije mu jasno zašto se žar širi njegovom gubicom, iako nikakve hrane nema na vidiku.

Stiže na nivo na kome su zatočeni demoni – pravi demoni, poslati pravo iz nižih slojeva Pakla. To su dobre i poslušne sluge, a strah koji izazivaju potpuno je čist, iskonski – naročito u dušama vernika. U retkim slučajevima dešavalo se da smrtnici savladaju strah i ubiju njegovo stvorenje, što bi ga beskrajno ljutilo. Ali gotovo nikad demone. Oni su bili praktično nezaustavljivi. Neranjivi. Nepobedivi.

On to dobro zna i zbog toga ne može da razume prizor koju zatiče. Svi demoni, od malih đavolaka preko inkubusa i sukubusa, do vatrenih vojvoda, zavukli su se u najdublje kutke svojih plamenih jazbina, ne usuđujući se da provire. Dok razmišlja šta može da natera ova užasna stvorenja da i sama osete ovoliki nivo straha, oblivaju ga neobična osećanja i porivi.

Iza svakog ugla viri i ruga mu se pticolika senka, ali kada dođe do kraja hodnika, ona više nije tu. Razmatra kako da kazni ovo iritantno stvorenje, ili da ga se čak skroz otarasi. Teško mu je da poveže misli. Čudne slike ruše mu mir.

Ne obazire se na njih i nastavlja sa poterom. Sve je bliže i bliže. Ali što je više približava svom plenu, sve manje želi da ga sustigne. Nešto mu govori da to nije dobra ideja. Šaka koja nije šaka stiska metalnu palicu toliko čvrsto da ni ne oseća da mu se gubica pretvorila u žar i zalepila za vrat.

Seća se nečeg. Nečeg iz davne prošlosti – više hiljada, desetina hiljada ciklusa unazad. Demoni tada nisu bili isporučivani njemu, on je bio… I šta je ta svetlost? I taj zvuk?

Senka širokih krila prestaje da beži. Okreće se i polazi ka njemu. Deluje kao da sama proizvodi svetlost koja je sačinjava. Svetlost koja izgleda opasno. Bolno.

Beži niz najbliže stepenište. Više se ne oseća kao gospodar.

Otvara ceo red kaveza sa stravičnim spodobama, naređuje im da zaustave progonitelja. Čopor vukodlaka, čupakabri i vendiga tutnji kroz hodnik i nestaje u sporednim prolazima, potpuno ignorišući zapovesti.

Slabost, kao od velike gladi, obliva ga, primoravajući ga da uspori.

Protiv svoje volje, on okreće glavu. Samo malo, dovoljno da baci pogled preko ramena. Krajičkom oka vidi nešto, krilatu kreaturu koja se kreće ka njemu. Još zaboravljenih sećanja isplivava na površinu. Kazna. Odmazda. Plamen. Mač od plamena. U ruci krilatog. Ali kako..?

Još jedan talas slabosti ga preplavljuje, i njegovo telo pada na pod. Vidi mač od plamena, vidi krila od svetlosti i pesme. Njegova gubica halapljivo sisa jedini dostupni izvor hrane.

Pre nego što je vrela oštrica stigla po svoju pravdu, proždrao je samog sebe.


Objavljeno u zbirci priča “Iza uma III dio” https://view.publitas.com/foi/iza-uma-zbornik-prica-iii-dio-9a8bgzpzek9v/page/1

The Red Tide

I stood at the crossroads leading into the street I was born in and upon which I grew up. The neighborhood didn’t change much since – it was still a deceivingly quaint suburbia with deep rural roots, slightly modernized by contemporary items and materials: crumbling red brick and a low forest of dried string-bean stalks lay on my left, a noisy AC unit and a rusted satellite dish on a low-set roof on my right.

The asphalt was radiating heat. I heard a choir of cicadas, or maybe just imagined them. A dog started barking somewhere. I lifted my bag and marched straight on.

I felt like I was supposed to feel something. Nostalgia, bliss, dread, all of those were viable options, but none fit. I felt nothing, and walked home.

I ate my meal in quiet; the clang of the spoon and the ticking of the wall clock were the only sounds in the room. I dodged the few questions my parents asked, answering quickly, dismissively and vaguely. It wasn’t hard, as they didn’t really want to talk to me, and inquired only out of parental curtesy. They were angry and disappointed at me, because I was a bad student with a repeated year, few passed exams and low grades. The truth, still unknown to them, was actually much bleaker: I was an ex-student, with a repeated year, no passed exams, and forged grades. I was also a pothead and up to my neck in debts. But they didn’t need to know any of that, at least not yet. Questions about girlfriends and hobbies had ceased a year ago. Aging and decaying, ma and pa knew I was a failure, but they still clung to the slim hope that I might get on top one day. Me being their only child, it was the only thing that kept them going.

I never wanted to come home, but I couldn’t say no to the invitation, especially as skint as I was. Tolerating my parent for a couple of weeks was, I convinced myself, an acceptable burden to bear in exchange for the money I would get from them in the end.

The moment I was left alone, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had friends in the city, long ago, it seemed. They were still there, but they were not my friends any more. “No drugs, no droogs”, was a catchphrase of one of them, which he uttered with a grin whenever we were out of weed, departing promptly. We all laughed at it every time, even though I was certain that each of us knew just how dreary it was in truth.

I didn’t really want to meet any of those people. But I did want to get stoned.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” I announced and headed out.

As I was pacing towards the crossroad, two things flashed through my head. The first was a stream of memories: faded, almost unrecognizable, but undeniably happy. Memories of playing marbles in the dirt, playing hide-and-seek in the dusk-veiled street, riding bikes under the orange-flavored sun, shooting plastic guns and shouting excitedly… The second train of thought, the one that crashed through the first one like a runaway train, was “Where I could possibly get weed in this neighborhood?” I knew for certain there was some to be found; even before I started smoking, I knew about some guys who were using and selling. In the end, I settled for a tried-and-true method of hanging around, looking as if waiting for someone or something, until I would be approached by a dealer.

I popped my finger-joints and sweated, avoiding the looks of the curious neighbors and passerby’s. In moments like this, I had instants of clarity. Remembrance of a friend laughing at me, saying, “Dude, it’s just weed. It’s not coke. Would you suck dick for weed?”, and of another, or perhaps the same one, saying, “Weed can be like heroin, if you let it. Same with coffee or ciggies.” Then, I would dig deeper, trying to get to the bottom of it, how it all started. And I remembered the fun times: going out, laughing with friends, dancing, listening to music and tripping out, playing video-games or watching movies, fully-immersed… Somewhere along the way, that joy faded, leaving only a habit and an itch, aching to be scratched.

And like many times before, just as I was on the verge of questioning my life’s choices and perhaps even changing my routines, something happened to collapse it all. I saw someone walking from the bottom of the street. I didn’t even see who it was, but my junkie-Spidey senses told me it was the person I was looking for. A minute later, I recognized the person in flowing flower-patterned clothes sauntering towards me. It was Sunny, a girl good five years or more my senior. I never really knew her; I was a playmate of her kid brother’s, but I doubt I really spoke to her more than twice in my whole life. Sunny was tall, thin and boyish, with short hair and ageless and not-quite attractive but kind face.

I knew deep inside that it was no super-sense, just pattern recognition. The clothes, the walk, the mannerisms; all undetectable to the straight eye, but one junkie knew another as soon as he saw him (or her).

“Hey! Mike! Long time no see, hi! You back in town?” she stopped to chat, noticing my gaze.

“Yeah, you know, just for a few days.”

“Cool! So, how are you, how are things?”

“Good, good, you know… Listen, Sunny, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what do you need?”

And that was the shop question.

“Do you know where I could get some green?” I asked in the lowest voice manageable, looking around in the least conspicuous manner I could accomplish. There was guilt and anticipation and joy and paranoia in those words; I recognized those feelings time and again, and pushed them back as always so not to interfere or bother me. Still, this was an activity for two A.M. in a seedy part of town, not sun-blasted noon on the crossroads I grew up on. I felt dirty. But that didn’t stop me.

“Sure! Come, I’ll show you!” she answered chipperly, and took a right.

The girl pulled a tiny mobile phone out of her pocket and made a familiar, short call, innocent enough for the normies, but clear as day for the likes of us.

“Can I see you? Yeah, in a few. OK, great.” she said and hung up.

We didn’t need to walk far; the meeting place was just around the corner, in the street right next to ours. I remembered a book shop being somewhere in the vicinity when I was a boy; all of the kids used to buy each other stupid knickknacks for birthday presents there. The house Sunny led me to was the one just before where the bookstore used to be. It was a white, featureless building with walnut trees peaking over its white, featureless walls. I never knew who lived there, not even when I was little.

She rapped on the metal door and we were promptly let inside.

I found myself in a spacious room, an unused garage or workshop of sorts. Its whitewashed walls were barren, slightly dirty and pleasantly cool. The only item inside was an old, banged up desk, with a sickly-looking youth sitting behind it. The girl that let us in shared some of his features, hinting that they were siblings.

“They’ll sort you out. I gotta run, bye!” Sunny said with a smile as she slipped back outside.

I walked to the desk and placed a large banknote – all the money I got from my parents for the duration of my stay – before the greasy haired boy, and he promptly matched it with a cigarette-pack cellophane bulging with dried-up leaves.

Confused, or perhaps perplexed with the amount of money he received, the teen mumbled:

“What do you want?”

“I dunno. The best you’ve got?”

A long-fingered hand snatched the cellophane pack and replaced it with another, much slicker and at least four times smaller. This one was a zip-bag, adorned with a single red line, containing several dark-green, rust-veined nuggets.

“It’s called ‘The Red Tide’. It’s tha bomb.” He said with a neigh-undetectable pride in his otherwise monotone voice.

“OK, I’ll take it.” I answered, taking the package and turning around towards the entrance.

The girl/sister was peering through the cracked-opened door.

“Wait… just a second,” she said to me, turning back to watch the outside.

“What’s happening?”

“There are some pigs on the street. They aren’t here for us, I’m sure, but still, wait a minute till they’ve gone, just so you don’t get paranoid.”

I abided.

Seconds passed like years, and I guessed the “shopkeepers” felt the same way.

“They’re still here. You know what,” said the girl, obviously much more extrovert and expedient than the brother, “this might take a while. Why don’t you go out the back door, eh? It leads into a garden, the Stefano’s vegetable patch. Just go right through and out to the Roman street, there’s no gate on the fence.”

I played hide and seek in the Stefano’s garden long before you were born, I scoffed, slipping through the gap of the heavy door the boy held opened for me. The door didn’t even get to close all the way when I’ve heard a terrible racket behind me.

“GO GO GO! POLICE! ON THE FLOOR, NOW!”

Ice coursed down my spine. I kept pacing robotically forward upon the dusty soil, my chin glued to my chest and my hands down my pockets, sweaty palms clutching the tiny package. I was in a dried-up cabbage patch that gave way to equally dry stalks of corn and sunflower. The shouting and commotion were disturbingly near; I expected a policeman’s rough voice, or hand, to reach out at me any second now. I was going to prison this time, I was sure of it. And my parents will know all about it. It will be the talk of the neighborhood for months to come.

The drugs, that’s all they could have on me. I had to get rid of the stuff. But where? I could swallow it, perhaps, but… My junkie brain interfered again – that way I’d probably never get it back, not in any useful state, anyway. I could just drop it, but then they could find it and pin it on me; the plastic probably had my fingerprints on it.

Suddenly, a dubious solution emerged from the dried vegetable stalks. It was a scarecrow, an old-fashioned one, made of hay and decrepit clothes. An instinct, more than an idea, flashed through my mind. I jabbed my fist into the straw man’s chest, gifting it with a boon, wrong by The Wizard of Oz lore. The straw scarecrow, with torn worker pants and a dingy blue hat, suddenly gained a heart of red-veined cannabis.

Of course, it occurred to me, not even three steps later, that what I did was extremely stupid. But it was too late to go back now; what was done was done. I could still hear the shouts behind my back when I reached the gateless exit. I was now on the street. No one had grabbed me yet. I continued surely to my house, gaze forward, never once turning.

I got into the yard, the hallway, and eventually into my bed, where I spent the rest of the day staring into a book I found on a near-by shelf. It was The Jungle Book, my childhood favorite, an ancient edition, yellow with time and use. I had read it a dozen times, but now, I just gazed at words and spaces, my mind blank and paralyzed. I wondered if they would find my package. If they would find me.

The night eventually came, but I found myself unable to sleep. I was sweating and turning, my brain lashing out at memories, ideas and fantasies, gripping at each for no longer than a couple of seconds. I couldn’t even remember the last time I went to sleep straight. Then I recalled what my friend, Black Chubby, once told me about this: “There’s no such thing as cannabis withdrawal. If you can’t sleep without a joint, that’s a nicotine withdrawal. You really shouldn’t mix your weed with tobacco, that’s bad for ya. But if you feel restless, just have a ciggie, it will put you right at ease”. I did have a cigarette in my kit, and I trusted his experience, but somehow deep down I doubted that it would help me. After all, cigarettes were so stinky and mundane, I thought.

I got up and had a late-night snack. Eventually, I fell asleep, and come morn, I woke up. No one came to get me.

The morning was crisp with the smell of rain on dust-covered asphalt. My parents were nowhere in sight, apparently away from home. I ate a simple breakfast and watched some random TV. But then I got restless.

Another thing Black Chubby used to preach about was how good it is to make occasional breaks from smoking. “That way, you give your brain some time to recuperate. And then it hits you much stronger. It feels like the first time again.” The prospect of having a high like the first one was very appealing to me, and I swore that I would try it sometime, but the chance never presented itself. Now, the abstinence had forced itself to me. And it didn’t feel good.

I switched through the news of several local stations to see if there was anything about the bust in my neighborhood from yesterday, but no station reported any such event. Encouraged by that fact, I got out.

First, I circled the block to check if the coast is clear. I saw no police, nor much of anyone else by that matter. Putting my paranoia at ease, and checking the Stefano family was either away or sleeping, I entered the garden, heading briskly towards the scarecrow. After making sure no one was watching me, I performed a quick Mortal Kombat-like move, punching into the poor straw-man’s chest. I expected to find nothing. Perhaps the cops saw me and picked the package up, or maybe the dogs sniffed it out, or some of the local junkies saw me, or even one of the Stefano brothers… My fingers felt the smooth plastic, and the shapes of the nuggets within. Swiftly, I ripped the bag out, stuffed it into my underpants, spun on my heels, and strode back homeward.

My head was pounding from the excitement and anticipation. I went straight upstairs and into the spare bedroom which was almost never used. I stood by a book shelf and pulled a banged-up cigarette from my kit and a rolling paper from under my cell-phone battery. My hands were shaking. I was just about to pick out a bud from the bag when I heard a door opening behind me. My heart skipped a beat. With a speed of a cheetah, I swept all of it into my shirt pocket.

“What are you doing here?” pa asked.

“Just… checking out some books.” I bumbled.

“Oh. Well, get your things, we’re going to your grandparent’s.”

“OK.” I nodded, trying not to look too confused.

Foiled for the second time in my attempt to get high, I was now sitting in the back of my parent’s sedan, looking restlessly at the roadside nature. We hardly spoke all the way to the seaside, the only sound accompanying us was that of the car’s engine and the ancient rock songs from pa’s cassettes.

I had some fond memories of the times spent at my grandparents, but I had even more of not-so-fond ones. For every recollection of a fun time at the beach, I had at least three of doing boring chores around the estate. There was always something to do there. And now, even long after my grandparents were dead, the situation seemed the same.

“We’re gonna have us a cup of coffee, and then we’re heading to the store to buy some paint.” my mom said.

“We need you to help us paint the porch, so don’t you wander off like you always do.” Pa added sternly.

I nodded, and then proceeded to wander off, as far from the house as possible.

I came onto on the main road, which went parallel with the local shallow brook. I walked between them for a while, and, just when I gathered that I was far enough from the civilization and began producing my tools, I spotted some unlikely familiar-looking silhouettes in the heat-baked distance.

As the mass of thick blonde dreadlocks and a slickly-parted black hair got nearer and away from the sun’s blaze, I was more and more sure that they were who I thought they were.

“Geek! Salvy! Fancy meeting you here!” I said with an honest smile on my lips.

Small explosions echoed the gorge as we slammed palms, followed with shoulder-bumps.

“What… What are you doing here?”

My old chums didn’t look that great. True enough, they haven’t looked good in broad daylight for years now, but at this moment it seemed like there was something more that was plaguing them.

“We’re… on a leave. You know. Country-side, the sea, the air… Far from the town and all that… bullshit.” Geek sighed.

“It got that crazy, huh?” I inquired.

“Man, you don’ even know… Everyone had gone insane.”

“How’s life in the big city?” asked the dark-skinned boy with the parted hair. His nickname was Salvy, as he once smoked a ton of Salvia and almost went insane at his ex-girlfriend’s birthday party. His whole family was there, too. Among other things, he told his girlfriend’s mom to make a cup with her hands and then peed into it. In the end, he had to be rushed to the hospital. No one ever forgot that incident.

“You know… Boring.” I answered.

“I’d never get bored in a city that big, there’s always some hustle there. You’re just too lethargic.” Salvy chided.

“I guess,” I answered with a smile. “You know me.”

“I’d DJ every day! There’s like a million clubs there. Million clubs, million chicks, two million tits, man, with so much pussy… Hah, bored! Listen to him!”

We continued walking and chatting. The expression small-talk was an understatement in this case; we talked a lot, but nothing any of us had said contained any sort of real information or emotion.

“So,” Geek asked, “are we gonna light-up some or what?”

This question was a test of sorts, to reveal which one of us had any weed, and was the most willing to share (or most eager to smoke). Sometimes, only one of us had any, and this question was used to flush that person out. Other times, we all had some, but we were all saving it for later, for that point of the day when it was obvious that there was absolutely nothing else to do.

Now, I had some weed, and I was willing to share. I reached nonchalantly inside my jeans pocket.

The white boy with thick dreadlocks pulled down his dark shades, revealing eyebag-rimmed pupils. They were pointed at something down the road.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he almost squealed.

“What?” I asked, spotting a black BMW rolling our way.

“Is it him? How the fuck did he find us?” the other boy panicked.

“Who?” I asked. “Who are you talking about?”

“It’s Crowbar.”

“Crowbar?”

The person know under that shady nickname was a son of a local money-man. He was couple of years our senior, and for some reason, unfathomable to any of us, he liked to act like a small-time criminal, pretending to be always hustling for money, even though everyone knew that he got it from his father.

“He had gone right mental lately.”

“Yeah. And we owe him money.”

“How much could you possibly owe him that he drives all the way here to collect?” I questioned.

“Well not that much!”

The car slid by our side and stopped. The tinted window rolled down with a whirring sound, revealing a wiry young man wearing black shades and a thick gold chain. He gave us a long, sham-serious look, eventually stopping his gaze on me.

“Sega Boy, that you?” he asked, rising his shades to the top of his head.

“Yeah, it’s me Crowbar.”

“Didn’t you, like, move? To the capitol?”

“Yeah. I study there. Literature. Just came for a visit.”

He nodded slowly for a second or two, all the time giving Geek and Salvy the stink eye.

“Well, nice seeing you. As for you two…”

“Listen, man, we’ll get your money soon. My aunt is coming to visit next weekend, and she always gives me some…”

“Man, fuck your aunt! Now, get inside.”

My friends were reluctant, but the large man sitting next to Crowbar seemed ready to get out and persuade them.

“We’ll get you half by Wednesday. I swear…”

“I don’t want to hear about your fucking chickenfeed debts for a second more! Now get in! I need your help with something.”

The request sounded genuine, and the two boys got inside the black car.

“You, Sega Boy, you from around here?”

“Not me, but my folks are.”

“You know where I can rent a boat round here?”

“A boat? Yeah, sure, just go down any of the peers and ask around, I’m sure all of the folks be willing to rent you theirs. Not many tourists this year, so they might even be willing to rent it cheap.”

“And what about a truck?”

“Um, well, try by the sawmill. The Jorgensens own it, they’ve got a bunch of trucks. I doubt they use them all.”

Crowbar nodded, pulling his shades back on.

“Thanks,” he said.

“How much is this going to take?” Salvy asked from the back seat.

Crowbar turned his head. I expected him to bark something in the line of “As long as it fucking takes!”, but, instead, he just said “Not long”.

Then, they drove off, rising a cloud of dust.

I walked some more and then turned back, moving slowly as a turtle. I could’ve rolled and smoked a joint by myself, but now I really wanted to share it with my friends. After all, they’ve said they won’t be long. And I really didn’t want to go home and slave for my parents. What was the point of fixing up a summer house all the time if you were never gonna use it anyway? Purposely, I lost track of time. I had a natural talent for it.

I walked back at a snail’s pace, looking at the silvery fish in the brook, the scuttling lizards on the hot rocks, the butterflies fluttering about. I thought about how beautiful life was even when straight, but the very next thought that followed was of how much cooler all of this would’ve been if I was high. Just as I was reaching a critical point, both on the road and in my mind, and started digging though my pockets, a large white truck stopped by my side. I recognized the man on the passenger seat.

“Get in.” Crowbar said.

He didn’t seem angry or hostile, so I began climbing the cabin.

“Around back, in the storage unit.”

I stopped in my track.

“Your mates are in there. Well, go on! I’ll be joining you in a short while. Gotta make a couple of calls first.” He said calmly, flipping open a cell.

I walked round back and entered the storage. It was mostly empty, apart from several overturned white plastic buckets serving as chairs. And, as Crowbar said, my mates were there, sitting on those same buckets, looking gloom. I sat on an unoccupied one. Someone closed the cargo doors and the truck soon started moving again at a cruse speed.

“Where were you?” I inquired with genuine curiosity. “Where did you go? What was that whole deal, with the boats and the trucks?”

I was sure no one could hear us over the engine noise, but I still spoke with half a voice.

“You don’t even wanna know, man.” Geek answered.

“Why, what did he do?”

“He went fucking insane, that’s what he do.” Salvy almost shouted.

“He went to burry treasure.” Geek mouthed, with a mocking, resigned tone in his voice.

“Whaat??” I squealed, not managing to hold back a smile “What treasure?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Salvy continued. “He’s gone mental, I’ve told you! He took off on a boat with a big-ass metal chest, and an honest-to-God real old-timey map. And he made us swear never to tell anyone about it, haha, can you believe it?”

“What do you think is in the chest?” I asked.

“Who the fuck knows? Who cares? It certainly ain’t no treasure! Treasure, ha! He’s been doing too much speed, that Crowbar…”

The truck stopped, making us lurch into silence. A short while later, the door opened and, as promised, Crowbar entered to join us, followed by one of his goonies.

As soon as he sat themselves, the truck continued rolling.

After a minute or two of uncomfortable silence, I spoke out.

“I hope we’re just cruising around, I need to go back to my folks sometime today.”

Crowbar just nodded his short-cropped head of hair.

“I’ll get you home, Sega Boy, don’t cha worry about it.”

More uncomfortable silence followed.

“You know, Sega Boy, I always liked you. You always had a vision, some idea or a trip. Unlike these chuckle-fucks here.”

“That’s not fair, Crowbar”, Salvy said, encouraged by his injured pride. “You know that I spin, you’ve been to my parties. After all, it was me that introduced you to…”

“You, are a fucking redneck, Salvy!” Crowbar exploded into the black boy’s face, gnashing his teeth and stabbing his chest with a stiletto-like index finger. “Everybody fucking hates your guts! I actually wanted to kick your ass a thousand times before, and on one occasion, I almost did, if only for the Sega Boy here” he said, pointing at me. “He saved your hide!” And it was true, I realized, as I suddenly remembered the occasion.

We drove some more in steadily more unpleasant atmosphere. No one dared say anything.

“Yo, got anything to smoke?” Crowbar suddenly asked. “C’mon, I know you do. You junkies always got some.”

This was my time to shine, a chance to lighten up the mood, I thought. Also, I was dying for a joint at this point, and was actually hoping for him to share some.

“I’ve got something.” I said, in a low but cheerful voice, as I pulled a crumpled-up bag from the depth of my pocket. “It’s called ‘The Red Tide’. It’s supposed to be pretty good.”

Crowbar, whose real name was Nico, as I suddenly recalled, took the bag from my hands. He then proceeded to take an unnecessary large chunk of the buds and crush them over his thug’s cupped hands. Rich, diesel-like smell quickly filled the cargo space.

I remember him rolling the joint. I remember it being passed around. I remember the dank, heavy, but overall pleasant smell of the weed. I remember it hitting me a bit too fast and too hard: the dryness of the mouth, the heaviness behind the eyes, the drop of blood pressure… And then…

My ears were ringing. I was sweating, walking down the motorway. I couldn’t remember how I got there. My hands were sticky. I lifted them to my face. They were coated with blood. As was my shirt, and the patches of my shorts. I didn’t know whose blood it was, but I guessed it wasn’t mine as I wasn’t in any pain. I couldn’t be certain, as I suddenly recalled an article about people not feeling their injuries after experiencing profound shock. Shock…

I turned around.

I saw the overturned white truck in a ditch a short distance behind me. It was still smoking. The door of the cargo trailer was plastered with red stains. A back wheel still turned vainly in the air.

I turned back and continued walking. Past the truck – not stopping, not even for a glance. I walked straight forward until I reached a brook bank. My head felt as it was filled with dirty cotton. I crouched, washed my hands and face, and then took several big gulps of the cool water, not thinking about its purity. Then, I took off my t-shirt, rinsed it a bit, turned it inside-out and tied it around my waste so it would cover the stains on my jean shorts. After that, I walked straight back towards the town. I walked like an automaton, with determination and an end goal in mind, but with no clear thoughts. Not that I was capable of any, nor have I wanted them at this point.

Eventually, I reached my grandparents’ house. Sneaking into the shed, I exchanged my bloody clothes for spares – jean shorts for an old, musty pair, and the bloody t-shirt for clean one – they were both black with metal band logos on them, and I was sure my parents couldn’t even tell the difference. Then, I entered the front door, acting normally – a performance I perfected many years ago.

“Where the hell were you?” my pa asked irately. “You’ve been gone the whole God-damn day!”

“Don’t shout at him,” my ma interceded.

“And why not? Why shouldn’t I shout? Whenever there’s work to do, he disappears! Can you at least tell me where you were?”

“I went for a walk, OK?” I answered.

“For a walk, hah! Where?”

“Up the mountain side!” I lied purposely, to place myself as far as possible from whatever happened down the road. “It’s so pretty up there.” I added, knowing it would sell the lie more easily.

“I told you not to wander off,” pa grumbled, but ma took him by the hand, the act of which immediately disarmed him.

“Go wash up, we’re about to have dinner” ma said.

“I already did,” I answered as a dropped on a wooden chair, genuinely exhausted and starved.

Ma patted my head a proceeded to serve dinner. After I stuffed myself, we were getting ready to leave.

“We’ll take the mountain road. You’re right, it is more scenic, especially this time of the year,” pa said, and I was so glad, not because I really cared about nature’s splendors, but because it meant we wouldn’t drive pass Crowbar’s truck and wherever was in it.

We drove back in silence. My ma and my pa talked some, but I didn’t follow, answering only when I was directly spoken to. I was stoned and in shock, and I remained in that state all the way until I got into bed, feeling protected by its cocoon effect.

The next day I woke up feeling somewhat better. It seemed that, while I was asleep, some part of my mind had decided just not to care about all that had happened the previous day. It was a defense mechanism – a very unhealthy one at that – and I was aware of it, but it was easier to just go on with my life than to pick at that sore spot. I did wince though when I saw the overturned truck on the TV.

“Look!” ma tsked, pointing at the screen. “Just a couple of miles from the summer house!”

“God-damn!” pa stared. “What are they saying, what happened? They were drunk, I’ll bet. Everyone’s driving drunk these days. God-damn irresponsible… Where’s the remote? I wanna turn it up!”

By the time they found the remote, the meteorologist girl was already giving the weather.

“Damn. Hey, did you see anything? You were out on a walk about that time, did you see the crash?”

“No pa, I went the other side, remember?” I answered with an inner shudder.

“You could’ve seen the road from up there…”

“I was by the sea side.”

Pa nodded and spun, trying to remember where he was headed before the TV interrupted him.

“Bring me the washbasin!” ma yelled to jog his memory.

“All right, all right, I was on my way. The blue one or the pink one?”

I went back into my room, unphased by the news. In fact, I felt weirdly fine. Calm, freed. I knew that after all of this I wasn’t going to think about weed and anything related for some time, possibly forever. And, who knows, I might even finish my studies! At that moment, I wanted to go out. Go out and do something fun and positive. I pulled out my cellphone and scrolled through the names, many of which were dealers filed as “Aunt May”, “Dentist” or “Copy house”. Suddenly, I spotted one name that made my eyes glaze over. It was a contact of an old, dear friend, a pre-marihuana friend. I pressed the dial button immediately.

“Hey, Alex… Yeah, it’s me… A couple of days ago. Yeah. Yeah. Hey, listen, what do you say we meet up some place, have a cup of coffee and reminiscence, you know? Sure! Sure… I remember! How could I forget! Yeah. OK, see ya there at five. Bye!”

That was Alexander, Alex for short, my one-time best friend, from that weird period between junior high and high school, when video-games were still the most important thing in our lives, but also when we began turning our heads for fluttering skirts and tight tights. We met in a private Spanish course, which my pa forced me to take when I definitely said no to violin practice. It turned out to be very fun: we had a hot teacher, I met some girls, learned some Spanish, and acquired some very good friends, of which Alex was the best. After class, we used to go to his pa’s office, which was in the same small mall as the Spanish course, chug soda and play video-games on his father’s PC until my pa would ring to ask me where the hell I was.

It only made sense to meet up there again. I felt actually giddy taking the bus uptown.

None of us drank soda any more, but we had quite a lot to talk about, not only the past, but normal, everyday things, such as hobbies, music and TV shows. Nothing drug related, which was a welcome change.

“This place hasn’t changed a bit,” I said, looking around the small, dusty office, overflowing with crumbling paper stacks.

“Yeah,” answered the tall, black-haired youth. “Dad doesn’t like change. He works a lot more from home recently, though.”

My eyes went towards the gray monstrosity sitting on the far end of the table.

“Does this thing still work?”

Alex answered with a big, white smile.

“What do you think? Of course it works! Dad still uses it for business.”

“But it’s ancient!” I exclaimed in disbelief.

“What can I tell you, he really doesn’t like change.”

After a moment of silence, I took a sip of cold instant coffee from my paper cup and asked.

“Hey, do you remember how we used to play Pinball Fantasies on that thing?”

“I sure do! Wanna play some some now?”

“What? You still have it installed?”

“Sure! I’ve also got Prince of Persia, Commander Keen, Cisco Heat…”

The old dusty PC did indeed work, and we mashed the wonky plastic keys for hours on, talking and laughing. I was transported into my childhood again. Everything that had happened afterwards disappeared, as if it had never happened. My “new friends”, the weed days, the failed studies, even the horrific and unclear events of yesterday became like bad dreams in my mind, something to be forgotten and discarded. I was still aware, even more so than before, that I was in objective danger: there could be my fingerprints, or even worse, my DNA, all over that disaster-truck. I was never one to fall for such things as faith or superstition, but now I also felt an irrational, almost supernatural feeling that I could make all of that go away just by the power of positive thought.

After we had turned the ancient 286 off, we continued talking over one more cup of coffee.

“I gotta take a leak, be right back” Alex said, interrupting our chuckle fest.

I affirmed with a mumbled OK and then proceeded to entertain myself with the stuff I’ve found on the table. There were old newspapers and magazines there, coffee-stained reports, sheets of paper with illegible notes, and a whole heap of business cards of all sorts, colors and shapes. I began shuffling through them, admiring the diversity of design, when my gaze fell onto one particular card. It held only a telephone number, a thin cardinal line, and three words: “The Red Tide”. All my positivity evaporated on the spot. Suddenly, I felt cold.

I heard a flush and Alex emerged from the tiny bathroom in the corner.

“Sorry I took so long, all that coffee gave me the runs.”

Slowly, I stood up and lifted the inconspicuous business card into the air with both hands.

“Alex, what is this?”

He leaned his body downward to get his head into the height of my outstretched hands, so much taller was he, and squinted.

“Mmm… Dunno.” He said, straightening himself disinterestedly.

“Whose card is it?” I persisted.

“How should I know? My dad’s a lawyer, can you imagine how many people come through this office every day? And that card could’ve been there for years as far as I know. Why, what’s so special about it?”

“I gotta go. And I gotta take it with me.” I said, feeling as if all of my blood had left my body.

“Erm, OK. I guess. If you gotta go, you gotta go.” He shrugged, looking slightly perplexed.

There was none of our usual long goodbyes in which we would small-talk for hours. I stormed out of the cramped office and then out of the small, now eerily empty mall, into the dirty night of the boulevard.

I acted like a man possessed, clutching the business card in my pocket, squeezing it like I wanted to punish it. I stopped under a high lamppost. Even though all of my senses and reasons told me to just rip the damn card into pieces and throw it in the gutter, I couldn’t resist it. I took out the cardboard rectangle onto the streetlight and dialed the number written on it.

The dial tone sounded two times. I took in a heavy breath and exhaled it shakily. I was hoping that nobody would answer; it was, after all, a silly, unreasonable notion, and it was pretty late…

Someone picked up. What I first heard was a sort of buzzing sound, like from a broken light fixture, or a faulty refrigerator. Or perhaps a distant low-flying plane. It made my flesh crawl.

“Mister Snyder…” spoke the voice on the other side. It was a male voice, older, but not decrepit. “Sly” was the adjective that popped into my mind. “Sinister.”

“How… How do you know my name?” I stuttered, my jaw chattered as from frost, even though it was an overly hot and humid night.

“I know all about you, Mister Snyder.”

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice still quivering.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Let’s say that I represent the one you persistently look for.”

Suffocating silence followed, mired in more of that low-buzzing sound.

“So, what now?” I asked. “When… When will this all end?”

I don’t know why I asked this particular question. It just seemed right. I could almost feel the person on the other end of the line smiling.

“End? But, Mister Snyder… It has only just begun.”

Objavljeno u webzine-u “Schlock! Vol 18 Issue 1” https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/200976459-schlock-webzine

The Bug and the Egg

Wednesday

The iconic sound bite blared from the TV. The familiar logo that followed lit up the bugged-out faces of the four youths, as well as their crossed fingers. For a second, they all held their breaths. Then, a second logo appeared, a large letter P, and everybody exploded into cheers and whoops.

“You – are – a – genius! A bloody genius!” said the dark-skinned boy, affectionately grabbing the neck of his crouching friend in the crook of his muscly, tattooed arm.

The boy on the floor smiled and blushed, wiping the sweat gathered under his glasses.

“’Twas nothing. The laser just needed some aligning. Piece of cake, really.”

“It may be a piece of cake for you, mister-master magic fingers, but I was all but given up on this old thing.”

“Can I play now, Ruddy?” pleaded the chubby younger sibling.

“Give the man some space first, for Vishna, Jesus and Lemmy’s sake! Isha, get Chester a drink!” the youth ordered. The girl smiled with genuine politeness and poured some cola from a big plastic bottle into a glass next to presently rising Chester.

The youngest of the Singhs grabbed the controller and immersed himself into the video-game, ignoring all around him. Chester sat on the near-by ottoman, his gaze flying towards the numerous rock, punk and metal posters and knickknacks adorning the dimly lit room.

„Can’t tell you how much this means to me, Ches,“ said Rudra, flipping his zippo to light a cigarette. He took a big drag, holding it in in for a split second. “This is my first and oldest console. I’m emotionally attached to it, you know?” he croaked, spewing up smoke.

“Don’t mention it, Rud. Say, about the payment…”

“Oh shit, I almost forgot,” Rudra exclaimed, jumping from the chair. His hand went digging in the back pocket of his jeans. “Say, Ches, I gotta ask,” he said, biting on his cigarette, “I mean, you know me, when I have something on my mind, I just have to say it, and it’s just what everyone else has been wondering…”

The pale boy grinned and took a loud gulp of his fizzy drink. He knew exactly what his ex-schoolmate was going to say.

“Shoot, Rud.”

“How is it exactly that you are doing this, repairing small electronics for chicken feed? I mean, how can you possibly be skint? Aren’t your parents, lords or something? Like, having tea with the queen – seriously loaded – type of rich?”

“Yeah,” Chester answered through a numb smile. “I mean, sort of. My parents are rich – me and my brother aren’t. You see, father has decided that we are a couple of screwups, not yet worthy of getting any of our family’s fortune. The only way I’m getting any of that money is either by serving my country, getting married, and getting a college degree, or when the old man kicks the bucket. The first one’s out of the question, so now I’m living like a bum, and will continue to live like a bum for the next decade or two. Or three. Who knows how long the old vampire plans to live?”

“What a drag. And what about your brother?”

“Ah, poor old Cecil. He’s never gonna get anything. He’s autistic, you see…”

“Ooh,” the Indian boy exclaimed, as this reveal answered a lot of questions and rumors circulating the neighborhood.

“…and dad, being the cold, heartless bastard that he is, decided that he’s bad blood, not worthy of anything. So, either I get it all – eventually – or the money goes to some stupid institute or trust fund.”

“That’s wicked, mate. Real wicked. Our dad is like, the world’s greatest miser, but he’d never let any of us hanging dry like that.”

“True,” confirmed the girl, listening in from a dark corner a couple of feet away.

“We did get the house, though. We still have to pay rent, but at ‘affordable rate’. I’d say ‘what a joke’, but I guess I have to be grateful, all thing considered.”

The discussion subsided for an awkward moment, punctuated by video-game sounds.

“Oh! The money! How much did you say I owe you?”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Could you, instead of paying, do me a small favor?”

“Sure Ches, anything,” the dark-skinned boy answered, ready to do both for his estranged childhood friend and neighbor.

“My brother and I are going away for the weekend, for our obligatory annual visit of the ancient overlords, and, I was wondering… Would you be so kind to do a bit of… pet-sitting?”

The way Chester expressed his request, blushing and stuttering, made Rudra expect something much more sinister. Confronted with its banality, he could only stare with a blank expression for a second or two before replying.

“Oh. Of course! Of course I could! No probs! Hah! Didn’t even realize you have a dog. Or is it a cat?”

The young man’s face was now positively pink, even in the dimness of the room.

“No, it’s neither a cat nor a dog.”

“So, what is it then? Is it a gerbil?”

Chester’s eyes flew over the room, gauging the reaction of his friend’s younger – and quite attractive – sister.

“No. You see… It’s Cecil. He’s got a… rare bug collection.”

“What? Bugs?”

“Yeah. It’s quite a small collection, really, only a couple of ‘em, but he insists that someone look after them while we’re gone. You’re not away for the weekend for a concert or such, are you? In that case…”

“No, no, I’ve.. I’m not doing anything. We’ve got a gig down at the pub Wednesday, and after that we’re playing at a music festival in Southampton, but that’s not for a while now, so, yeah, I’m free.”

“I hate bugs,” Isha spoke in unison with screen-hypnotized Kabir, who was still clutching at the controller.

“Are they in a, whatsitcalled, glass thingy?”

“I believe he has terrariums for them, yeah. You’d have to come and see, he’ll explain everything.”

“So, do I just need to come and feed them occasionally, or…?”

“No. One’d think so, but Cecil insists that someone look after them 24/7. Apparently, some of them are one of a kind or something.”

“Bloody hell. You know what, I hate bugs too, and I’d rather just give you twenty quid, but won’t leave you hanging, not you, not poor old Cecil.”

“Thanks Rud! We’re leaving Friday morning, so if you could stop by before that, that would be terrific.”

“No worries, I’ll come tomorrow after breakfast to pick ‘em up.”

“Cheers Rud, you’re the greatest.”

Rudra turned and glanced at the TV-screen, and then placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“No, Chester – you are!”

Thursday

Rudra strutted in the middle of the walkway, flashing his studded leather paraphernalia, one of his reluctant siblings following on each side. The sharp morning sun made them squint; apart from Rudra, of course, who wore shades.

Chesterfield house was just a short walk from the Singh home and eatery. It was a somewhat run-down, but sizable estate, made of gray-painted wood, even though the paint was now in full retreat. The host came out to greet them on the fenceless lawn of feral grass, leading them towards the back yard and down a cellar staircase.

“In here, in here, I’ll show you. This here are Cecil’s quarters. Cecil, open up”, he said, banging on the metal barrier. “I’ve brought the people who will look after your bugs!”

There came a sound of a heavy lock opening, and Chester pushed on the door, letting them in.

The trio craned their necks in wonder.

“This is bigger than our whole house, even with the restaurant,” Kabir commented, gawking.

“I’ve told you a million times not to exaggerate”, Rudra said, his gaze imitating that of his younger brothers, though with a subdued notion.

The fore-mentioned quarters consisted of one spacious rectangular room, apparently stretching under most of the house, lit by a row of windows set along the ceiling on the right. The room itself made Rudra think of his own, and how his was a meager imitation of this one: these chambers were as shady and filled to the brim with numerous curios, but, unlike his cheap bric-a-brac, Cecil’s items seemed genuine and meaningful. Tomes, printed-out manuals, draperies and eerie figurines made of brass and porcelain covered every inch of the spacious basement.

It took them a second just to spot Cecil, who apparently ran back to the computer placed on a crowded writing desk. The younger of the Chesterfields bore a strong resemblance to his brother, the difference being that he was pudgier and more unkempt. Though the most obvious discernible disparity between the two were Cecil’s thick glasses and a wispy mustache, there was something in the younger brother’s eyes that set them unmistakably apart.

“Cecil, you remember Rudra? He’s my mate from school. His parents own the ‘Curry and Carry’ place up the road, surely you remember it? And these are his siblings.”

Kabir and Isha sent a shy wave each.

“They aren’t going to eat my insects, are they?” the portly youth said suspiciously.

“Oh, no, no, no, no one’s eating your insects, that’s… I’m so sorry, Rud, he’s… He doesn’t mean it…”

“No sweat, Chas,” the Indian youth said, turning towards Cecil. “Hey, buddy, it’s OK. I swear, I’d never eat your insects, no matter how yummy they look.”

“They don’t look yummy at all,” Chester’s brother replied matter-of-factly.

“All the better! Now, where are the little buggers?”

“Chester, do you vouch for these people? Do you swear?” he demanded, looking nervously towards an undefined speck on the floor.

“Of course, CC, these are my mates! They’re good people!”

“They don’t look like good people.”

“Now, Cecil, don’t be a racist…”

“I’m not being a racist, Chester. But that boy has hoodlum tattoos on his arms!”

“Cecil, I swear! I swear on my games collection! There’ no need to worry!”

Cecil rose reluctantly from his yellowed computer, all the way giving them the evil eye. Isha tried smiling at him, but that only made him roll his eyes.

“This way, please,” he said, waddling towards the bottom of the room.

What Rudra had expected was perhaps a wall filled with glass boxes, or at least one big glass container, filled with sand, turf and twigs. What he certainly didn’t expect was hardly anything at all. The long work surface running along the downmost wall looked about the same as any other in the room: there were notebooks, stacks of magazines, metal boxes and items of indefinable nature splayed all along the wooden surface, as well as an assortment of curious tools hanging from the wall. But no insect habitats.

“I’ve got three of them,” said Cecil.

“Only three? Oh, thank God. I was expecting like, a hive or something.”

Cecil paid no mind to his remarks. Rudra’s sibling peered from behind his back, eyes wide with curiosity and expectation.

“This here’s Horace, he’s my best friend,” said the younger Chesterfield brother, pulling out a round jar from behind some old leather tomes. A large stag beetle stood fast on the pebble-adorned bottom.

“Oh, cool, a stag beetle! I love these guys! I was afraid it was gonna be something yuckier, like those giant hissing cockroaches or something,” Rudra said with a shudder.

“I do not own those. Anyway, Horace eats rotten wood, there’s some of it in this bag. You can feed it to him if you want, but he already has plenty.”

Rudra took the paper bag and passed it behind.

“This one eats live prey. Just give him whatever. A fly, a spider, a mouse. He’ll even eat a chicken, if it’s small enough.”

It took Rudra a moment to spot what Cecil was pointing at.

“Jesus, Brahma and Jimmy, what in the fuck is that?” he jumped, gaze glued to the curious creature standing on the edge of a shelf. It was a pale, caterpillar-like creature, with length and girth that of a sausage, ending with a forked tail, raised and curved threateningly.

“It’s an assassin grub. Don’t worry, it’s completely harmless to people… At this stage, at least.”

“It’s disgusting!” Isha screamed, cowering behind her brother’s back.

“I let him roam freely, he gets rid of all the pests. But if he upsets you, I can put him in a makeshift terrarium.”

“It bloody well does! Please jar it!”

Cecil extended his finger to the worm-like creature. It wriggled obediently onto it, allowing him to transfer it into one of many empty jugs lying about.

“The last one is the most important one, so please pay attention.”

Rudra followed Cecil’s gaze towards a large oblong stone, or stone figurine.

“Don’t tell me the bug’s under there. It’s gonna be a scorpion or some other creepy shit, ain’t it?”

Cecil gave him a puzzled look.

“The insect is not under anything.”

Rudra turned towards his school chum, but he was apparently occupied reading a Batman edition from 1983.

Cecil lifted the rock and handed it to Indian rocker. It felt lighter in his palm than he expected. Only when it got close to his eyes did Rudra see grooves and contours on its surface.

“It’s an Egyptian Khepri Scarab. A pupa of one, at least. It has a very unique diet.”

With a flick of his palm, Cecil removed the lid-like layer of the object on Rudra’s hand. Inside was a hollow, ending with a narrower, deeper hole. If Rudra suspected this object to be a man-made artifact before, the reveal of its innards dispelled all doubt: the curves and textures of its interior were most certainly organic, not unlike those of a sea-shell or a snail, only thicker and more rock-like.

Cecil crouched to fetch something from the bottom shelf. He came up bearing two peculiar jars.

“You need to feed it daily, and it’s important! Don’t you miss a meal! The consequences are unforeseeable, but potentially catastrophic! Now, first, you take one of these…”

Using metal tongs, Cecil grabbed one of the dubiously looking items from the first jar. Then, he placed it down the deepest orifice in the creature’s innards.

“What is that? It looks like dog shite,” Kabir spat.

“It is not canine. It’s human.”

“It’s someone’s shit? For real?”

“It is holy excrement, quite difficult to come by, mind you, and I’d prefer it if you’d keep your juvenile humor to yourselves, please.”

But Rudra couldn’t help himself.

“Hear that, Kab? It’s literally holy shit!”

Cecil ignored the grinning boys and continued with his instructions.

“Then, you’ll need a boiled egg. Chicken egg, as it is easiest to come by, but I’d guess any would suffice. It needn’t be fresh, but please make sure it hasn’t gone off.”

Then, he proceeded to extract a hard-boiled egg from a brine-filled jug and place it in the exoskeleton interior. It fit unnervingly perfectly into the indentation.

“And then you close it, and that’s it! Make sure you do it once every day! It’s really crucial!”

The dark-skinned boy turned and flipped the calcious creature in his hand, noticing the almost relief-like grooves, but no discernible organs or orifices. The creature, if in fact it was one, looked more like a sculpture than an organism, along with creases and details that made shapes reminiscent of a human head and crossed arms.

“But… It eats a whole egg a day, and then some, right? So, where does it poop from?”

“Is that really relevant?” Cecil yelped irritably.

“No, no… But, I mean, if I was to eat a cooked egg a day, boy, I would…”

Cecil faked an annoyed cough.

“I believe that would be all. Now, take my creatures and take good care of them. I need to go pack for my journey,” the younger Chesterfield said, as he turned and left. Rudra turned also, catching a glimpse of his friend peering above the ancient comic-book.

“Well, yes, I’d say it had gone along pretty well. Please Rud, do as he asked. We’ll be back Monday, Tuesday at latest. It’s not too much of a bother, is it?”

“Nah,” Rudra answered. “Hardly a bother at all. Now, troops, grab a bug each. I’ll be carrying the shit-eater rock. Let’s go home, chop-chop, I’ve got ‘Vagrant Story’ on pause, and I want to get on with it!”

#

“Where’re we gonna put ‘em?” asked the younger boy worryingly, as they were closing up on their house.

“It has to be somewhere mom and dad don’t go, otherwise they’ll have a fit,” consulted Isha.

Rudra stopped, scratching his chin with the stone bug for a moment.

“Let’s put them in the old basement! They don’t go there anymore! At least not very often!”

“Won’t Kali eat them? He eats cockroaches, you know.”

“Nah. We’ll put them on a high shelf. Besides, I think these fellas could put up a fight even against a scruffy furball like Kali.”

Friday

Friday afternoon was a holy time for the Singh youths. It was a time for respite, regeneration, and rapture. But mostly one for junk food and video-games.

They waited for their father, Param, to come up and do his regular yelling at them for being a bunch of no-good, lazy ingrates. They never took it to heart, as they all knew that he was secretly very proud of them all: he bragged to everyone at the pub how his oldest son was a rock star, even bringing some money out of it home; that his daughter was a straight-A student, although he has never seen her study; and that his youngest never got into trouble at school, even though he knew he was involved in, and even instigated, most of the trouble that happened there, but always somehow managed not to get caught.

As soon as the patriarch trumped downstairs, each of them relaxed and went on with their relaxation of choice. Isha commandeered the landline and entered the gossip web she and a couple of her friends spun. Kabir came out of his room, sat down without a word and powered up the recently repaired console.

“Kabir, you’ve got both a PlayStation 2 and 3, why don’t you go play on those?” Rudra scolded his brother.

“I like this one better,” he answered in monotone, gaze glued to the CRT screen.

“I like this one better”, his brother repeated in a mocking voice, but stopped at that, knowing that the boy only wanted company. “You can grind for me, if you want, though that’s it. But before that, you’ve got to go down and bring us some Coke, we’re all out.”

“No, you go.”

Rudra was just about finished with rolling a small spliff behind a book screen, and was now firing it up with his Zippo.

“What was that? I’ve told you something, young man! You’re the youngest, and you’ve gotta go!”

“You go, or else I’ll tell mom and dad that you’re smoking drugs.”

“Drugs? What drugs? This is a cigarette!”

“I can tell by the smell, you know.”

“What smell? That’s an incense stick!”

“It not an insect stick. I know how those smell.”

Rudra smacked himself on the forehead.

“Insects! I’ve forgotten about Chester’s bloody insects! Somebody has got to go feed them!”

“Well, I can’t,” said the pudgy boy, pressing pause and rising from the floor, “I need to go fetch the Coke.”

“Shit! Isha? Could you, please?”

The girl was just finishing up on one call and dialing up another.

“Why me? It’s your friend’s bugs!”

“Because, I’m the one financing tonight’s… substances. Not to mention food and drinks.”

“You’re just stealing food and drinks from the restaurant, as always. And I’ll just take a couple of puffs of that weed, no more, you know that.”

“You’ll be having none of either if you don’t do as I say! Now, you remember how to feed them?”

“How could I forget?” the girl sighed, grabbed a chocolate wafer from the nearby bowl and disappeared down the narrow staircase.

Rudra put out the roach in an ashtray shaped like a naked woman and sat on his kid brother’s place, grinning as he lifted the joypad.

#

Isha walked down, taking a small bite of the wafer as she went, chewing loudly. Finally, she reached the so-called old basement, the one they used until their father built a bigger one to suit the restaurant needs.

She pulled on the hanging string, bringing light into the darkness, even though she knew the layout of the room like the back of her hand. Kali meowed by her side, and Isha gave her a quick pat on the lush fur, knowing she had rushed down just to check if she was getting any food.

“Right, food. Not for you, you fat cat, it’s for the disgusting bugs up here. Now let’s see, you eat rotten wood, right? Here’s some…” she said, adding a brick on top of others already laying on the bottom of the stag beetle’s jar.

“And you… catch your own. Right…”

The sausage-shaped grub was pressed upon the bottom side of the iron mesh covering its jar. In its legs and mandibles, it held a fat, emerald colored fly. Or at least what was left of it.

Isha shuddered before going forward.

“And for you, I remember, you eat shit and eggs… You know, you aren’t so different from my brother.”

Kali meowed in confirmation.

The girl removed the chitin cover and started turning around, first to the left, and then to the right.

“Oh, no! We forgot the shit jar! And the egg jar! But more importantly, the shit jar! Oh man, what am I gonna do?”

The idea of somehow getting into Cecil’s cellar was out of the question, at least for now. Isha considered for a moment going into the restaurant kitchen to boil some eggs before dismissing it as it was too much of a bother.

“Eh, someone who gobbles human turds can’t be much of a fussy eater.”

Isha crouched and pulled one of the droppings from Kali’s litterbox, holding it by her fingertips. The big black Persian regarded her quizzingly. She placed it in the indentation, as Cecil showed her. She turned around, examining the content of the numerous tins and boxes before noticing the item in her own hand.

“Oh. Well, I guess this will do. Here you are, little weird friend. It’s chocolate!”

She replaced the lid and was on her way back up, when an unexpected sound made her turn.

The stone beetle jumped.

When Cecil Chesterfield fed the scarab, there was absolutely no reaction or feedback. But now, the rocky thing was bucking, shaking and jumping at uneven intervals upon the wooden surface. Isha stared in wonder, as she was previously convinced that this thing wasn’t actually alive.

The pupa shook and jerked faster and faster. Isha watched transfixed, wondering about what was going to happen, but mostly worrying if she had perhaps killed the creature by feeding it inappropriate foods.

The object was now shaking, almost vibrating, like it was going to explode.

And then it stopped – and produced an audible, embarrassingly long fart. Isha could actually see the yellow-green gas flowing from the creature’s end. As it began rolling towards her, she pinched her nose, expecting a terrible stench, based on its diet. But the smell she sensed wasn’t anything like sulphur or sewage or other things she anticipated. In fact, it wasn’t like anything she had sensed before in her life. It was a chemical smell, like gas, or ether, or those weird mint alcohol drinks her parents kept bringing from Greece and never once drinking. As it moved closer, the gas became clearer and more organic in its essence, like sweat or dirty laundry.

“Oh,” was all she managed to say. Kali ran away and up the staircase in a distraught canter.

The creature stopped shaking, reverting to its inanimate form. Again, Isha couldn’t tell if it was alive or not. After some gawking, she walked back up.

The adventure game was now absent from the TV, replaced with a split screen of flying bullets and rockets.

“I’m in the lead,” boasted Kabir.

“For now… But I’m gonna win!”

“Hey, Kab, something weird happened with one of the bugs,” Isha said, standing in the door frame.

“It’s not dead, is it?” he said, gaze-transfixed and twisting his whole body, as if that would help him evade the digital projectiles.

“No, I don’t think so. But it made a dreadful fart. Like… a wet fart.”

The boys both giggled.

“I knew it had to poop somehow. Now we know!”

“I won,” declared the youngest of the Singhs.

His brother ruffled his hair as he stood up.

“Beginners luck. I’ll get you the next time. Right, I’m off. Gordy called, we’re gonna have a bit of jam and ale at his dad’s garage. Don’t wait up.”

“Can I play ‘Vagrant Man’ while you are away?”

“It’s ‘Vagrant Story’, and yes, you may. But you can only travel back and grind for items and ex-pee. Do not advance the story without me!”

“I could use a different save slot…”

“No! You’ll mess something up. Wait for me!”

Rudra put on his studded leather jacket theatrically, holding a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“I’m off. And sis, thank you for your service. Your sacrifice was not unnoticed nor shall it be forgotten. I’ve left you a little present under my keyboard. Cheers!”

Saturday

The weekend started with an unusually brilliant and warm morning, luring even the laziest and most hungover of men out of their beds and onto the sunny streets.

Unfortunately for the Singh youths, their outdoor activities were cut short somewhere around mid-afternoon when their father called upon them to help him unload a lorry full of heavy crates. That cloud had a silver lining though, in a form of substantial pocket money and the feeling of usefulness which warmed more than any sun ever could. And nothing made lounging about as agreeable as the knowledge that it was actually deserved. That feeling of glee lifted and carried them all up until the wee hours.

“It went really well last night,” Rudra said, straightening and counting the crumpled-up singles. “We crushed it, the new song that is. It’s gonna be a hit.”

“You’ve said that five times already!” Kabir lamented irritably, not moving his eyes from the TV set.

Rudra ignored the remark, and continued talking to no one.

“Gordy’s sister really liked it. I think she’s into me.”

Isha placed the receiver back onto the base.

“Gordy’s sister’s a skank. She’s into everyone.”

“Yeah, well… I’m not, what’s that word now…”

“Picky?”

“Judgmental, that’s it! Bloody hell, are making another phone call? You’ve been at it for hours! Who are you even calling this late, count Dracula?”

“Dracula doesn’t have a phone,” Kabir said in detached monotone.

“Shut up, you! Ugh, I gotta go feed the bugs, I guess it’s my turn.”

“I’ve already done it,” Isha said, stopping her dialing.

“What? How come?”

“We messed up the other day, we forgot the shit and egg jars at your friend Chester’s. So, I ringed him today and explained the situation. He told me about the spare key he had stashed, and I went there to get the jars earlier today. And I fed the bugs. It’s all sorted!”

Rudra scratched his thick oily mane for a second.

“Wait a minute, if we’d forgotten the jars, what did you feed the bug yesterday?”

Isha turned his back to him, holding the receiver between her head and shoulder.

“I improvised, OK? But like I’ve said, it’s all sorted!”

That was enough for Rudra, and he leaned back into his bed, fishing a half-burnt spliff from the forest of figurines on his side.

As the hours went, the activities were losing their luster, and the siblings were almost out of energy. Kabir was the first to succumb, nodding off with a plastic controller in his hands.

“What was that?” Isha turned, placing the telephone to her bosom. “Rudra! Hey! I’m talking to you!”

“What?” said the red-eyed brother, pulling the metal-blasting headphones off his head.

“I’ve heard something!”

“No way. They’re asleep. Trust me, I’ve got a sixth sense for that.”

“I’ve heard something, too,” Kabir interloped.

“It’s either the neighbors or Kali, what are you getting excited about?”

Isha shrugged and started dialing again.

“There! I’ve heard it again!”

Rudra stood up, swayed, and then approached the staircase door with his ears pricked up.

In the dead silence of the late night, a faint sound echoed from somewhere in the direction of the stairs.

“It’s probably the neighbor. It’s not the first time that he got so drunk that he missed his house.”

“What if it’s burglars?”

“Nah. Just wait for a second, will ya?”

The sound disappeared. And just as they were getting back to their places, it started again, louder this time.

“There’s definitely someone at the door. Or maybe even inside…”

Rudra opened the yellow stained-glass door and peered downwards.

“Hello?” he half-shouted, the echo of his voice rolling down the flight of mostly bare concrete stairs.

Again, there was only silence. And then the sound came again, closer this time, and unmistakably in the form of footsteps climbing hastily up the stairs. Isha hid behind her brother, gripping him frightenedly.

“Somebody’s inside the house, Rudra-a-a!”

The rocker gazed downward, perplexed by the lack of detection. From his vantage point, he could see the whole staircase, all the way to the basement. It was well-lit and sparsely furnished, with no place suitable for hiding. And yet, he saw no one.

The sound came again. Louder. Closer. Clap-clap-clap-clap-CLAP!

Rudra jumped back and grabbed a cricket bat.

“Hey, you bastard! Whoever you are, you better come out! Or even better, get the hell out of here! Isha, go ring the police.”

The sister nodded, but couldn’t make herself move from her spot. Slowly, she thawed and started inching towards the item she so wholeheartedly used throughout the night.

But no intruder showed himself.

ClapClapClapClapCLAP!

This time, the sound stopped just before Rudra’s nose. He fell back, landing on his rump. He saw nothing, and that was the most disturbing part. The youngest of the Singhs, silent so far, released a baffled bawl, a mixture of excitement and terror. Rudra slammed the door shut and backed away.

“Did you call the police?” he asked, breathing heavy, but he might have been talking to a stone statue.

“Call dad! We need to call dad!” Kabir shouted frantically.

“And what are we gonna tell him, huh?”

“The door is locked, I’m sure of it. I locked it myself,” Isha panted. “If that came from downstairs, it must’ve come from mom and dad’s flat. And that means th…”

“Stop it now! Let’s… be reasonable. Come, come to my side,” Rudra said, hugging his siblings protectively. That sound of footfalls on the stairs echoed in his head. It reminded him of something, unclear, but not quite unpleasant…

Rudra waited for the sound to repeat, but it never happened. Finally, he gathered the courage to approach and examine the staircase, and then the basement and the downstairs apartment. The only sound echoing there was one of his father’s snoring.

“Freaky shit. You wanna know what my guess is? I guess that it was a burglar, but I scared him away.”

“But we heard it! We all heard the sound of someone walking up the stairs!” Isha panicked.

“I dunno. I went down there, and, like you’ve said, the entrance door is locked. And there’s no one anywhere else in the house. Maybe there was someone on the outside stairs, and the echo… got warped, somehow. Dunno,” Rudra mumbled, rolling another joint. He tried passing it to his sister, but she waved her head.

“I’m paranoid enough as it is. And I’m so scared. I don’t know if I’ll even manage to fall asleep.”

Kabir grabbed his brother’s cricket stick, climbed upon the bed and started waving it around.

“What – the hell are you doing?”

“Checking for invisible enemies.”

“You what?”

“You know, like in video games. If there’s an invisible enemy around here, I’ll hit him!”

“Get the hell down from there, and give me that! I’ll give you invisible enemies! This is not a video game, you know? Now, off to bed!”

“I can sleep now that I know there aren’t any invisible enemies around!” the boy shouted as he left.

“Brush your teeth first!”

Reluctantly, Isha went to bed too, and, at almost five o clock, so did Rudra.

“Freaky shit.”

Sunday

The second and final day of the weekend was one usually reserved for chores, and, naturally, the Singh siblings got out of the house the first chance they got, spending the day with friends, as far away from their father’s eyes as manageable. They returned home only a couple of hours before sunset, taking their positions seconds before the annoyed patriarch climbed up their part of the house.

Kabir sat at his desk, writing homework. Isha did the same, only in Rudra’s room, in her trademark weird position, with her legs on the sofa and the rest of her on the floor. Rudra was the only one who didn’t care about their father’s scrutiny, sitting in the corner and plucking at his guitar.

“Again with the guitar?” Param yelled. “When are you going to go ask that man Simon about that job?”

“When we’re done with the Southampton gig. After that we haven’t got anything booked.”

“You can’t live off that thing, you know,” Param pointed.

“Sure I can. I play bass, there’s always a need for a bass player. No one wants to play bass.”

“I wonder why is that,” the mustachioed man grumbled. “Since you’re not contributing to this household, could you at least do your house chores?”

“What chores?”

“I don’t know! Take out the rubbish! Clean Kali’s litter! Ask your mother, she’ll find something for you to do!”

“OK dad, I will.”

“And throw those dirty socks in the hamper! It reeks in here!” Param mumbled irritably before disappearing down the staircase.

“Chores… Yeah, I could go feed the bugs,” Rudra said to himself. Remembering vaguely the events of previous night, he couldn’t in clean conscience ask anyone else to do it.

He put one more needless wood cube in the stag beetle’s jar, a snail in the “Satan sausage” jar, and the prescribed diet of excrement and egg in the scarab-thing’s cavity. The stone-like pupa felt strangely lifeless and somewhat lighter to him, but he didn’t dwell on that oddity.

The younger members of the Singh family continued doing their school assignments with as little effort and enthusiasm possible.

“Eh, it’s good enough,” Kabir declared at some point, returning to his place before the CRT TV and the flat, gray console. Isha continued doing algebra, all the way sitting upside down and speaking on the telephone, which apparently didn’t impede her mathematical skills. Unbeknown to his father, Rudra was actually the one working hardest, practicing the new song before the upcoming performances.

The youngest sibling was the first one to call it quits, not because of his obligation for getting up early for school the following day, but out of genuine exhaustion. The teens remained awoke for some time more, watching late night TV and eating crisps.

“Rudra, Rudra, I think there’s somebody at the door again,” Isha said, standing up and waving, visibly shaken.

The young rocker released a huge lung-full of aromatic smoke which he held in for an almost record time.

“Hm?”

The sister was craning her neck and peering through the yellow stained-glass window.

“I think it’s some kind of animal.”

“Wha’? Animal? Ish, this is Denton, not bloody uncle-Akash’s farm! There are no wild animals here!”

He still stood stood up, stretching.

“It’s probably just Kali. She must’ve got sick of mom’s pandering. I’ll let her in.”

As he got near the window of yellow glass, Rudra could’ve sworn that he saw a familiar face on the other side.

“Chester? That you?”

There was a strange green glow on the side of his friend’s smiling face. Rudra opened the door. For a split second, he saw his high-school friend, his cat, a fluorescent glow, and then… nothing.

“Hello?” his voice echoed in the emptiness.

The youth looked left and right before repeating his question.

“Chester? Kali?”

“What is it?” Isha inquired well behind his back.

Rudra didn’t answer right away.

“Don’t smoke that. I think it’s laced. I’m tripping. There’s nobody there anyway.”

But he could feel Isha’s worries even without looking at her.

“Rud, there’s something weird going on, and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything. I mean, I’m tired and stoned…”

“There was that sound yesterday, and now these shadows…”

“I’m certain it’s just nothing. We’re tripping, that’s all…”

“Rudra, I think it has something to do with those bugs.”

“What? Chester’s, I mean, Cecil’s bugs? Nah!”

“Think about it, it all started when we brought them…”

“Ish! I’ve been down in the basement just earlier today, there’s nothing there! They’re just stupid bugs. Nothing more.”

His sister kept quiet for a minute, but Rudra could see on her face that she was thinking.

“Rud, could you do me a favor? Could you come with me to Cecil’s basement, tomorrow after school?”

“What? Why? He’ll be back home by then for all we know, we’ll have to go bring back the bugs anyway.”

“Please, Rudra. Do me a solid. I have some weird feeling that I need to put at ease. We’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes, I promise!”

“Alright, alright, if that’ll make you feel calmer, we’ll go. It’s a waste of time, not to mention intrusion of property and privacy, but hey, no worries!” said the youth, lifting his hands.

Monday

Coming back from school, Isha sprang inside to leave her backpack and change, and then went straight on to find her brother. She located him in the restaurant kitchen, helping their father move a heavy stove.

“Can we go now?” she asked impatiently as soon as she got out of the patriarch’s earshot.

“Go where?”

“Rudra! You promised!”

“Oh! That. I hoped you’d give up on that silly idea.”

“You promised, Rudra! You said that you’ll go with me!”

“Oh, alright,” the youth caved in. “Let me wash this grease off my fingers first. Bloody hell!”

The girl gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“We’ll wait for you outside,” she said as she ran out.

“We?”

#

Several minutes later, the three Singh siblings were back on their way down the hillock lane.

“Why are we taking Fatso the Clown again?” Rudra asked.

“Erm, yeah, about that… Remember how I’ve told you that I rang Chester and that he told me about the hidden keys? Well, that was a bit of a… fib.”

“You what? How did you come in then?”

“Kabir picked the lock for me.”

Flabbergasted, Rudra turned toward his younger brother. He was sneering.

“How the hell do you know how to pick a lock?”

“It’s real’ easy,” Kabir answered, the pitch of his voice raising like every time he got excited. “It’s kind of like in video games, but not really. The trick is to get a lock without a door and fiddle with it until you get the feel.”

“Dear Krishna, my baby brother is a housebreaker in training,” Rudra sighed.

#

“…you stand real’ close, like this, you see? You get your coat open, so no one can see what you’re doing with your hands. And you don’t look down, you look up instead, like, at the birds or something, while you fiddle with the passkey… and there it is!” Kabir finished his exposition, punctuating it with a metallic click.

Rudra mouthed a silent prayer or a curse, and went inside with his brother and sister.

The inside of Cecil’s basement looked exactly the same as the last time they were there. Isha went on and about, examining everything with her gaze.

“What exactly do you expect to find here? I mean, look at this place! A police team would need like a month to find anything in this mess!”

Instead of answering him, Isha continued her search in silence. Her eyes fell on the PC.

“If there’s anything anywhere, it would be inside that computer.”

Rudra powered it on, and after a short boot sequence they were greeted with a log-in screen.

“Password protected, of course. I don’t suppose you can break into computers as well?” he said, turning towards his kid brother.

“I can hack it, if the password is his birthday, or written on a piece of paper somewhere nearby.”

The rocked rolled his eyes.

“Well, I don’t see any Post-it Notes anywhere here, and I don’t suppose you know Cecil’s date of birth, now, do you?”

The boy just shrugged and moved away from the writing desk.

Seeing that he couldn’t beat them, Rudra joined the search.

“It would help if I knew what we’re looking for,” he said, examining the shelf where the insects were held initially.

“Anything about bugs and weird things.”

“That narrows it down. Hey, what is this?”

Utilizing his skills in stashing recreational drugs and spirits, Rudra spotted what looked like a great hiding place in a narrow space between two planks. He poked his long fingers inside the crevice and produced an ominous-looking tome, bound in black leather and secured with a small lock.

“Now this looks suspicious! Kabir, could you pick thi…”

Before he could finish, the boy grabbed a near-by hammer and smashed the lock with it.

“Real subtle, Kab. Now let’s see…”

The boys gazed into randomly opened pages before flipping through.

“Oh my god!”

“What? What is it?” Isha asked excitedly.

“It’s Cecil’s nefarious secret plans! All in great detail!”

“What? Really?”

“No, of course not, you numbskull.”

“Oh. What is it then?”

“It’s porn.”

“Porn?”

“And not the good kind either,” Kabit squealed. “Half of these girls aren’t even naked. It’s all weird stuff, like, black and white pictures, ballerinas, some Sailor Moon clippings… How does he get off to this?”

“It takes all sorts, Kab. Ah, I need a cigarette. Could you hurry this up, please?”

Isha spun on her heel.

“You’re right about one thing. We can’t search through all of this, it would take ages. We need to work smart instead.”

The girl turned around her axis, slowly scanning the room. Then, she approached the writing table again.

“Look at these books,” she said, pointing at the shelves surrounding the PC.

“What? There are hundreds of ‘em.”

“But not all of them were used or moved recently. Look, you can tell by the dust.”

“Great job Miss Marple. Now, what am I to do with this information?”

“Just look at the titles.”

The collection was indeed an odd one. Upon the crowded plywood shelves lied regular editions, old books, ancient leather-bound tomes, as well as cheap, newly-printed photocopies. The range of themes was equally strange. Cryptozoology. Entomology. Antic history. But also home improvement guides, manuals on accounting and plumbing instructions.

“’The life cycle of the’… I can’t make it out, it’s so poorly photocopied. ‘…killer bgaow?’” Rudra struggled, squinting his eyes. “’The soul double’. ‘Holy creatures of the sands of time’. ‘Bill management for dummies’. ‘1001 breakfasts in under 10 minutes’… Ish, what are we doing here? This is pointless!”

Isha stood transfixed, as if absorbing the whole library at once by staring at it.

“Rud, don’t you see? Don’t you get it?” she answered, with a slight quiver in her voice.

“By George, I do get it! I get… that this is none of our business! Let’s go home now, please!”

“Yes. Let’s go home quickly. We need to destroy those bugs.”

“What? No! I promised Chester…”

“Rudra, I think Cecil was planning to do something to Chester. Something very bad.”

“What are you on about, Ish, Chester’s his brother, the only one he’s got in the world…” Rudra answered, but then, something inside him started squirming. Some under-developed, emerging notion. “Let’s go home. Anyway, I’ve got a suspicion that we already killed the scarab. Kabir, you coming?”

The boy jumped and then slammed the black book shut. His face was noticeably red.

“There were a couple of really good ones in here after all. Let me put it back first.”

“Yeah, go on. You know, Cecil might be autistic, but he’s not retarded. He’s gonna notice the busted lock. You knobhead!”

#

The walk back was mired in bitter argument.

“You gotta kill those bugs, Rudra, you’ve just gotta! A lot of weird stuff has been happening since that night…”

“’That night’ was only day before yesterday, Ish!” The rocker sneered.

“I often feel like there’s someone in the room with me, standing or passing behind me. And then there’s that smell, that… animal, poopy smell…”

“It’s probably just Kali. It wouldn’t be the first time she snatched some curry and got a bad stomach…”

But that last remark struck a chord with him. He did notice a strange, lingering, smell around the house the day before.

“I’m telling you. Those books… And what Chester told us… I think Cecil is using those insects to get rid of his brother…”

“Enough! I won’t listen to any more of this!” Rudra shouted, with steadily crumbling conviction. “Cecil’s a good friend. I made him a promise. Now, he’ll come by today, or tomorrow, and he will take the bugs away, and that will be the end of that, all right?”

“But… If anything else strange happens, will you listen to me then?”

“I’ll think about it.” Rudra concluded.

“What do you say, Kab?” he said, smacking his younger brother playfully.

“I call dibs on the Playstation!” Kabir squealed, making his siblings roll their eyes.

#

Arriving home, Rudra took his sister and brother to the basement first.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of. Here’s the stag bro, here’s the shit-bug, and here’s the…”

The white, sausage-like form was clinging to the bottom of the grill-lid, as many times before. But now, a long, uneven rent ran along its abdomen, revealing an empty frame.

“What the… Did it… Did this one die, too?”

“Maybe it turned into a bea-uu-tiful butterfly!” Kabir chanted in a tone that was impossible to discern if it was sarcastic or not.

“Yeah, well… What happened – happened. I’ll explain everything to Chester. He’s a reasonable bloke, he’ll get it. C’mon, let’s go up.”

The trio went straight up to their quarters. As he walked up the staircase, Rudra underhandedly sniffed, trying to detect the scent they previously discussed, but he couldn’t be certain if he felt it or only imagined it.

As he walked to his room, he promptly detected a large black object in the middle of the floor.

“Kali? What are you doing here, you silly puss? Did mom chase you off again?”

But the cat didn’t raise its head on account of his voice.

“Kali? Are you all right, girl?” he repeated his question gently.

The cat’s lush black mane rippled, as in convulsion, or as if disturbed by a small but powerful air current.

“Kali?” Isha spoke softly behind his back.

A lengthy, segmented body emerged from the obsidian fluff. Almost a foot long, it walked on numerous legs, bent back like those of a grasshopper. The head of the creature sported huge mandibles, as well as a pair of large, composite eyes, fracturing an undoubtedly malevolent gaze. Its backside ended with a forked tail, each of its branches brandishing a large, threatening barb. The Singh siblings recognized the shape instantly, and, even with their limited knowledge of biology and entomology, knew that this creature wasn’t of this world.

The creature hissed, gazing and menacingly widening its mandibles at them, before scuttling away. It wasn’t an escape scuttle, but more of a hunting maneuver.

“Get it!”

“Kill it!”

“Smash it!”

A fray ensued. Each of the young ones grabbed an object closest to themselves and went into combat, trying to squash the creature without getting too near to it. This wasn’t an easy task, as the immense insect constantly shifted between retreat and attack, snapping its jaws and swinging its pronged scorpion-like tail.

The bug crawled onto the small table near Isha, legs posed to jump. The girl screamed in terror. In a fit of panic, rage and/or bravery, Kabir grabbed the recently repaired Sony PlayStation, yanked it out its cable restrains, and, with a Tarzan yell, slammed it upon the insect.

The plastic broke, reveling the electronic innards. The boy lifted the busted console slowly, exposing the smeared, gooey remains of the alien insect.

“Well… That’s… some kind of karma. I think?” Rudra said in a low voice.

Heavy hurried steps echoed on the stairs.

“What’s all this noise, are you all bloody mental?” yelled Param. “What’s happening here?”

“Kali’s dead,” Isha said somberly.

The mustachioed Indian’s eyes turned from the table towards the black carcass on the floor, shifting from the red embers of anger to the wet pearls of sorrow.

#

They buried their deceased pet in the moist turf behind the shed. Param suggested cremation, but Sita wouldn’t hear of it, tradition be damned. The Singh matriarch bawled her eyes out, grieving as if she had lost a blood kin. The youths looked just as sad, while in truth they were even more so, as they blamed themselves for their dear pet’s departure. By the end of Sita’s final words, the rain started falling, as if the gods, or perhaps, just England, wanted to send its final regards.

Seething with anger, Rudra paced into the basement, grabbed a hammer and smashed the stone scarab. He expected to see some sort of entrails, like those of a snail, but the dusty shell turned out empty, apart from a green-tinged egg and a piece of excrement. Rudra wanted to smash the rest, but he quickly realized that breaking the egg and feces jar would only make an unnecessary mess. And he didn’t want to hurt the stag beetle, which he decided to adopt as his own – Chesterfields owned him at least that much for all that transpired.

After that, he retreated into his room; his sibling didn’t follow this time, withdrawing to their own quarters instead for an early night. The young rocker put on his earphones, fished out a brown bottle from his special stash, and took a big swig before setting of to roll a joint. He repeated the last two actions several times as the night advanced. Rudra wanted to bleach his mind, to forget all that happened: the sorrow, the weirdness, the absolute absurdity, but the more he tried, the more opposite were the results of his efforts.

Instead of empowering him, the demonic vocals blasting from his headphones filled him with dread, as did the posters and the figurines spread across his room. Every shadow, every corner of his home concealed a malevolent phantom. Rudra fought these feelings the only way he knew: by drinking and smoking more. It occurred to him at one point that all that has happened could be perceived as a sort of an omen, a sign that he should perhaps change his habits, but he was too listless to care or react on this revelation. Eventually, he turned the music off, as it only filled him with unease.

The moon rose, full and eerie. It blurred in Rudra’s vision as he took the last swig from the Jack Daniels bottle. His head wobbled on his neck while he strained to roll one last joint before going to sleep. The boundaries between dreams and reality were paper-thin to him by now.

An emerald glow emanating from the hallway got his attention.

“Oh, hi Chester!” Rudra slurred at the pasty face grinning at him from the dark. “I’m sorry, but, we killed your brother’s bugs. The sausage one killed our cat. That wasn’t cool. My mom got pretty upset.”

“That’s all right, Rud,” the face answered, “I didn’t like those creatures of Cecil’s anyway. Actually, I was kind of hoping that would happen. Why, that’s why I entrusted them with you!”

Rudra started giggling. Chester giggled with him. The room filled with snickering, snorting and grunting.

A vibration pulse emanating from his jeans brought Rudra out of guffaw. He pulled the oblong mobile cellphone from his pocket, squinting to read the LCD display.

The blocky gray letters spelled one name: Chester.

He picked up.

“Hey, Rud, old buddy! Sorry about ringing you so late, but I know that you’re a night owl, so, you probably aren’t asleep, right? Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that, as you may have deduced, we won’t be coming back home today. Yeah. Something came up and we had to stay the night. But we’ll be back in Denton first train come morrow, how does that sound? Oh, and Cecil wants to know how his bugs are doing.”

“Who is it, Rud?” asked the smiling visage of Chester Chesterfield, standing behind or perhaps in front of the yellow colored stained-glass of the staircase door.

#

Outside, the rain began to fall anew. Under the pale moonlight, behind the rickety shed, under six feet of dank earth and inside the carcass of a large, black house cat, a sack of glistening white eggs thrived.


Objavljeno u časopisu Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 21: October 2023 https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/199279904-dark-horses

Hokus Lokvud i stvar koja nije prestajala da raste

Hokus je sedeo nalakćen na šank, zabavljajući se posmatranjem čoveka sprženog temena koji je pokušavao da izvadi muvu iz svog piva. Insekt bi se pojavio iza stakla i taman kad bi dugajlija bio blizu da ga zgrabi, ponovo nestao u peni. Ćelavi je okrenuo veliku kriglu i pokušao ponovo, uzalud, jer muve nije ni bilo; udavljeni insekt je bio produkt Hokusove iluzije, jedne od retkih čini koje je umeo da izvede.

Ali i ova aktivnost je prestajala da bude zanimljiva. „On makar ima pivo“, pomislio je gnom tužno, podižući prazni vrč velik koliko i njegova glava.

Čuo je vrata kako se otvaraju iza njega i osetio vrelinu koja se uvukla unutra. „Leta u Košnici su tako teška i dosadna“, uzdahnuo je.

„Gazda Hokuse,“ reče poznati glas iza njega.

„Da?“

„Poruka.“

Prašnjavi prosjak mu uruči svitak. „Svitak“, mrštio se istražitelj, „nikad dobar znak.“

Hokus izvuče par bakrenjaka iz torbice i spusti ih na šank, a ostatak dade kuriru. Ovaj klimnu glavom, nasmeši se krezavo i napusti krčmu podjednako brzo kao što je i ušao.

Gnom-istražitelj uzdahnu duboko, razvijajući papir. Oči mu pređoše brzo preko kratke poruke koja ga natera da uzdahne još jednom. Nije mu se to radilo, nikako. Ali sve je bilo bolje od davljenja u znoju u treznom stanju.

Napolju ga je zapahnuo talas svetlosti, vreline i prašine. Pokušao je da parira treptanjem, žmirkanjem i navlačenjem polucilindra, ali bez mnogo uspeha. Psovao je u sebi svoj kodeks oblačenja, zavideći polugolim radnicima. „Krpa oko dupeta i uživancija, a ti se, Hokuse, kuvaj u odelu, kad si glup!“, mrljao je koračajući niz prašnjavi drum.

Put mu prepreči kolona namrštenih ratnika koji su marširali kroz Južnu kapiju. Istražitelj sačeka, tapkajući u prašini, dok konačno nije video njihovog kapetana, svog starog poznanika.

„Jugote! Ej! Kako ste prošli?“

Hokusova znatiželja je bila iskrena. Znao je da je ovaj odred plaćenika bio poslat da presretne osvajačku hordu opremljenu slonovima i drugim divljim zverima koja je pre nekoliko dana primećena kako se približava Košnici.

„Nikako“, odbrusi mi mladić, očigledno ljut, ali ne na njega.

„Je l’? A što?“

„Ma, to je bio cirkus“, reče ratnik, pljunuvši u pesak i ubrzavši tempo.

„Toliko loše, a?“

„Ne, bukvalno. To uopšte nije bila nikakva osvajačka horda, nego putujući cirkus.“

Hokus je slušao marširanje čizmi i sandala gledajući svog prijatelja kako odlazi.

„Cirkus?“

„Ma, pusti ti njih“, reče mu jedan patuljak iz jedinice. „Nervozni su jer su se oždrali slanog kikirikija i semenki na jakom suncu. Ali ja sam bio pametniji“, rekao je nasmešeni bradonja, kuckajući palcem slepoočnicu, „ja sam poneo mešinu rakije!“

Sekući ulice skrivenim prečicama, Hokus je konačno stigao do zidina Čarobnjačkog univerziteta. Zaštićena drvećem i njihovim senkama, bašta unutar njih je bila prijatna spram vrelih ulica.

Hokus krenu pravo ka studentskim domovima, osećajući nelagodu zbog sećanja koja mu je prizor na njih budio. Srećom, bilo je leto i većina studenata i čarobnjaka je otišla što kući, što na godišnje pecanje u Peskovitom moru. Sem par ptica pevačica koje su se gnezdile u krošnjama parka, Hokus nije sreo nikog.

Kreoz Men Malenti je bio Hokusov kolega i cimer sa fakulteta. Posle četiri protraćene godine bez ijednog položenog ispita, Hokusa su konačno izbacili sa studija zbog falsifikovanog potpisa. Kreoz je ostao još toliko, i dalje bez ijednog položenog ispita, koliko je Hokusu bilo poznato. Njegov kolega nije imao nimalo talenta za čarobnjaštvo, ali je imao jaku volju i bogatog oca, što je bilo sasvim dovoljno da nastavi u nedogled sa studijama.

Hokusu nije trebalo mnogo da nađe njegovu (nekad svoju) sobu. Izgledala je maltene isto kao kad je on bio student: nenamešteni kreveti, klimavi tornjevi prljavih sudova, smrdljive čarape svud unaokolo…. Jedino što je bilo drugačije je bila velika metalna posuda, nalik na plitku kofu, iz koje je, koliko je Hokus mogao da primeti, raslo drvo. Crne kore i debelog stabla, raslo je iz kofe skroz do plafona, i kako se činilo, kroz isti.

„Kreo?“, pozva Hokus tiho.

„Gore!“, odgovori mu poznati glas iz hodnika iza.

Hokus se pope uz stepenice, našavši se u studentskoj biblioteci.

„Kre…“

„Ovde sam!“

Istražitelj je našao svog druga iz studentskih dana kako čuči kraj rupe u podu, načinjene od strane biljnog organizma koji je rastao odozdo. Velika polica ležala je oborena pored njega, sa potocima knjiga koji su se razlivali na sve strane.

Kreoz je čučao zgrčeno, grizući nokte i buljeći mahnito. Brada i brkovi su mu bili natopljeni znojem.

„Izbaciće me. Ovoga puta će me sigurno izbaciti! Vidi šta je ovo… sranje napravilo!“

Hokus osmotri pažljivije stvar koja je uzdizala iz poda, lomeći grede i parket. Delovalo je da je biljnog porekla, ali nije mogao da bude siguran, jer nit se razumeo u biljke, niti je video ništa nalik na ovu konkretnu vrstu ranije. Bilo je tamnozelene, gotovo crne boje, kao hleb u studenskoj menzi, i delovalo je makar podjednako tvrdo.

„Zašto nećeš da prestaneš da rasteš, majku ti?? Zašto? Zašto?!“

Uz trzaj glave, čovek se okrete ka gnomu.

„Moraš da mi pomogneš, Hokuse! Ti si mi jedina nada! Moram da zaustavim ovu… stvar, pre nego što neko otkrije šta sam uradio!“

„U redu, čekaj, polako, kaži mi prvo šta si uradio?“

Kreoz zagrize nokte još jednom, agresivno, kao da su grkljan dušmanina.

„Vežbao sam čini prizivanja. Napredni nivo, priznajem. Mislio sam… Ako izvedem naprednu čin, možda mogu da preskočim ispite… Iz prve godine…“ Glas mu se pretvori u jecaj očajanja, a zatim u smeh ludila.

„Je l’ si pokušao da je poništiš?“

Kreozovo lice se mahnito okrenu ka Hokusovom.

„Naravno da sam pokušao! Pokušao sam sve normalno što može da se pokuša! Da poništim čin, da negiram magiju, da uništim tu… prokletu stvar! Ali neće! Neće da se iseče, ni da se zapali, ni da se otruje… Ja ne znam šta je ono, kakvo je to drvo, ako je uopšte drvo, ali ništa mu ne može ništa!“

„Pa, šta očekuješ od mene? Ja nisam šumar! A znaš već i sam kakav sam čarobnjak!“

„Ne znam! Pokušaj neku svoju gnomovsku magiju, nešto!“ Kreoz reče gotovo vrišteći.

Hokus samo odmahnu glavom. Njegove urođene magijske veštine bile su u najbolju ruku zakržljale. A i da nisu, sumnjao je da bi mu pomogle oko ovako nečeg. Istražitelj krenu da se osvrće oko sebe.

„Aha, ovo će mi dobro doći!“, reče on, podižući debeli, kožom-ukoričeni tom sa naslovom „Nekronomikon“. Gnom spusti debelu knjigu na pod, pa se pope na nju.

„Hmm, definitivno raste i dalje. Jako brzo, za biljku, to jest. Do večeras ima da probije i sledeći plafon.“

„Gore su kancelarije nastavnika! Ako se to desi, ja dobijam šut-kartu sa univerziteta odmah! Ili nešto još gore! Ima da me prognaju u drugu ravan postojanja!“

„Ako dođe do toga, možeš da pobegneš i da se pridružiš cirkusu. Baš sam maločas čuo…“

„Mani sad zajebanciju, Hokuse! Moramo da zaustavimo ovu stvar, Hokuse, moramo!“

Hokus je gladio svoju bradicu zamišljeno.

„Ovako ćemo. Mi sami ne možemo ništa da uradimo. Moramo da nađemo nekog ko može da nam pomogne…“

„I ko neće da nas otkuca čarobnjacima!“

„Idemo da nađemo nekog, i ja i ti: ti kreni ulicom levo, ja ću desno. Pitaj svakog ko ti deluje kao da može da pomogne.“

„A šta ako neko uđe i vidi ovaj haos dok mi nismo tu?“

„Onda nađi prvo nekog da čuva stražu. U redu, ja krećem sad. Požuri i ti!“

I tako je Hokus krenuo u potragu, vodeći se po starom, proverenom sistemu: „iz kafane u kafanu“. Srećom, kafana nije falilo u Košnici. Ali na nesreću, jeste falilo ljudi voljnih da rade u sred leta, po velikoj vrućini, a za bez para. Pročešljavši levu stranu ulice, vratio se u studentski dom da vidi da li je Kreoz imao više sreće. Već sa vrata je čuo žamor glasova.

„…i to će da pomogne?“

„Mož biti! Mislim, ne može da škodi, zar ne?“ čuo se glas poznat Hokusu.

„Napolje!“, viknuo je Hokus uperivši prstom autoritativno baš dok je čovek kraj Kreoza razvezivao učkur pantalona.

„Zašto? Šta sam uradio?“

„Napolje kad ti kažem! Iš!“

„Dobro, dobro, ne moraš da vičeš, ja sam samo hteo da pomognem…“

„Iš i marš!“

„Što istera čoveka, Hokuse?“, pitao je nesuđeni čarobnjak zbunjeno.

„Da pogađam: Rekao ti je da će pomoći ako se pomokri na izraslinu?“

„Jeste, kako znaš? Rekao mi je da je čarobnjak i da…“

„Nije on nikakav čarobnjak, nego perverznjak. Voli da piša na stvari. I da drugi gledaju dok to radi.“

„A. A ti, jel’ si našao nekog?“

„Nisam imao sreće. Hajde da probamo ponovo“, reče gnom gladeći koren nosa, „i ovog puta, molim te, pazi koga dovodiš.“

Ni ovog puta Hokus nije imao više uspeha. Najbliže tome je bilo kada je naleteo na putujućeg prodavca koji je nudio set magičnih noževa kralja Perta koji mogu da iseku bilo šta. Međutim, kada je čuo cenu, gotovo mu je pozlilo, te se brže-bolje vratio nazad na polaznu tačku.

Ovoga puta je kraj svog bivšeg cimera zatekao gospođu srednjih godina.

„Hokuse, našao sam nekog da čuva stražu. Možda čak može i da pomogne! Ovo je gospođa Lejmp od preko puta, ona inače čuva biljke…“

„A nee“ prenemagala se gospođa, „mislim, ja pokušavam, znate, ali…“

„Drago mi je, gospođo“, prekinu je istražitelj, „imam potpuno poverenje u vaše sposobnosti. A sad, moramo da krenemo nas dvojica.“

* * *

„Odjebi, na odmoru sam!“, odgovorio im je pijani alhemičar.

„Ne mešam se u državne institucije“, rekao im je čarobnjak-privatnik.

„Po ovoj žezi, bez tri stotine zlatnika ne vadim sablju iz kanije!“, odbrusio im je pustinjski ratnik.

„Je l’ ti ja ličim na drvoseču? Odjebi, na odmoru sam! A i bez tri stotine zlatnika ne vadim sekiru iz kanije po ovoj žezi, pogotovo ne na vlasništvo državnih institucija!“, prodrao se pijani pustinjski patuljak-privatnik.

Pognutih noseva, dvojac se vratio nazad u kampus Univerziteta.

U hodniku su čuli odjeke nečeg nalik na jecaje. Ubrzali su korak.

„Uuh, jooj, opet mi se to desilo!“

„Šta se desilo?“, upitali su uletevši u stan, a onda videli prizor koji je bio odgovor na njihovo pitanje.

„Nisam htela, kunem vam se! Samo sam je malo… Jooj, zašto mi se to stalno dešava? Tako i kaktus isto što sam imala…“, kukala je gospođa Lejmp, sa šakama skupljenih preko usta.

Inter-dimenziona biljka, ili šta god je ta stvar koja je rasla iz vangle bila, sada je bila bolesno sive boje i ležala mlitavog stabla naslonjenog na zid.

„Pa, izgleda da si rešio problem“, prozbori Hokus, tapšući ga po ramenu, ili makar onoliko blizu ramena koliko je mogao da dohvati.

Pošto su utešili i ispratili unezverenu susetku, Hokus i Kreoz su ostali sučeljeni sa još jednim, podjednako velikim problemom: naći priuštivog stolara koji bi popravio rupu na podu pre nego što se čarobnjaci vrate.

* * *

Gotovo okrugli majstor u plavom odelu ležao je na podu i ispitivao rupu, kako se činilo, brkovima.

„Nezgodno. Mora grede da se skidaju, pa parket da se zameni. I da se izlakira. Onako, od oka, rekao bih da će ovo da vas košta…“

Kada je čuo cifru, Kreoz se sruči na pod. To jest, sručio bi se na pod, da ga je bilo, ovako je uz veliku galamu pao u metalnu kantu punu trule vegetacije u svom stanu, na spratu ispod.

Nešto kasnije, Hokus ga je potapšao po ruci i sipao mu vodu u usta.

„Znaš kako, a šta kažeš da ti lepo priznaš profesorima šta se desilo, a? Možda da im kupiš neki poklon, možda ti oproste? Recimo, jedan lep set magičnih noževa kralja Perta koji seku bilo šta…“

* * *

Pošto su podigli srušenu policu, Hokus i Kreoz su sakupljali rasturene knjige sa poda.

„Hvala ti mnogo na pomoći, Hokuse. Ne znam kako bih bez tebe.“

„Kakvoj pomoći? Ja ništa nisam uradio!“

„Jesi, bio si tu kraj mene, pomogao si mi da se saberem i da ne paničim. Meni to puno znači.“

„Ako ti tako kažeš, Kreoze.“

„Koliko ti dođem za ovo?“

„Ništa. Daj neku siću za pivo samo, pa da idem.“

Kreoz istrese par bakrenjaka i srebrnjaka iz džepa i spusti ih u Hokusovu malenu šaku. Hokus mu se zahvali dodirnuvši obod cilindra, pa bez reči napusti Čarobnjački Univerzitet.

„Eh, taj Hokus,“ smešio se večiti student, vrteći u rukama teški kožom-ukoričeni tom.

„Da vidimo, ’Nekronomikon’… Mmm, mislim da ovo ide u deo za decu…“

Objavljeno u zbirci priča “Regia Fantastica” 9 https://www.facebook.com/tihomir.jovanovic.771/posts/pfbid02mpWBBzU3uSrpZuT4uPi1RS4bVNwAfapbMZPFezN3L6azvd89UpJUNwaN2daXfgRjl

Sever

Ideja o odlasku u Norvešku je dugo bila prisutna u našem domaćinstvu, ali uvek u domenu fantazije, realna koliko i ona o putu na Mars. Povremeno bismo supruga i ja seli i gledali pejzaže na Google Earth-u, maštali o tim fantastičnim mestima, ćaskali, i uvek završili seansu uzdahom i klikom na malo iks u uglu ekrana.

Sve dok ona jednog dana nije dobila ponudu za posao u Norveškoj. Radila bi kao učiteljica, u seoskoj osnovnoj školi. Malo mesto, jedva da ga ima na karti, sakriveno među šumama, fjordovima i jezerima. „Ajde, ajde, ajde! Ajde da idemo!“, vikala je uzbuđeno. Nisam znao šta da kažem, niti kako da se osećam. Iskreno, tek sada kad pišem ove redove polako počinjem da razumem kako sam i zašto pristao. Ali pristao sam.

Spakovali smo ceo život u tri kofera. Lažem, spakovali smo samo najosnovniju zimsku garderobu, život smo ostavili. Usledila su slavlja. Radost, ispraćaji, žurke. Avion nam je poletao za samo tri dana. Oprostio sam se sa svima, pun uzbuđenja i konfuznih misli.

Sa svima, sem sa ocem, koji je preminuo od infarkta dva dana pre našeg odlaska. Naizgled sasvim zdrav i raspoložen, samo se sručio sa kauča dok je gledao televiziju. Stigao sam da ga sahranim, a onda na avion, totalno sluđen. Leta do Osla se i ne sećam. Iz Osla se sećam hladnoće koja mi je grizla lice, jedne lepe ulice koju sam na tren video i bogate trpeze kojom nas je ugostila prijateljica kod koje smo prespavali. Ni let za Bude nemam u sećanju. Znam da smo tamo ušli u nekakav autobus koji nas je vozio dalje na sever. Zaspao sam odmah čim sam ušao.

Kada sam se konačno probudio posle par sati, sa moje leve strane me je dočekao pogled nalik na kadar iz filma epske fantastike, potpuno mi oduzimajući dah. Blistavi fjord, okovan snegom i ledom, i stotine svetala oko njega. Tad sam konačno došao k sebi i počeo da razumem gde sam i šta to znači. Autobus je imao besplatnu kafu, internet i WC i gotovo nijednog putnika sem nas. Ostatak puta sam srkao papirnu šolju za papirnom šoljom vrele instant kafe i buljio kroz prozor. Internet me nije zanimao.

Iz autobusa smo prešli u kombi, koji nas je provezao pored vodopada, pa mostom preko još jednog fjorda u malo mesto po imenu Opeid, u opštini Hamarej, u kojoj je odrastao čuveni Knut Hamsun. Pored uvrnute zgrade nalik na krivi toranj, koja je bila kafić i muzej posvećen piscu-nobelovcu, nalazila se dugačka a niska drvena zgrada crvene boje, zapravo niz malih vikendica za pecaroše i kampere. Tu smo živeli sledećih tri meseca. Ta tri meseca mi se sada u sećanju čine dužim od ostalih osam godina koliko živim u Norveškoj.

Bilo je čudno u početku. Supruga bi rano ujutru odlazila da radi u školi u susednom mestu, ostavljajući me samog u crvenoj drvenoj kućici. Sedeo sam pored prozora, pijuckao filter kafu čudnog ukusa, učio čudni jezik i gledao u to čudno more nalik na reku obavijenu snegom. Do večeri, sneg bi se otopio, sunce bi granulo, vetar bi razvejao zamrznuto lišće koje je ležalo ispod, a onda bi pljusnula kiša i na kraju opet zavejao sneg. Pitao sam druge zemljake, koji su nekim čudom živeli u istom mestu, da li je ovo normalno vreme za ovo doba godine. Oni su samo slegali ramenima i govorili da ne znaju više šta znači „normalno“. Jeo sam kavijar iz tube namazan na hleb, što je ovde nekom suludom logikom bila najjeftinija hrana. Kilo kobasica u prodavnici koštalo je koliko i pakovanje čačkalica – ludost! Njihov kečap, senf i majonez imali su previše šećera, dok su im džemovi bili kiseli i služili se uz meso. „Oh, kako neobično! Džem od paprike!“ čudila se jedna Norvežanka, ženina koleginica, okusivši ajvar.

Ponekad bih se, moren dosadom, odvažio i izašao napolje, zaputivši se jednim od bezbroj puteljaka koji su vodili ka šumi, moru ili planini. Kud god bih se zaputio, nalazio sam na mostiće preko potoka, i cevi koje odvodile vodu, sprečavajući močvaru da se širi. Nekada bih satima hodao, osvrćući se preko ramena da zapamtim put, a da ne sretnem nikog, samo da bih u sred divljine naleteo na staricu koja džogira ili šeta psa. Pitao sam ih, koristeći engleski ili krnji norveški, kako mogu da se šetaju po takvom vremenu, a one bi mi odgovarale kako „ne postoji loše vreme, samo loša odeća.“ Mislio sam da shvatam šta hoće da kažu time, ali mi je pravo otkrovenje došlo tek mnogo kasnije. U Norveškoj je, pogotovo na severu, gotovo cele godine loše vreme. Ako čekaš da se prolepša da bi izašao napolje ili uradio bilo šta, život će ti proći u čekanju. Pametnije je, umesto toga, zgrabiti svaki trenutak, kakav god bio, i iskoristiti ga do kraja. Sada razumem ovo, ali i dalje ne praktikujem optimalno. I dalje pomalo robujem starim navikama; kiši i kišnom raspoloženju.

Tih prvih meseci sam slikao sve – sve mi je bilo fascinantno. Slikao sam more, nebo, kuće, drveće, kamenje, stotine fotografija na dan. Sad kada ih pogledam, to mi deluje urnebesno smešno. I taman kad me je prošla manija, došlo je leto, a onda sve Jovo nanovo. Leti je priroda eksplodirala zelenilom i sunčevim sjajem, kao da želi da nadoknadi one mračne dane, sve je dobijalo novu dimenziju. Sve slike sam kačio na Fejsbuk. Neko je prokomentarisao jednu sliku gde sa suprugom stojim pored mora u šorcu i majici, sa snegom obavijenim planinama iza nas. „Zar vam nije hladno?“, napisao je taj neko. Tog dana je inače bilo toliko toplo da smo se kupali u fjordu; raritet za polarni krug, ali dešavalo se. Leta su ovde jako neobična: sunce ne zalazi, sija čak i u ponoć. U početku sam imao problema da zaspim, prvo smo kupili debele letnje zavese, a onda sam se navikao, pa mi nije ni smetalo.

Na kraju sam naučio jezik i dobio posao. Ustajao sam rano, išao na rad prečicom kroz šumu pa pored jezera, dok me je sve vreme pratila komšijina mačka, ponašajući se kao pas. Svi su čuvali te debele pufne, jer je ta vrsta, norveška šumska mačka, navodno bila jedina koja je mogla da se izbori sa lisicama, risovima, žderavcima i orlovima, ostale su brzo bivale pojedene. Tako su mi makar rekli. Usput sam mazio ovce, gurajući pažljivo ruke kroz naelektrisanu ogradu, i gazio pečurke koje su pored puta bujale kao lude. Svuda je bujao i lupin, velikog plavog cveta. Invazivna vrsta koja se otela kontroli, rekli su mi. Neprirodan, ali lep. Neretko su nam losovi pasli ispred kuće. I njih sam slikao. Dolazili su da brste ribizle i ukrasno žbunje. Očekivao sam da izgledaju kao jeleni, međutim, bili su više nalik konjima. U naseljena mesta dolazile su samo ženke i mladunci, bez rogova, veliki poput konja. Savetovali su nas da ih se klonimo, jer su jaki, a glupi i gotovo potpuno slepi, pa se dešava da natrče na ljude i nehatom ih povrede. Viđali smo i lisice, zečeve, i orlove. Risa sam video samo na opštinskom grbu, i jednog prepariranog u policijskog stanici, kojeg je navodno zgazio taksista. Nikad nisam video žderavca.

Na poslu sam pio puno filter kafe, a na pauzama pričao sa kolegama o rok muzici, koju su svi ljudi okvirno mojih godina gotovo ekskluzivno slušali. Pitao sam ih da li slušaju ozloglašeni norveški blek metal. Gotovo niko nije ni čuo za to, svi više vole Brusa Springstina. Pitao sam ih i da li su čuli za Srbiju. Stariji bolje pamte Jugoslaviju, prema kojoj i dalje gaje poštovanje, a mlađi se sećaju vojnih rokova u Bosni i na Kosovu. Izbegavam tu temu.

Iako je mestašce u kom smo živeli tad brojalo nepunih pet stotina stanovnika, imalo je veoma raznovrsnu populaciju. Bilo je tu naših, Ukrajinaca, Rusa, Nemaca, Indijaca, Pakistanaca… Svi smo se lepo slagali, pogotovo uz roštilj, koji je u Norveškoj uzdignut na nivo institucije, iako su Norvežani mahom pekli samo bezukusne, nezačinjene viršle. U Norveškoj je konzumacija alkohola u toku nedelje tabu i znak bolesti zavisnosti, dok bi se vikendom piće sipalo bez granica. Retko ko je pušio, ali su gotovo svi konzumirali snus, malu vrećicu nikotina koja se metne pod nepce, a koja je meni automatski pokretala nagon za povraćanje.

Koliko god bili okruženi prirodom, Norvežanima to nije bilo dosta. Svi su imali vikendice smeštene van grada, gde bi odlazili svakog vikenda. Čuo sam priču kako to rade jer beže od ljudi, za razliku od nas, koji vikende koristimo da se okupimo. Ali to nije istina, saznao sam kasnije, samo su birali društvo. Na žurkama na vikendicama, glavna atrakcija je bio stump – kada sa vrelom vodom koja se zagrevala loženjem. Svaki provod se obično tu završavao, u kasnim ili pak ranim satima.

Sedamnaestog maja išla je parada u obeležje njihovog dana nezavisnosti. Nisam pridavao mnogo značaja toj manifestaciji dok je nisam prvi put ispratio sopstvenim očima. Tako nešto sam ranije video samo na arhivskim snimcima iz doba Tita. Beskrajne zastave, orkestar, parole, opšta euforija. Posle sam i ja učestvovao u paradi. Bilo je naporno nositi transparent po vetru, ali zabavno, i ispunjujuće.

Vremenom sam naučio da živim u ovoj sredini, čak i da uživam u njenim blagodetima: prirodi, miru, tišini. Jednom sam upoznao nekog „našeg“ čoveka, koji se neprestano žalio kako je život na severu nepodnošljiv. „Ovde imaš samo te proklete pare“, rekao je „sve ostalo je užas“. To me je navelo da malo pomnije posmatram druge ljude koji su živeli u mestašcu. Nije mi delovalo kao da pate. Vodili su svoje mirne, tihe živote, uživali u kafi, šetnjama, psima, pecanju, prenosima skijaških skokova. Nosili su iste ofucane džempere mesecima, bele čarape uparene sa kroksicama, a skupa kola su doživljavali kao „ona bezbednija“. Drugim rečima, nije delovalo kao da su im pare imalo bitne u životu.

Falile su mi neke stvari iz Srbije. Zaželi se čovek tako nekih gluposti, na primer, ratluka. Baš mi se jeo ratluk. A ja ni ne volim ratluk. Pravili smo domaći burek i ćevape, nekim danima. Drugim smo jeli lososa i kuvani krompir.

Reč „čudno“ mi je davno izgubila smisao.

Objavljeno u književnom časopisu “Književne vertikale” 27/28 https://www.facebook.com/knjizevnevertikale/posts/pfbid02WLTwULXPNAnVeXUmP8HJRnqPrecTvH4CSKhottzxYmRThZcLLoqX9ACdCpyn4ThHl

Relay

I don’t know how this quantum entanglement works; I don’t pretend that I do, and I’m not gonna try to explain it to you. I just know that it’s the technology that’s allowing us to make a step forward towards making our home among the stars. For as much as I gathered, here’s how it all went: our astronomers found a planet somewhere out there that is almost exactly like Earth, same size, same gravity, same distance from the sun, and so on. The problem was that it was barren, and also very far away, twenty years of travel using our most state-of-the art rocket ships. So, what they did first was to send out sondes and bombard it with pods containing seeds and spores and eggs and what not, all the things needed to create nature like the one we’ve got here. Then, they employed that quantum entanglement-thing to make a habitable place out of all that mess. They used it to dig, weed, plow, drain, irrigate, and build houses and factories and such, all by “remote control”. Then, the planet of IK-447, or Ikea, as they called it jokingly, was ready for settling. And just as the first colony ship was ready to depart, we received a message. Apparently, someone, or something out there, spotted our little space construction work. And wanted to talk.

Our top dogs were spooked, to say the least. When they were absolutely certain it wasn’t some sort of a hoax, joke, or a ruse, they tried their best to make heads or tails of the transmissions. And, as much as I’ve heard, that wasn’t easy. The language of the aliens (I guess that’s what they are) was like a code, and even after we broke it, the messages never turned out right. But the gist of it was that they wanted to talk. Alone. With only one of us. On Ikea.

Choosing an envoy for the whole human race was no easy task. One man? But who to choose? A scientist? A diplomat? Politician? CIA spook? To cut the long story short, in the end, believe it or not, they picked – little ol’ me! Me, a lowly agent Jeffry Abercromby, a regular cog in the big ol’ FBI machine. They didn’t choose me because of my rank, my service history, or any of my achievements (well, my perfect record in hostage negotiation might’ve played some part in that decision), no – after a lot of discussion and arguing, the big shots gathered it was just what they wanted to avoid, and picked me because – get this – I was a really swell guy! I never argued or fought with anybody in the Bureau, ever, which in itself was a miracle previously unheard of; I liked everyone and everyone liked me! I guess I just had one of those faces. Or maybe it was my voice. I don’t know how much things like that would matter to an alien, but there you go.

Also, I didn’t have any family; my wife and son died in a car crash seven years ago. So, the forces that be gathered that twenty years in a space ice-box wouldn’t hurt me nor none other any. I didn’t complain either when they asked me to go, as I realized how important that mission was. And I was genuinely curious to find out who or what was out there.

I went through all the preparations, the medical tests and the fittings, until I was ready to lie down in the chill-coffin.

“When you wake up, you will be fifteen light-years away from Earth. But it will all look the same.”

I saw the videos and read the maps and instruction manuals, but I still couldn’t wrap my head around it, it all sounded so bizarre. Still, I lay down, smiled, and let the nurse jab me with the needle that would put me to sleep and send me on my way.

#

I woke up disoriented, not knowing where or when I was. It appeared I was in a bed, in a dark, medium-sized bedroom. I felt cramped and slightly nauseous, with a strange chill passing through my temples and shoulders. I didn’t recognize the room, nor did I recall coming there. After a minute or so, it all started coming back to me. The mission… But it was all so darn strange! I had no recollection of the trip, nor of getting on or off the craft. I remembered the instructions, and how it said a team of robots would handle me after I’ve landed, but, it still felt too unreal. And the darkness in the room was strange, wrong somehow. Like the darks were blue instead of black.

Something flashed in my lap. It was a notepad computer, its screen lighting up with a message. There were several messages waiting for me, actually. The first few were automatic, instructional popups, telling me about the conditions on the planet, the infrastructure of the town, and general health and safety instructions. Things I already knew. I skipped them. The second one was a private message. In the sender field was a bunch of random punctuation marks. The green dot in the corner stated that the user was online. Online and on the planet.

“HELLO YOU ARE HERE”

I looked at the letters for a moment, sniffed, and typed a reply.

“Yes, I have arrived.”

I stared at the whiteness of the screen, wondering how much I’d have to wait for the next message. Just as I was about to place the pad on the side table, a new one appeared.

“GOOD MAKE MEET NEW DAY”

I scratched the inside of my thigh and typed:

“What is your name?”

“NO NAME Has”

“All right, but how should I call you?”

“NO CALL I CALL MEET NEW DAY”

“OK. Where and when should we meet?”

“yoU GO MOVE TRAVEL NEW DAY WE MEET You”

“Go where?”

“any PLACE GO TRAVEL”

I didn’t know what to make of it, but I abided.

“All right, then. We’ll meet tomorrow. Sleep well.”

“NO SLEEP WE YOU SLEEP”

I didn’t write any more, not wanting to spook whoever or whatever it was that was sending me those messages. A few minutes later, I thought I saw another flashing notification, but when I picked up the device, I saw it was for a message from another user. It was also a local transmission, and also in real-time. But this time there was a call name, and this time it was one I recognized instantly. It said “The Duke”.

Remember how I’ve said that I got along with everyone at the Bureau? Well, that was a bit of a lie. There was one person there who hated my guts: Thomas J Mitrov, better known as The Duke – a nickname he gave himself. Now, The Duke never did or said anything directly untowardly to me, but I could read loud and clear what lay under that mask he passed for a face. Behind the machismo and bravado and that big, faux-cowboy grin he gave me was nothing but bile and poison. Some people would analyze his character, trying to get to the bottom of it, saying that he was unhappy, and insecure, and jealous, and they would probably be right; but if you were to ask me, I’d tell you that Duke was nothing but a big, bad bully. No matter what the roots of that were, that fact was cemented in stone, and no measure of analysis and therapy could ever change it. And now, somehow, he was here, in outer space. Phoning me.

“Why, howdy pardner! Fancy meeting you in this neck of the woods!”

“Thomas? Is that really you?”

“The Duke, one and only!”

“But.. How? And why are you here? Didn’t our hosts specifically request that only one of us came to meet them?”

“Oh, come now Jeffry, did you really think that we’d send you all alone down the unknown frontier? Now, don’t you worry your smart li’l head, you still get to have a personal pow-wow with the Indians. Think of me as… the cavalry! Just in case things go south. Or,” his voice became mean, just like every time he knew no one was listening in, “as a safeguard, in case you start to fraternize too much with the other side.”

“’Fraternize with the other side’, Duke, what the hell are you even saying?”

“Oh, nothing,” echoed the eerily-clear voice in the strange darkness of the room. I could imagine the smirk on his square chin. “But one must keep vigilant. Hey, don’t blame me, it’s the rules! I didn’t make them! So, what did the little green men tell you?”

“Since you’ve clearly been spying in on my comms, you probably know already.”

“’Spying’, that such a dirty word! I was just looking after you! And our United States of America, and the entire planet Earth, with all its civilizations…”

I interrupted him with a loud sigh.

“…but I was not spying. I know that you’ve made contact, I just don’t know what you said to one another. Though I do expect that you’ll tell me, being a patriot and an honest diplomat of our dear blue Earth, now, won’t you?”

“You know I can’t. It’s clearly against the rules.”

“Oh, c’mon, Jeffry-boy, I don’t need the saucy details, just the Cliffs Notes! Just enough so I could do my job.”

I sighed again and yielded.

“We didn’t talk that much. They’ve only said that we’ll make contact tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“That they didn’t say. They just told me to… be around. Speaking of which, where are you?”

“Around. Well, I guess I’ll see you soon, Jeffrey-boy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Duke’s voice threatened, followed by a digital sound-bit of an ended call.

I never got angry, not in the traditional sense of the word, however, this time, I came as close to it as I physically could. But soon, reasoning overcame my emotions. Of course, they wouldn’t send me alone, that much was pretty logical. It’s only that I’ve expected a spy satellite, not the darn worst person in the world! But that was also unfair. Duke was undoubtedly a jerk, but he was also a great agent, one that brought in results. And he was my polar opposite, which kind of made sense. I still didn’t like him, though.

I laid down, and eventually and gradually fell back into an uncomfortable sleep.

I awoke to a strange dawn. The sun rays were all of a wrong hue. Standing in the sunshine, instead of warmed, I felt like I was scanned by an X-ray machine. It appeared I was in an empty replica of a classic suburban home, fitted with breakfast foods and all the standard appliances. I pretended that it was an ordinary day on Earth, I took a shower, ate my cereals, and went outside. There was an electric Chevy in my garage. I got in and started driving. The chill in my body still wouldn’t go away.

It looked like an ordinary suburb, except it was empty of people, but I could feel oh-so-clearly that there was something amiss. The air smelled strange, more clear than home, but also alien, somehow. And then there was that strange tingling in my body. I wrote it down to gravity not being one hundred percent on par with Earth’s, but never really accepted my own reasoning. I drove in circles around empty streets and remote-printed houses, looking for something, not even knowing exactly what. Were they really little green men, as Duke said? Or were they giants, or microbes, or radiation, or something entirely else, not even visible or detectible by human senses? Maybe they were already with me, as invisible angels? Or maybe they were the car? I had no way of knowing.

 My eyes kept turning towards the notepad device, awaiting further instructions. As I passed the third identical block, the screen suddenly flashed.

“NO VEHICLE GO”

I slammed on the brakes and hastily typed back.

“Where are you? How will I recognize you?”

“GO NO VEHICLE FORWARD EXPECT CHANCE”

It was cryptic as hell, but I didn’t have much else to go on. I parked the Chevy by the curve and stepped out. The smells, the tingling, the off-sounding birdsong, it all unsettled me even more outside the car. I continued on foot through the wet, acacia-shaded road.

Suddenly, I spotted a camera perched under eaves of a red brick building on the corner. I stopped in my tracks, and pulled out the comm device.

“Yeah?” the gruff voice answered.

“Duke, you there?”

“Where else could I be? Everything all right?”

“I don’t know. Say, those cameras here, are they working?”

“Cameras, mics, seismographs, you name it, we have it all covered. And thanks to that duality doohickey, it’s all in real-time for our boys back on Earth. Why, you seen something?”

“That’s the thing, I haven’t. And I think I ought’ve.”

“Keep your cool, Jeffry-boy, they’ll be coming if they said. Unless our aliens are some sort of intergalactic pranksters! Hah, now that would really be something! Now go off the comm, and do your work.”

I always found it eerie how he switched from jokes to stone-cold orders. That’s not something people with actual soul could do.

I walked under the acacias, breathing deep and savoring the smells. A part of the street ahead was obstructed by a huge puddle of slightly muddy water, but I thought nothing of it as I had good shoes, and it didn’t seem to be very deep. I stepped in it, lost in thoughts again about what the aliens could look like. My foot fell through and I stumbled with it.

I sank to the bottom of what seemed to be a rain water-filled sinkhole, at least eight feet deep. My first thought was that I was going to drown. I started waving my hands and kicking to propel myself back to the surface, but I just couldn’t do it, the water seemed too thin somehow. Scrambling towards the edge, my lungs eventually ran out of air, and I inhaled… and it turned out, apparently, that I could breathe the puddle water, just like air! Even though it was brown with mud, I could see through it without hurting my eyes. And I could see something in it. A large, yellowish wad of sugar-like crystal, sprawling from one wall of the hole to another, like a tree root.

What happened next was very strange indeed. I lost control of my impulses and went towards the crystal. It looked – now, don’t you laugh – it looked… yummy! Like a sugar cane that tasted of lemon and lime and melon and mint and all the things I loved in a dessert. My mouth started watering, slobbering even, and I kneeled to take a bite. My teeth were met by an unyielding, glassy surface. I didn’t hurt myself, but I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to tear a chunk out of it. Then, it started melting in my mouth, like ice, or ice-cream, only lightning-fast. To my disappointment, it didn’t taste like any of the things I imagined it would. Actually, it didn’t taste like anything at all, just regular, or perhaps, dirty, water. Then, my senses started coming back to me and I managed to climb out of the pit. I sat on the asphalt, moving a bit to catch the rays of the warm not-Sun, getting the not-water out of my nose and ears and mulling over what in tarnation just happened to me.

Then, I rang Duke again. I told him everything. I expected him to disbelieve me or to make fun of me, but he sounded dead-serious.

“Go back to your room. I’ll come by your current location with the test-bot to check if you’re bullshitting me.”

And that’s almost all that had happened to me on Ikea. Duke came over the next day, furrowing his brow as he asked me questions, while the hovering sonde examined my life signals and took samples of my life fluids. All the time he looked as if he’s gonna strike me, getting ‘specially mad for me not telling him about the messages I’ve received, even though the directive specifically stated I was not to divulge those to anyone before the contact was made.

And… Was the contact made? I didn’t get the answer to that question until many years later.

In the days that followed, I didn’t receive any more messages on my notepad device. Duke searched high and low, checked the instruments, sent drones and consulted with the base, but no one got any smarter. That was that, it seemed. And so, we got our asses packed back into the ice-box rocket.

#

Soon after, I awoke in a lab room, not very different from the one I previously left from.

“It’s okay if you feel a bit dizzy and disoriented,” the nice lady in a lab coat said. And while I was a bit woozy, it was nothing compared to the skin-crawling feeling I perpetually had while on Ikea. I was back on Earth; the fever dream was over.

Then came the endless tests and questionings. They took a piece of everything from me, from mind to shit. They never told me if they were content with the answers, but something told me that it wasn’t the case. It was all over: the story was buried and I got an early retirement with all the benefits and then some.

The story was buried, but it didn’t remain unknown. Soon, the underground crystalline structures started appearing on Earth. First in South America, then Russia, and then all over the globe.

I got a visit by the spooks again, firing the same old questions as well as a whole magazine of new ones. But all of their thumbscrews were for naught: I simply didn’t know anything. What ground their gears was the trend that came about almost instantly: people were trying to eat the yellow crystals, the same way I did, only without feeling compelled. The only conclusion was that I told someone about it. It was only much later that they found out that it was actually Duke who leaked, not only that, but all of the info, to some super-rich tech magnate. Unfortunately for our justice system, he died from a coronary before they managed to get him.

I saw it myself on the television: half-naked people diving into muddy pits, biting yellow space-glass, which dissolved under their teeth. It exploded into a world-wide cult, with converts stating that the crystal water gave them eternal youth and cosmic wisdom. The doctors just shook their heads, advising people not to drink puddle water as it was teeming with bacteria and parasites. The liquid from the dissolved crystals itself didn’t possess any special properties – it was just plain, old, regular water.

I got to keep the iPad-thingy as a souvenir from my star-faring journey; scrubbed of all important top-secret data, of course. And one day, while I was watching the news coverage about a new crystal-worshiping cult in Brazil, I suddenly remembered it. I put down my mug of hard lemonade, scratched my now-snow white beard, and went rummaging through the storage room.

I pressed the round button and held it, waiting for the device to turn on. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but still, I found the now-empty chat channel and typed:

“You still there, friend?”

I sent the message for my own sake; I certainly didn’t hope to get an answer, and I almost choked on a mouthful of alcoholic lemonade when I actually got one. There was no more of that kooky letters and strange sentences – the message I got was, pardon the pun, crystal clear.

“Yes, I’m still here, friend.”

Now, I should’ve stopped there, taken a screenshot, rang my boss, rang the hot-line, called the army, navy, air-force and marines, followed the whole procedure I’ve been given.

I should’ve, but then I thought: “Nah.”

I did respond, though.

“So, what was all that about, friend? I thought we were supposed to achieve contact.”

“And we did. You and us.”

“It seemed very one-sided to me,” I typed, pausing only to slurp some more of my lemon drink, “hardly fair.”

“We understand it may have seemed that way to you. But you have to understand, your race and civilization is not yet ready to meet us on equal terms. Actually, you got a pretty good deal all things considering. And it was all thanks to you personally.”

“What good deal? And how was I to thank?” I typed, musing.

“Just like you are using the quantum entanglement tech to build your habitats on far away planets, so are we using your planet and your people as a relay.”

“Relay? For what?”

“For the continuation of our search for intelligent life. Do not take offence.”

“None taken. But I still don’t get how it was a good deal for us. And what was that about me getting the merits, pardon my vanity?”

“Your planet is constantly broadcasting information: about your biology, history, culture, arts, et cetera. We already knew everything about you, except what you’re really like. And when we met you, we decided that you were good.”

I scratched my dry scalp.

“And what would, hypothetically, had happened, if someone else came in contact with you instead of me?”

“Like your colleague, Duke?”

“So, you knew about him, huh?”

“Of course we knew. We knew everything that happened on the planet. If it were him to first come into contact with us, you and your kind wouldn’t exist right now.”

I swallowed hard. The citric acid and alcohol seemed to constrict my throat.

“Well, what do you know. And what now?”

“Our search for other life-forms has already continued. Thank you, relay. It was an interesting experience.”

Then, the screen went blank, with not a trace of evidence to confirm that anything I just experienced was real.

And some days, I still wonder if it was.

Objavljeno na sajtu Underside Stories https://lukevans.substack.com/p/relay

Harbinger

I stopped sleeping a while ago. The last shred of solace my dreams used to provide me is gone. Now, all I have left is the perpetual guilt and, a few shards of fast-melting sanity.

A moth sits on the outside of the window pane. Some distant neon light is casting its shadow over the walls and ceiling of my barren room. Huge, skittering shadow. I know the truth, the terrible, mind-shattering truth: that shadow is the real creature, and the insect just a reflection. I huddle back, pushing myself even tighter into the corner and pulling the thin covers higher, as if the thin fabric could protect me from the impending demise. But I know it can’t; nothing can. The world is doomed, and I am to blame.

* * *

Wads of text flew down my monitor, signaling that I was connected to the server. I took a big gulp of chilled cola followed by a smaller one from a cup of scalding coffee – my personal favorite combo – and with a click entered the #occult_temple chatroom. I was the last regular member to come, the other five were already present and engaged in a heated conversation about werewolf movies.

“Werewolves are boring and overdone” I typed hastily, just to feel included, and then took another sip of the caffeine mix. My message went totally ignored and the discussion continued for a couple of screens more. I followed impatiently and disinterestedly as the large slabs of lycanthrope lore were being exchanged and then switched to another IRC room, drinking my drinks and banging my head to the metal music blasting out of my cheap Genius speakers. Finally, about a half an hour later, the discussion died down and the op was about to make the announcement we’ve all logged on for.

“Now, can we talk about the next gathering?” wrote Lurking_one, in reality called Milo.

“Yes”

“Finally”

“Fuck yes!”

“Fuck yes!” I repeated, too thrilled to think of anything more creative.

I was genuinely excited. I had attended only two of such gatherings before, after almost a year of “membership”, or, as I saw it, internship. They were totally different from what I expected: I envisioned serious, perhaps even ominous, private sessions, with thoughtful discussions and whispered dark secrets. In actuality, they were just casual meetings in local pubs, where everyone drank unreasonable amounts of beer, smoked cheap cigarettes and shouted their opinions on pop culture. They were very fun though, and, naturally, I wanted to go again.

“Where r we going this time, Duke’s again?” I typed, acting as if I already were an integral part of this small community. I really wanted to be. Of all forums, sites, chatroom and other places on-line, where horror and supernatural aficionados could meet and exchange their thoughts, the occult_temple channel was the only one I actually wanted to belong. In all others, members were either too stupid and shallow, or too conceited and condescending; blabbering pointlessly or pretending to be better than all the rest, without any real values to back those claims up. There was a real feeling of camaraderie in this small group. Its members were all living encyclopedias, savants, artists and authors, but at the same time fun, pleasant and humble people, never once bragging about their achievements.

“No” answered Lurking_one. “We’re meeting at the basement”

“Ooh, what’s that?” I asked, expecting it to be another pub, but still hoping for something… more.

“It’s a basement LOL” answered one nicknamed Basilisk.

“It’s the basement of Milo’s building. You’ll see, you’re in for a threat 😊” wrote Bloated_corpse.

“No worries, Ash_Knight, I’ll PM you the address 😊” Lurking_one answered, and, true enough, a window containing a street name and number popped up only a moment later.  

* * *

The place specified in the message lay in the broader center area, a tad secluded, but still urban and bustling, with rising gray buildings and cigarette butt-pocked jardinieres. Behind the weathered tenement, I found the inconspicuous, garbage-littered staircase descending into to a tunnel, one mercifully cooler than the scorching asphalt above. The city din also subsided as I walked down the concrete corridor, smothered into bare whelps by its thick, crumbling walls. For a moment, I was afraid that I wasn’t going to be able to find the right room in those labyrinthian surroundings, but at that same moment I noticed an open door with light and murmur spilling out.

“Oh, there you are!” I spoke.

Milo greeted me with a smile. He was pouring some acrid-smelling liquid out of a plastic bottle all over and outside of the threshold.

“You came. Hi. Come on in. I’ll be finished in a second.”

“What are you doing, anyway?” I asked, stepping over the liquid.

“We’ll be having a… special guest today.”

I entered the room. It was a tiny area, most of it filled with a table and several school chairs. There were plastic bags brimming with beer and cola bottles lying on the floor, a small, cheap, Chinese-made fan, and a chute leading upwards, the only source of somewhat-fresh air.

“Hi Ash!” said the bulky man seated nearest the fan.

“Hi Basilisk. What’s this I hear about a special guest? I hope it’s not Day1. I can’t stand that pompous goblin.”

The hefty man smiled, as did the rest of the gang.

“No, it’s not Day1” answered Milo from behind me, taking a break from whatever he was doing. “It’s… Someone else. Someone you haven’t met yet. It’s our founder, Patrick.”

Patrick. The mysterious, illustrious Patrick. His name, sans nickname or code, stood at the top of our IRC channel, marked with an at sign, signifying his untouchable dominance. He himself rarely partook in the discussions, joining in only occasionally with a sparse sentence or two, but his timing implied that he was on-line twenty-four hours a day, ever vigilant. All of this made me think of him as of some mythic, all-powerful and all-knowing figure, an IRC god among us IRC mortals.

“What is that gunk? It smells awful.” I said, pulling the collar of my shirt over my nose. In truth, it didn’t even smell that bad; the liquid had a sharp odor, reminiscent of the gasoline or some strong cleaning liquid.

“It’s a disinfectant. Patrick has a medical condition, we need to keep the grounds sterile for him.” Milo said, backing up and continuing to spill the liquid along the concrete corridor.

Grins rested on the visages in the room, as if they knew something that I didn’t, something exciting, perhaps enjoyable. Thrilling.

Soon after, we began, or better said, continued, our routine of chugging beverages and talking about books, video-games, movies, comics, and other thing us nerds lived for. I had a pretty good buzz going on when I noticed the door opening again. The person that poked its head inside looked so out of place that I was certain it was someone who got lost and wandered in by mistake.

“Patrick!” exclaimed the short, bespectacled man known to me only as Goblin_Sapper011. Smiles blossomed on other faces too. A smile greeted them back.

The fabled Patrick didn’t look at all like I expected him to. There was a truth to be said: no one of our small crew looked attractive in any standard way. We were all either too thin or too fat, too tall or too short, and none of us had a face that could be described as handsome. We had traded muscles for brains, and style for identity, or so I consoled myself. But this Patrick fellow, he was good-looking. He was pale and thin as some of our other members, but he had a kind, smiling face, sculpted with perfect symmetry and crowned with a thick, black mane. Not at all the mystic monster I imagined him to be.

“Helloo! Place for one more?”

“I’m so happy you could come!” exclaimed our one and only female member, the pox-scarred, red-dyed Deamonfox.

I expected some sort of change in our dynamic, but none came; Milo came back at the table, chips bags were opened, and we continued as usual, blabbering away and being the geeks that we were. Patrick was no different from any of us. He offered opinions, spilt factoids and anecdotes, ate chips and drank Cola Zero. Just a regular guy, apparently, if a bit more socially refined.

I was half-drunk when I noticed my companions talking in a different tone. The night air was now coming down the chute and Patrick was fishing out for something in his backpack. He produced a plastic bottle, similar to the one Milo had before, only gray instead of clear. I suddenly noticed that the others were excited, but at the same time strangely quiet and patient.

“What’s going now right now?” I asked through an alcohol-fueled grin.

“Now comes the fun part!” Goblin_Sapper011 grinned back at me slyly.

Black liquid spilled out of the old oil flask, following the pattern of the one Milo laid out earlier. This one didn’t smell as bad, but there was something very strange in its aroma, as I couldn’t compare it to anything else I’ve smelled before. Everyone packed their things, rose up and went through the door.

“Come now,” beckoned Milo with a smile on his face.

“Where are we going?” I asked, the worry in my head struggling to break through the alcohol haze.

Patrick was disappearing further down the tunnel, spilling the black liquid as he went.

“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.” Milo answered with a calm face, and I believed him, as he never lied to me before.

“I’m not worried” I said. And I really wasn’t. But I was very curious.

Our small group followed the charismatic leader down the tunnel-like corridor. Patrick walked surely, as if he’d walked this way many times before, even though it was Milo’s building, pouring out the rest of the dark liquid along the way. I tried to pinpoint what its smell reminded me of. Sweat. Strange spices. Motor oil. The others chatted away about their usual stuff. Bloated_corpse was just in the middle of telling an exciting anecdote to Deamonfox about how he almost got robbed in Athens while trying to buy some vintage comic books. Goblin_Sapper011 was shouting and spitting in my ear something about growth hormones. I wasn’t really paying attention to his story from the start, but suddenly I noticed the light and the echo around us changing, and I shut him off completely.

The basement hall gave way to a significantly wider one. The ceiling was much higher too, or at least that was what I assumed, as I couldn’t even see it. The light sources became weaker, blurry and undefined.

“What the hell is this, a bomb shelter?”

I saw Milo smile lightly, passing under a strip of light that sliced through the growing darkness.

“We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?? Where are we even going? Listen man, I don’t want to find myself in the east-side, I’ll never find my way back this drunk, and I have the catch the two o’ clock buss…”

Portly man in a black shirt in front of me snickered.

“Don’t worry about that. Where we’re going, time and space are … irrelevant, man!”

I started paying attention to my surrounding, if nothing than so I could find my way back if needed.

“I hope there’s a toilet down there,” I shouted. “I really need to piss!”

There was something happening around us as we walked. Walls and ceiling retracted, giving way to darkness. Light lost shape. I caught glimpses of unidentifiable gray objects that looked like rocks one moment, and smoke and shadows the other. Then I noticed that the echo had disappeared altogether.

“Is this a cave? How come no one knows about it? I mean, this is huge! I can’t believe ravers haven’t claimed it already!”

I made jokes to put myself at ease, but now I was genially distraught. I felt lost and… something more. A disturbing feeling. Alien. Like the smell of that black liquid.

The steps suddenly stopped. I looked around. There was nothing there. Just endless darkness, broken by a few gray shadows.

“We’re here.” Patrick proclaimed with a smile.

The others dropped down on the ground, pulling bottles, cans and plastic bags out of their sacks, like they’ve arrived on their favorite picnic spot.

“Seriously, what is this place?” I asked again, now showing obvious signs of unease.

“This, Ash, is… The Void! The place between worlds! Or more like… the antechamber of it.” Said Patrick, waving his hands around playfully.

“You gotta be shitting me,” I said weakly, but not really disbelieving.

“Nope! Go, check it out yourself! Explore! You said you needed to take a leak, go, take a leak!”

I took one more look at his boyish, ageless face, and returned the smile uneasily.

“Right.”

“Gooo, have fun!” shouted the red-haired girl. “Gosh, I envy you so much! What I’d give for a first time again!”

The conscious, rational part of my brain, which was getting more sober by the minute, convinced me that this was just a prank, something with a very simple and rational explanation. But the other part wasn’t persuaded. It was as if some ancient, stunted sense was awakening in me, something that knew of places such as this, recognizing them.

I took a step at a random direction, away from our little camp. The ground felt weird, rubbery, feeling like an amalgam of rock, clay and ash. I went towards the nearest gray stalagmite, determined to empty my bladder behind it, only to discover that the rock formation was nothing more than a trick of the light. Luckily, I found another, real one, unzipped, and poured a current of steaming urine. It streamed away, disappearing without a trace into the darkness. I continued exploring.

Quickly I was convinced, now without a doubt, that this place wasn’t natural. Distances were warped and skewed; no matter how far I walked, I was still within sight of my friends, whose circle was plainly marked by floating cigarette embers. Rocks and boulders appeared and vaporized, turning into smoke, shadows and reflections. I noticed vermin running around, undoubtfully rats and cockroaches. Eventually, I had my fill and went back to my chatroom comrades.

“So, what do you think?” asked Basilisk.

“I don’t understand anything about this. Like, how can this place even exist?” 

“I don’t understand much either,” answered the dark-haired leader. “There are mentions of it in many old and occult books. It’s been called the Astral plane, the Spiritual plane, The Ether, Purgatory, and many other names, although I suspect that most of these monikers are imprecise or just plain wrong. I just know that I can enter it, under certain circumstances. But this is only the antechamber. From it, one should be able to travel time, space, worlds and dimensions, but not many have managed it. I certainly haven’t.”

“But it is safe?” I asked, consoled but still a tad worried.

“Completely, as I’ve said. There’s no one and nothing here that could harm us.”

“Apart from the rats, that is.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve said, apart from the rats and roaches and such. Hey, Bloat, toss me another beer, would ya?

Patrick eyed me somewhat sternly as I opened the can, spilling foam over my shirt.

“You’ve seen this… vermin?”

“Yeah. Nasty. But not surprising. Although if I see a giant centipede anywhere here, I’m gonna scream!” I said, turning back towards the shadowy maze.

“Ash, listen. If you… Stay away from the critters. And if you see some… bigger ones, stay away from those too. Back away. Don’t look at them.”

“Wha, what do you mean, bigger ones? Are you talking demons or raccoons here? You said this was safe!”

“It’s fine, it’s safe. You can’t make the connections, no person living in our time can… It would require sensitivities, and knowledge and…” he stopped with a laugh. “It’s safe! It’s safe. But still… Just be careful, ok?”

I might had been more afraid and more cautious, had the circumstances been different, but the half of beer I savagely poured down my gullet in combination with the budding notion that Patrick wasn’t the only one special here gave me a strong dose of instant confidence and courage. I walked back into the dark, now actively seeking and trailing the blurry critters that skittled about. I thought I even spotted the forementioned larger creatures in the distant dark, ape-like and heavy set, disappearing as after-images as soon as I would focus on them, but that might have just been alcohol and my imagination projecting. Still, I walked around, intent to make a circle around our camp. I walked and walked and walked, feeling groggy and tired, giving in to my fantasy. The shadows took a bluish hue, and it seemed that more light was now coming from the roof of the room. Panes of bright, blinding light, yellow and warm upon my skin…

“…as we are preparing for this marvelous event. The divers are checking their gear one last time, making sure everything is in perfect order, as the slightest mishap could mean certain death in those cerulean depths. As our associate, Professor Doctor Belmore explained in the snippet we have just shown, Rainbow Caverns play an important role in the religion of the local Tahiti natives, who believe them to be the home of angels. Tell me, Mr. Toussaint, why do you expect that your crew will have more luck in finding the entrance to the Rainbow Caverns than the one from 1987?”

“Well, miss, there are several reasons. One is that the last expedition didn’t have, how you say, all the modern, state-of-the-art equipment we have now. We have got radar, sonar, GPS, and all that on our wrists; masks with infrared vision, durable suits and oxygen tanks… Also, my men are all experienced divers, resourceful and, of course, courageous. If those mythical caverns exist at all, we will certainly find them!”

I was saying those words, apparently. But it wasn’t really me saying them. It took me a while to understand what was happening, as when waking up from a convincing dream, only now I was waking up into one.

The attractive brunette in the smart attire moved the microphone away from my face, signaling the cameraman to stop filming. The ground under me bobbed up and down. The air was warm and salty. Seagulls screeched. And all around was a horizon of blue: sky, sea, and even the rock of the sparsely vegetated cliff. I felt like I was watching a movie while high, forgetting for a moment who, where or when I was, but then I recalled what has happened earlier. I remembered the IRC group meeting, the basement, the strange cave. The Void.

“I” moved about the boat, talking to men I didn’t know in a language I couldn’t understand.

“Do you have more questions, miss? Do you need to film more?”

“No, we got all we need right now. Now all that that’s left is for you to find those caverns, and film them,” said the woman with a smile.

“No worries miss, you’ll have your video by the end of the day. And then, we can maybe go have dinner, yes?”

“We’ll see,” she answered, smirking ambiguously.

I had no control in this vision: I was a spectator, a passenger. I felt like my whole persona was crumpled in an egg set inside this strange man’s head. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t exit, I couldn’t speak. All I could do was watch the story unfold.

Eventually, the man whose mind I was in and his comrades finished the preparations and dived into the azure waters.

I didn’t only share this man’s vision and hearing, I could also feel what he felt; the strain in his muscles, the pressure upon his lungs, the stress and anxiety he suppressed as deep as he could, masking it with a layer of macho bravado. He swam downwards, moving away from the light, but the depts were far from sheer darkness. There were shadows, shimmers, reflections, and strange luminescence all around us as we dived along the submerge cliff side. Fish and other creatures of all possible and impossible shapes and colors swam around, eyeing us quizzingly. We went deeper and deeper. Still, no darkness came, only more shades of blue. Suddenly, one of the divers pointed excitedly towards a patch of stone. “I” moved my hand, the one carrying a powerful underwater torch, and turned it towards the direction the other man showed. It looked like a cave entrance, at least until the light beam reached it. Then, it turned into a coral pattern, another trick. I felt the man’s frustration. Disbelieving his vision, he swam towards the multicolored rock. At that moment, my sense of self became stronger, and I began panicking. What the fuck was happening? Could it have something to do with that Void place? Did I lose my mind? Or maybe I was just tripping; maybe my internet friends weren’t as benevolent as I thought and slipped something in my drink while I wasn’t looking. That seemed a most likely scenario. Or it would, if it didn’t feel so real…

As the diver, this… Toussaint, approached the rock, something began to happen. Shadows and patterns shimmered and shifted, playing tricks on the mind. Or perhaps dispelling them. There was a cave entrance there after all, as it seemed. Only, I had a feeling that it wasn’t the French adventurer that had found it, but me. It had appeared specifically for me. The diver swam down the grotto, mesmerized. At one point, he turned and tried to signal his crew, first by waving his flashlight, then by radio, but to no avail; the entrance had disappeared into a maze of reefs and shadows, and the radio responded only with silence. Instead of panicking or any such reaction, the man just continued swimming onwards, leaving a trail of bubbles. As he went deeper into the cliffside, his mind weakened, allowing mine to stretch and loosen. I was not myself yet, but instead of being only a figment, I became as a passenger in an auto-piloted submarine, and that was an improvement. Still, I dreaded the point of arrival. There was a force at work here, an alien one.

Now the sunlight was truly gone, but still it wasn’t dark in these tunnels. There was bioluminescence emerging from many types of plants and fish, all unknown to me. The shiny, mineral-rich rocks reflected that light. I lost sense of up and down. The caves were a kaleidoscope of madness.

The swim took too long. I wasn’t Toussaint, but I knew some things that he knew, and I knew that he didn’t have enough air in my tanks for a return trip. Both me and my host began panicking, but there was nothing I/we could do: we were drawn downwards, as moths to a flame.

The air tanks were almost empty. A huge eel, maw full of needle fangs swam in front of me, ignoring me completely, like I wasn’t kosher. I tried to control my emotions, telling myself that this was all a bad dream, or a bad trip. It had to be. The only other alternative was death.

The tunnel opened into a vast expanse of an underwater cave. From the depths of that cobalt darkness, a light approached, distant and glimmering at first, but the moment I saw it – I knew! – I could sense that an immense power was nearing. A power, it rang in my head, a God! The glimmers blossomed into radiant beacons – three colossal creatures, made seemingly out of sheets of shimmering light. There was no doubt that these creatures were aquatic, as they resembled some of the others living beings I have seen before, on television or on my way down – seahorses and jellyfish and such – but it was also plain that they belonged to the oceans of some other, alien world. And they were so beautiful! Beautiful as angels!

“OH, GLORIOUS DAY!”

“A TRAVELER!”

“OUR WAIT IS OVER!”

Their voices, or thoughts, screamed in my (not really mine) skull. The air coming from the rubber tube was getting thin and stale. The realization hit me – I was going to die, here and now. This was not a dream, not a drug-trip – this was my life, and it was running out, fast. Panic, depression, anger, it all came down on me at once, making my host breathe heavier and, ironically, wasting the little oxygen we had left. Not like this! I was still young! I had so much to do! Fuck those occult_temple dweebs! Oh god, oh Jesus, please, not like this, not now, please…

“AND A WEAKLING, AT THAT!”

“A WEAK SHELL, EXPIRING.”

“WEAK WILLED TOO!”

“HE WILL DO OUR BIDDING!” the first one began the cycle anew.

“FOR THE EXCHANGE FOR HIS MORTAL LIFE!”

“WILL YOU, LAND-DWELLER?”

I wanted to answer, but I didn’t know how. I couldn’t speak. I had no control of this man’s mouth, and even if I did, I was deep under water. But still I tried. My mind sputtered and stuttered. Mine, not the Frenchman’s.

“I don’t… want to die.”

“WHAT WAS THAT, MORTAL?”

“THE LAND-DWELLER WANTS TO LIVE!”

“AND WHAT IS HE WILLING TO OFFER FOR THE CONTINUATION OF HIS PUNY EXISTANCE?”

“I’ll… do… anything. Anything. Please. I don’t want to die. Please. Oh God…”

“THE ONLY GODS HERE ARE WE, MAMMAL!”

“ARE YOU WILLING TO SWEAR?”

“TO DO OUR BIDDING? BE WARY, OUR OATHS ARE MORE BINDING THAN THOSE OF YOUR PEOPLE.”

“I’ll do anything…”

And I was willing to do anything. I would have sworn to anything. I felt the ache in the diver’s lungs and the darkness descending upon both of our visions. We were dying and I didn’t want to die. I know now what the price was, but in all honesty, I’d probably do it all over again. I am a weak, pathetic excuse for a man.

“Please, I will do anything! I beg of you! Just let me live! But hurry!” The plea burst out of my thoughts.

“THE LAND-DWELLER HAS AGREED!”

“CONTACT THE DREADED MOTHS! TELL THEM WE’LL SEND A TRAVELER IF THEY SWEAR TO OPEN THE DOORWAY FOR US TOO!”

“ARE YOU SURE THIS IS WISE? THEY ARE THE ENEMY.”

“WE GROW WARY OF WAITING! THE STARS ARE FAR FROM ALLIGNING. WE NEED A NEW WORLD!”

“THE ONES OF THE SHADOW AGREE WITH OUR TERMS AND SWEAR AN ALLIANCE!”

“SEND THEM THE WEAKLING! OH, GLORIOUS DAY! SOON WE WILL HAVE ANOTHER FIELD OF OCEANS TO CONQUER!”

I blacked out. But not for long. My body hit frozen ground, waking me up instantly as pangs of pain and cold shook my body. Only again it wasn’t my body. This one was taller, thinner, malnutritioned, but still stronger than my real one. But unlike the Frenchmen’s, this one I could control. I felt no signs of its previous owner’s will.

I looked around as I rose, clutching my arms to protect myself from the bitter chill. I was no longer underwater, but on a plane, vast, barren and ice-bitten. Low, gray sky with a sickly sun suffering through loomed above. I saw a mountain range in the distance, and a column of people walking slowly in a straight line towards the only building in sight: a huge, run-down wooden cathedral. Rubbing my freezing skin, I watched the procession, and the people in it looked back at me: men, women and children, all poor and sad-looking, decrepit, feeble. Silently, they invited me to join them. I didn’t want to. Without even understanding how or why, I knew that whatever lay in that strange looking church was bad. Evil. Malignant. I didn’t want to go, but I had to: I was freezing to death. And there was another urge beckoning me, one that I couldn’t really explain, but still had my suspicions about. A pact, a deal, that I’ve agreed to. Piloting this strange, although still living body, I walked along with the people towards the arched entrance.

It wasn’t much warmer inside, just enough to hold off the cold burns, though still far from comfortable. At first, it looked like any other church I’ve visited (not that I’ve been in many): rows of pews, altar, stained glass windows… The only strange thing I’ve noticed at once, if only because it was the greatest heat source, was the giant candle, replacing scores of smaller ones usually found in regular churches. This one, placed beyond the altar, was a thick as a tree stump, rising high, almost to the domed roof.

I walked the dusty floor along the nave slowly and surely, unwillingly drawn towards a place in front row. It was then that I detected the strange shadow, as if something huge was moving about the church exterior, blocking the windows. And then I noticed other strange details: images in the stained glass, winged brass idols, insect-like motives on the moth-eaten curtains…

“Brothers and sisters!” shouted the suddenly appearing preacher, pulling me out of my stupor and directing my, and everyone else’s gaze towards him.

“We have gathered here, once again, to pay our respects to our Masters, our Protectors and Benefactors, who shield our world from the murderous rays of the Death-star and prevent us from breeding oh so much like wild rabbits, devouring more sustenance than this meager planet can provide! All hail the Protectors!”

“Hail the Protectors” a wave of murmur rolled down the aisles.

A small, golden-haired girl ran out of the forest of wooden benches, falling on her knees just before the what I just noticed was a grotesquely shaped alter.

“I thank you for your protection, oh goodly lords! And thank you for not coming in our bedrooms while we sleep, and not laying eggs in our ears, and not having your larva crawl out of our cold bodies…”

An old man approached the girl and sent her sprawling on the floor with a vicious backhand slap.

“Little girl, you shouldn’t pray to our Masters to deny us their greatest gift! You should welcome it! Will someone take care of this confused, blasphemous child?” said the priest, and a man and a woman dragged the youth with the bloodied mouth back into the shadows of the pews.

“Friends! Today is a special day! A very special day indeed! For today, the realm of our Masters will grow as to include one more world! Rejoice! By the grace of fate, a saint has been sent into our midst! A World-Walker! A man, unlike me or you, blessed with the power to travel among infinite worlds! And this World-Walker has made an oath, he had sworn to take the progeny of the Masters back into his own world, so they can claim and conquer it! Arise, World-Walker! Arise, the Messiah! Arise, and walk towards the sacred birthing pool!”

I rose at his command, because I knew for certain that he was talking about me. I didn’t care about his sermon, or about the “Masters” he mentioned. I was cold, tired and sick; all I wanted was to go back. Back to my own body, my own world, my own bed. I wanted to fall asleep and forget about all of this forever.

I approached the altar. There was a concave indentation in it, filled with murky water which didn’t seem particularly holy. There were… things, floating and writhing in it.

The priest grabbed a golden goblet and filled it with dark, squirming water from the pool.

“Progenitor! Take this chalice and drink deep, for yours is the most sacred mission! To carry the Spawn of the Holy Ancients into the other world, so they too can block the murderous light, and create an ever-lasting peace!”

My hand took the adorned golden cup, lifted it. I knew that what I was doing was wrong; I sensed it, both in my mind and the one I inhabited. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting home, getting safe. I poured the foul liquid down my gullet, ignoring the things that wriggled inside it.

My surrounding started spinning, followed by a chant and a choir; my mind swam in a whirlpool of dreams and reality, sinking ever deeper. I lost consciousness once more.

* * *

Ironically, I remember these fantastic visions much more clearly than the real events that followed. Of those I know more from what I’ve heard others tell me than from my own memory. Apparently, a farmer found me on the side of a road in Nowhere, Nebraska, thousands of miles from my home city. He notified the local police, which then called the ambulance to pick me up and take me to the nearest hospital. They examined and questioned me. “What has happened to you? How did you end up all the way here? Were you tortured? Molested? What was the last thing you remember?” Obviously, I couldn’t tell them all those crazy parts about underground caverns and sea gods and moth cathedrals, but I had to tell them something, so I told them the story up until the meeting in Milo’s basement.

This seemed to have satisfied the detectives, and I was finally left alone to recuperate. I sat there, on the neat bed of that hospital room in Scottsbluff. Finally alone, finally in silence. Finally as myself. Not some French diver, or a gypsy vagabond, but me. Suddenly, the absurdity of that whole idea struck me hard, and I began laughing uncontrollably. It was all surely a dream, surely! A result of a strong hallucinogen, or a head injury, stress, trauma, or all those things! To even consider it all real was…

A coughing fit interrupted my laughing one. What began as an itch in my throat, quickly became a cough, then a hack, and then a choking sensation. I ran up to the sink a vomited profusely, from the bottom of my guts. Catching my breath, my eye spotted something in the disgusting content of the basin. Among the half-digested food and brown bile, there was blood. And there was something moving in that blood, something that, at first, I couldn’t quite make out. Tiny shapes that moved like caterpillars, only insubstantial, transparent to the point of invisibility. I watched in horror as the shadow grubs milled towards the drain, willingly plunging themselves into the darkness of the pit. I remembered the words of the priest. The Spawn. The Progenitor. I remembered the gargantuan shadow on the church roof, realizing what it was. What I’ve done.

The doctors were preparing to send me back home to my parents, but after the outburst of pure insanity, rage, and grief that came over me at that moment, making me demolish my room and injure two of the orderlies, leaving my hair completely white afterwards, I was deemed too unstable for long travel and kept under observation in the local psychiatry clinic. But that was my one and only outburst. After that, I was calm, almost catatonic.

My parents came to visit me every month. A train of doctors and detectives came to talk to me every day, trying to get to the bottom of my mystery. The police arrested all of my IRC friends from occult_temple. All but Patrick, that is. He must have used a proxy server or something of a sort, at least that’s what the mustachioed inspector believed. They didn’t get anything useful out of them, though.

Five shrinks tried their luck and skills with me, putting me on altogether twelve different cocktails of medicines, to no avail. Eventually, I was permitted to go freely with the other patients, which in practice meant that I could hang in the rec room. At first, I did. But once in a while, I would catch a news report of people missing at sea, seeing strange lights in the depths, of the rise of cults activity in the Mid-West or the revival of the Mothman urban legend, and my body would start spasming. I decided that I preferred to suffer my fate alone.

Days were bad. Nights were worse. But dusks were pure agony.

In those moments, my visions weren’t just memories or expectations of terrors to come, but reality, a maddening present. The worst was the guilt, the realization that I’ve damned everyone. I could’ve died in those depths, alone. But thanks to my cowardice, I was now taking the whole world with me.

Objavljeno u časopisu Lovecraftiana Vol 7, Issue 3, Halloween 2022 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BHL5X6DX?fbclid=IwAR37INiDv_SZv1FGHUmoWybRO8zaSpPV3Fq_cWmncvJcRbGHLMmtG2dasUA

Pesma heroja

Rosa je bežala sa vlati visoke trave, uznemirena gazom mojih čizama. Gledao sam ka horizontu: iza brda, krovovi varošice crveneli su se kroz kišom natopljene grane. Podigao sam pesnicu i karavan koji me je sledio zaustavi se u mestu uz škripu točkova i njakanje magaraca.

Prilaz koji smo odabrali bio je blatnjav – neprohodniji od glavnog puta – ali nisam želeo da rizikujem da nas neko spazi pre nego što budemo spremni. I akustika je mnogo bolja na vrhu ovog brda, zaključio sam, gosteći se pogledom i čilim vazduhom.

Radnici počeše raspakivati kola i vaditi teške sanduke sa opremom. Muzičari su štimovali instrumente i proveravali ih pred nastup, a pomoćnici oblačili heroje u gizdavu odeću, češljali im kose i šminkali ih.

Prvi od sanduka sa oklopom i oružjem otvori se uz negodujuće krckanje drveta. Dvojica nosača sa mukom izvukoše zlatni oklop ukrašen reljefom lavlje glave iz njegovog slamnatog gnezda i krenuše ga oblačiti plavokosom heroju, a zatim mu pružiše mač i štit sa istim motivom. Kolena su mu zaklecala od težine, ali nije rekao ništa.

Sledeći je dobio džinovski luk od crnog drveta, sa strunom načinjenom od čelika; treći ratni čekić sa glavom toliko velikom da nije mogao da ga pomeri sa mesta gde je istovaren. Četvrti nije imao tešku opremu, ali je morao najduže da čeka, dok su ga krojači i šminkerke doterivali kako bi zgledao poput ilustracija mističnih čarobnjaka iz legendi.

Kada sam dobio znak da su heroji spremni, dohvatio sam trubu sa kuke na rancu.
Godinama sam birao glavni instrument. Ni jedan osim nje nije ispunjavao sve moje prohteve. Savršen instrument je morao da ima nijanse, dušu, kompleksnost. I najvažnije: da bude glasan. Prineo sam usnik licu i odsvirao jedan jedini, dug ton, nalik na signal gradske straže ili kraljevih lovaca. A zatim još jedan. Dobošari krenuše polako da me prate.

Kolena dugokosog heroja prestaše da drhte. Vitez u plavom oklopu podiže masivni čekić. Strelac okinu strunu luka zadovoljno. Čarobnjakova koža upi šminku, a oči mu poprimiše beličasti sjaj.

Sklonili smo se da ih propustimo na čelo kolone. Sveže oprana i ispeglana zastava vijorila se na vrhu visokog barjaka, sunčevi zraci plesali su po uglačanom zlatnom oklopu. A ja sam se cerio zadovoljno.

Heroji su sa brda silazili trijumfalno, zaogrnuti sjajem sunca, koje im je tuklo po leđima. Naravno, mi smo išli tik iza njih. Moja truba i doboši svirali su glavnu melodiju; drugi duvači i blizanci-violinisti su nas pratili.

Nekolicina radnika koji su se zatekli na obronku brda okretala se i piljila, a zatim ostavljala svoje oruđe i tiho pratila našu čudesnu svitu sve do kaldrmisanih ulica.

U gradu nije bilo mnogo ljudi. Ostali su samo oni koji nisu imali gde da odu, oni tvrdoglavi, koji su izabrali smrt pre bežanja, i oni koji su panično pakovali svoje stvari. Na ćošku prvog trga, spazio sam i jednog lovca na čudovišta koji je vraćao svoju opremu – ogromnu balistu sa nazubljenim čeličnim strelama – nazad na zaprežna kola.

Svi do jednog buljili su u fantastični četverac koji je, sjajeći se od samopouzdanja, ušetao u grad. Nas, naravno, niko nije ni primetio. Mi smo svakako bili tu da nas čuju, a da ne budemo viđeni.

Znao sam tačno šta se krije iza svakog od upućenih pogleda. Siromašni i jadni su bili u šoku, misleći su da su im se ukazali božji ratnici lično. Cinični su polako prestajali da budu cinični, osećajući kako se nešto čudno budi u njima, ni u jednom trenutku ne pomislivši da je razlog za to – muzika koju čuju.

Lovac na čudovišta, poučen surovim lekcijama života, ostao je sumnjičav. Na licu njegove ćelave, ožiljcima prekrivene glave počivao je iskrivljeni smešak.

,,Vidi ove fićfiriće!”, mislio je. ,,Gledaj ovo smešno, očigledno lažno oružje koje nose! Ko može da podigne toliki štit, ili čekić? Koja je njihova igra? Šta će da rade kada konačno dođe zmaj ‒ ne džinovski močvarni gušter, nego pravi zmaj? Hoće da mu održe predstavu? Da mu pevaju serenadu?”

Najamnik ubaci poslednje koplje u prikolicu, pljunu na pločnik, a zatim ošinu konje i napusti grad, pružajući im oproštajni pogled koji je govorio: ,,Uživajte u poslednjim trenucima života, budale napirlitane!”

Heroji nisu obratili pažnju na njega; moja glavna pomoćnica skinula je kapu i poklonila se tobož ponizno kada su joj kola projurila tik pored stopala.

Truba je svirala melodiju prepunu poleta. Sve više naroda okupljalo se na malom trgu između napuštenih kamenih kuća. Deca su se smešila, starci su stezali pesnice. Ratnik sa zlatnim mačem, Helerion (čije je pravo ime bilo Bilko), držao je govor. Posle svake pauze, svirali smo tuš. Masa je jedva uspevala da suzdrži svoje oduševljenje. Bio je to dobar govor – sam sâm ga bio napisao pre dve godine. Nada se vraćala među preostalo stanovništvo gradića, i zauzvrat hranila blistave heroje novom energijom.

Sunce se već kretalo ka zapadu kada se iz istog pravca začuo strahovit zvuk – mešavina rike lava i struganja pluga po kamenu. Zvuk je rasterao okupljene na sve strane poput miševa. To je i bilo očekivano koliko god bili ohrabreni prizorom heroja i obećanjem spasa. Navlažio sam usne i dao novi znak šakom. Okidački instrumenti preuzeli su vođstvo.

Prostrana senka pređe preko grada, noseći sa sobom vetar pun mirisa sumpora, zmijskih jama i crkotine. Zmaj-gospodar nije ni udostojio varoš pogledom; došao je da jede i da pljačka, i nikakva pomisao o bilo kakvom pravom otporu mu ni u jednom trenutku nije prošla kroz glavu. Računao sam na to.

Neman je preletela grad, postajući tačka na ljubičastom nebu, a zatim se okrenula i pojurila nazad. Znao sam tačno šta planira. Jedan niski prelet preko grada, tokom kojeg bi sunuo vatru na krovove, a zatim odleteo i čekao da „surovi gospodar” odradi svoje.

A onda bi došao da se gosti i sakupi sve blago koje se moglo sakupiti.
Vreme je bilo na njegovoj strani; zmajevi su živeli vekovima, a ako bi osetili pretnju, povukli bi se u svoja udaljena skrovišta da kuju užasne planove, koji bi sezali generacijama u budućnost.
Ali su takođe bili i beskonačno sujetni. Trik je bio namamiti ih u lažnu bezbednost, a zatim udariti hitro i jako, naizgled slabašnom silom. Zver crvenih krljušti spuštala se polako, a zatim razjapila vilicu, oslobađajući užasavajući krik i bujicu crvenog plamena.

Zadaran Neprikosnoveni (u stvarnosti zvan Gaston), zamahnu svojim širokim rukavom boje sumraka. Duvači, sakriveni po kamenim ćoškovim. gradića, odgovoriše krešendom. Plamen uminu, netragom progutan vazduhom.

Još jedan pokret, još jedan krešendo, ovoga puta ispraćen citolama. Vazduh nestade ispod prostranih krila i zmaj bi prinuđen da sleti na neveliki trg okružen visokim kamenim zgradama, gde nije imao ni jednu prednost svoje veličine i forme.

Zver je sada videla svoje protivnike, ali je ocenila šanse za pobedu samo po njihovom broju, baš kao što sam planirao. Vatrena bujica suknu još jednom iz zmajevih ralja. Helerion istupi napred, blokirajući štitom vatrenu bujicu. Lavlja glava na zlatnoj podlozi se probudi iz svog metalnog sna, pa usisa vatru, a zatim je ispljunu nazad. Plamen, dovoljno vreo da topi čelične grede, nije, naravno, povredio svog gospodara, ali ga je naterao da podigne vrat u iznenađenju. Muzika se pojača, za dve oktave više. Vargamart (Vrabomir) iskoristi tu šansu da lansira džinovsku strelu u izloženu slabu tačku. Vrh strele sjajio se plavičastim plamenom, osnažen solo-nastupom pikola iza ugla, koji mu je davao moć da prođe kroz inače neprobojni oklop od čarobnih krljušti. Ranjena zver riknu. Crveni plamičci pokuljaše sa oboda rane.

Zmaj refleksno šibnu repom, ali živi lav sa štita zagrize njegov vrh zlatnom gubicom, dajući Helerionu šansu da ga odseče jednim zamahom mača. Zver je sada bila zbunjena i u panici; moj orkestar je, sa druge strane, bio u punoj snazi. Svi muzičari su davali sve od sebe, uloživši dušu i telo u magične note: obrazi duvača bili su crvene kese, udaračima su ruke bile zavežljaji kvrgavih mišića, sa prstiju svirača žičanih instrumenata grimizna krv kapala je na kameno tlo.

Bantos (koji se stvarno zvao Bantos) iskoristi priliku pa pojuri napred, a zatim skoči, zamahnuvši u letu čekićem težim od njega samog. Svi zapevasmo u glas, tvoreći jedan grleni vokal: ,,Ooo!”

Začu se udar velikog bubnja. Teška metalna glava slete na tešku koščatu glavu, lomeći sitnije rogove i obarajući lice iskonskog užasa gotovo do zemlje. Zmaj skoči ošamućeno, zamlatara krilima i otisnu se panično u vazduh. Bežao je osramoćeno, zbunjen neočekivanim otporom i bolom kakav nije osetio stolećima. Tamnocrvena, gotovo crna krv slivala je mu se niz bradu i kapala na prazne pločnike.

Zadaran Neprikosnoveni ponovi svoj trik, uz asistenciju moje trube, i krila izdaše zver u povlačenju. Vargamart nategnu čeličnu nit, nišaneći dobro i dugo; zanosno cviljenje violina davalo mu je dodatnu preciznost i moć. Zmaj se nalazio šezdesetak stopa iznad tla, kada mu je čelična šipka probila lobanju, ulazeći kroz teme i izlazeći kroz duplju levog oka.

Zver prestade da maše krilima i njena beživotna telesina obruši se na jednu od zgrada koje su okruživale trg. Krov popusti pod težinom, a zatim i pola zidina; oblak prašine proguta crveno truplo. Orkestar odsvira pobedonosno finale. Narod, sada bez straha, pojuri iz svojih skrovišta, da dodirne živa tela spasioca i mrtvo telo tiranina.

Gledao sam oblak prašine kako se diže iz ruševine. Primetio sam još nešto. Učinilo mi se kao ptica koja je naglo uzletela…  Obična kamena cigla, odbačena padom zveri, okrećući se letela je ka meni. Kada je bila nadomak mog lica, delovalo mi je da se kreće usporeno, kao kroz vodu…

Nisam osetio udar. Ni bol, koji je sigurno usledio. Čuo sam zvuk i pao sam na zadnjicu. Ubrzo sam izgubio sav osećaj iz leve ruke, a onda iz cele leve polovine tela; truba mi je ispala iz mlitave šake. Sve oko mene je prekrila ružičasta koprena. Najednom mi je bilo hladno.

Znao sam tačno šta sve to znači, ali nisam paničio niti sam osećao bilo kakvu nelagodu. Smrt mi je uvek bila za petama. Nisam očekivao da će me sustići na ovako glup i bizaran način, ali nekako je morala doći. Pa dobro – sve bilo bolje od kopnenja u staračkoj postelji. Poslednjim ostacima svesti, video sam kako svi trče ka meni i kako ih moja mlada zamenica zaustavlja i vraća na svoje pozicije. Dobra stara Fersavisa. Dobro sam je naučio.

Svet je crvena rupa na mračnom platnu, ili grlo trube – kroz njega gledam flautiste kako sviraju pesmu epiloga, dok se građani gotovo tuku da ponude nagradu herojima (koji su pak samo jedva čekali da uđu u kola i skinu tešku opremu sa sebe). Bilko odbija srebro i zlato, insistirajući da su nam potrebne samo zalihe, ali novčići bivaju prosuti pred njim, sjajeći se u popodnevnom svetlu.

Umirem. Umirem, sa osmehom na licu. Jer znam da sam uradio sve kako treba. Pesma je napisana i u dobrim je rukama. Moja zamenica Fersavisa prošla je kroz svu obuku, kao i kroz nekoliko praktičnih demonstracija, i zna šta treba da uradi sa kojom pesmom i u kojoj situaciji. Ovaj sukob joj je bio vatreno krštenje, i iz njene vatre, moja pesma je preporođena.

Čuo sam jednom u nekoj krčmi da je neko rekao: ,,Dokle god je heroja, biće i pesme”. Ali zapravo… Zapravo, nije bio u pravu. Pesma je besmrtna: dokle god je nje, biće i heroja.

Objavljeno u časopisu Fantastični vodič 2 – Zov heroja https://fantasticnivodic.com/product/fantasticni-vodic-2-zov-heroja-grupa-autora-elektronsko-izdanje/

Inherited

„Is… Is that you, Michael? “

The sickly, shaky voice came from a pale husk of a man lying on a hospital bed in front of me. I haven’t even noticed how much weight he’d lost up until now, how old he’d gotten. It seemed like he’d aged overnight. But it wasn’t so. The cancer had been eating him from within for years now, insidiously, until one day there hadn’t been enough of him to stand upright. He just went on by his work, never once complaining about pain or anything else, until the moment he collapsed and had to be rushed to the hospital.

It was that voice that got to me. My father’s voice used to be like a force of nature. Whether he used it to sing or sway a potential customer, or for something less benign, such as cursing and shouting at me or mom, it had always been so powerful, so… indisputable.

Machines beeped and sighed, as to punctuate his feeble attempt of talking.

The man that came to Plano with only a shirt on his back and managed to build a small empire just by his sweat, blood, and tears, now laid on a hospital bed, pissing himself and not recognizing his own son. But maybe it was because the son was not worth recognizing.

“No, dad, it’s… It’s me, it’s Dave.”

“Oh… Where… Where is Michael?”

“He couldn’t come. He had something he had to do.”

Dad coughed weakly.

“Oh, of course. He has… He has a lot to think about. His projects and, the press… He’s doing a lot of important work, you know?”

“I know, dad,” I answered. But then, I couldn’t refrain myself and added. “He had more important things to do.”

It went on the same way the second time he had woken up after chemo. And the third… But after the fifth time, he stopped asking for Michael. I couldn’t help it. I gloated.

Michael called on FaceTime there and again, but most of the time it was when dad was out of it and couldn’t talk.

“How is he?” he inquired, with a worried look on his perfectly symmetrical face, framed by dark, conditioned locks.

“Come and see yourself” is what I wanted to say, but I stopped myself. It was not the time for being snide. No, I had to play my cards right.

“Bad. It’s… Pretty bad. He’s stable, but the state of him… It’s hard to watch. He’s lost weight, and hair, and.. The smell… It’s hard keeping your lunch down. It’s sad, really sad, I tell ya. It’s sad to remember him like this… What a man he was…”

I thought of everything I could to deter my older brother from coming. Since he had little will to come in the first place, it wasn’t a particularly hard task. The poor sap suspected nothing. So sure of the fact that his position of a sole heir was set in stone, he never even considered the implications of my role as a guardian-nurse. And I used every one of those moments to implant whispers of doubt into dad’s ears. Also, my role in his firm shifted from helper/desk clerk to an acting director; neither one of us were happy about it, but at least, dad was grateful. He loved his company more than me, anyway.

Eventually, the hospital bills began ramping up, and the economically sound solution was to move dad home. And that’s what I did. The kids were somewhat distraught at first, but, being children, they soon stopped thinking about it and went back to their Pokémons and school assignments. Manny was of huge help, a real Samaritan wife, changing his diapers and IV drips, feeding and bathing him. She never complained, not once. I knew why, but I never mentioned it. Dad needed all the saints he could get right now, even the false ones.

It was the one thing I had that Michael did not: a family. A home, Christian home, with a wife and two children. Dad always spoke highly about the sanctity of family, and how it was the single most important thing in any man’s life. When Michael broke one engagement after another, he always said: “It’s ok. He’s just looking for the right one. He’ll get married come springtime, mark my words!”. But springtimes and girlfriends came and went, and Michael still never married. My family didn’t matter as long as Mike’s was right around the corner, but now, suddenly, my family was all my dad had. And he quickly began to realize that. At the same time, I realized how big of a hypocritical sack of shit he was.

When he was of clear mind, my father spoke to me with genuine affection, for the first time in my (and his) life. He praised my life choices, my choice of wife (he finally forgave me for marrying a Mexican woman), saying that he was sorry about the way he always put me second, and that he was wrong for giving his all to Mike, when, in the end, he turned out to be so self-centered and uncaring. That was what he said when he was lucid. But he also spoke sometimes while feverish or under sedation. And then, he sang quite a different tune. Not knowing where or when he was, he laughed and cursed.
“Good boy, Michael, my son, good boy! Go and travel and fuck and drink champagne and eat caviar! Fly high, my boy, fly high! Oh, how I wish I did the same, instead of marrying that horse-faced bitch who shat out nothing by ball and chain from her cunt! Oh, what could I’ve done, if only I didn’t marry! Instead of living the high-life, I have to spend every day watching my younger waste away into mediocracy, soiling my genes with a… wetback wife!”

Since then, I no longer looked up to my father. Since then, I shifted all the enmity I had for my brother towards him, adding more on top. Since then, I started openly hating him. And my resolve for what I’ve planned to do only hardened.

The smell of death and sickness soon started spreading through the house, going through the wooden pores, replacing all others. It reminded me of something from my childhood, back from when we still lived in the outskirts of the town. I had a memory, a vague one, from when I couldn’t have been more than four years old, of dad coming home with a run-down hearse in tow.
“It was just lying there, by the road! There are some good parts in there! And I did the city a favor by getting rid of it!”
It was the beginning of his new business, one that eventually made him, and by proxy, us, relatively well-off. Soon, more wrecks came to join the first one. Dad stripped them for parts which he sold first from under his trench-coat and through anonymous ads, then on the internet, and lastly from his own local store. The skeleton of that hearse lay in our yard for years on, gradually disappearing, one metal bone after another. By the time we moved, it was all gone. But I could never forget the way it smelled, or radiated perhaps. I didn’t even know what a hearse was back then, nor what death was exactly, but I knew that there was something wrong about that car.

But that was an old, half-forgotten memory. The smell in the house reminded me more of another affair, one much more recent and pressing. The damned, and I mean damned, in literal way, Malaby extension.

When my father’s business started picking up, some five or six years ago, he began thinking that one little store in the suburbs wasn’t enough, and that he needed to start thinking big. He invested all of his saving into prime real-estate, a spacious site in a popular zone, right on the corner of Capital Avenue, where he planned to open a brand-new fancy car-part dealership. He was so much into the whole idea we hardly even saw him those days. When we finally did see him, he said that the business is currently on hold, as he had to sign some contracts and get some permissions from the city council, but that it will be ready for a grand-opening any day now. I actually bought a bottle of expensive champagne and put it on ice that afternoon.

But the contracts and permissions didn’t go through. It wasn’t a big deal, as his old shop was still making money, but it seemed that every month there was something new in the way which prevented the opening of his new store. Eventually, he decided that the whole project had to go on hold, and that the best way to use the newly bought property was as a storage room for all the old and new wares that had piled up over the years.

That’s when the nightmare began. And that’s when he got sick, as we later found out.

It started as a phone call on a slow afternoon. Someone noticed that the lock on the shutter of the new store was broken, and somehow found out that dad was the owner.

“God-damn piece-of-shit town… Come here boy, you need to drive me, my pickup’s in the shop.”

And, true enough, the lock was broken, obviously forced; the shutters themselves were lifted about two feet from the ground. Something tickled my nostrils, a sickly-sweet smell of rot. If it hadn’t been broad daylight on a relatively busy junction, I mightn’t had dared go in. But my dad was unshrinking, his rage carried him forward with a fiery step. He lifted the shutters.
The stench drove over us like a steamroller of death.

“Oh, what the fuck…” he mumbled, lifting the back of his hand to his nose. But he still proceeded in. I had no choice but to follow.

We quickly realized that there were several people occupying the premises. Men and women, of different age and skin color lay, sat, or leaned against the walls and boxes. One thing that they had in common was the lack of personal hygiene: the whole place stunk to high heaven. The floor was also packed: sleeping bags, plastic bags, duffel bags. Assorted garbage. Needles. Feces. But it didn’t seem that anything was missing, though; all the boxes were still neatly packed, with the plastic sheets still over them, collecting dust and greasy fingerprints.

“Who… Who are you people? What the hell are you doing in my store? Get the fuck outta here, you bums! You losers! Git!” My dad raged.

Some of them began waddling out, without saying a word. But some of them, mostly the ones on the ground, didn’t move. My dad kicked the nearest bundle savagely. There was no reaction. It was like kicking a bag of sand.

“Don’t you hear me, you junkie fuck? I said, get up!”

“Dad,” I said, “I think this guy’s dead.”

Afterwards, we called the police. There were four deceased on the property altogether; the living had dispersed before the boys in blue arrived. The detective assigned to the case wanted to know who these people were, and what they were doing here, but dad outshouted him, threatening to sue the city officials for incompetence, as well as at least ten other things. When he asked them about what they were planning to do to prevent such things from repeating, a black, uniformed officer said: “Man, just get a better lock.”

And that’s what we did.

The autopsy showed that all four of the people had died from, to say simply, natural causes: one overdose, one cardiac arrest, and two from previously sustained injuries. One of them, a middle-aged man, had half of steering wheel lodged in his chest. How he even managed to get to dad’s store was a mystery. Anyway, since there was no evidence of any crime, and none of the people were any way connected to our family (all of them were vagrants from different States, it appeared), there was no investigation. At that time, we accepted this as a good thing.

About a week later, it all happened again. Everyone was pissed: dad, neighbors, the authorities… A new, even stronger lock was installed.

“You need a better security system”, said the same cop. I don’t even like to remember what dad answered him.

After the third time, dad installed an industrial strength lock; we found it cut by an industrial strength tool ten days later. Only two dead people were inside this time.

“Someone’s out to get me! This is a set up! Well, I won’t be bullied! They can suck on a lemon! I don’t have time to waste on this, I need four more contracts signed! Listen, Dave, if anyone calls again, just ignore them. I don’t want to know anything unless something gets stolen, do you hear me?”

After that, he left for Dallas and I haven’t seen him for months. The calls still came, their message the same. I gave it my best to ignore them.

Soon, the local news crews got a whiff of the story. The store place was nicknamed “Damnation domicile”, and for a while it was the talk of the town. Our family name got dragged through the media mud, and I even got approached by a Hollywood director who wanted to buy the rights to make a horror movie out of it. These days I didn’t dare turn on the TV for the fear of my kids hearing the gruesome news pertaining their family.

“Don’t you pay no mind,” dad said over the line. “When I’m finished with this, I’ll come pick up Michael. He’ll know how to deal with it. He’s smart, he’s got the know-how! Even more important, he’s connected!”

I knew exactly how Michael planned to deal with it: the same way I’d planned. The only difference was that Michael hoped to get his inheritance soon; he had expected that dad will get tired of the rat race and retire early, somewhere in Florida perhaps. I knew better, and I knew that no one will get any kind of inheritance before the old trooper was dead and buried. I just didn’t know how soon it would all happen.

I got a call one day, from a stranger, saying my dad was unwell. I didn’t take it seriously; I just thought that he had a sunstroke or low blood sugar or something like that. But the clinic was positive in its negativity: it was The Big C, no doubt about it. Spread its deadly tentacles all through the poor man. The doctor suggested chemo…

Since the time I’ve heard him say all those disgusting things about mom and us in his sleep, I started growing some nasty thoughts of my own. I wanted to punish him somehow. I started thinking about making the rest of his life even more miserable, and sometimes, when I got particularly angry, I fantasized about just smothering him with a pillow while he slept. It would be so easy, I thought, and no one would ever find out. They’d wheel him out, just like one of the corpses from his store. But I never got the chance to fulfil any of my malevolent fantasies. The old bastard died calmy in his sleep, head full of opioid dreams. Manny found him while doing her morning round. She just closed his eyes, climbed down the stairs, sighed, and said: “It is over. He is gone.”

Michael came by the first flight. He acted sad and distraught, tie hanging loose and hair in disarray, but I could see him checking the calendar on his phone and turning corners to make calls every chance he had. No one cared about his charade, no more than about dad’s death. As soon as he realized this, he dropped the act.

The funeral and all about it were a haze. Michael and me invited people, paid the bills, organized the catering, did everything to make it end faster. The only ones remotely shaken by it were Gloria and Jake, asking thousand questions about death in general, but as soon as we were finished lowering the casket, they sprang off to play hide and seek among the tombstones and the cypress bushes with the other children.

Then came the reading of the will. I wasn’t surprised by the outcome, but I have to say that I was mightily satisfied watching the expression on Michael’s face when he heard he didn’t get squat. The golden boy fumbled, argued and pleaded, sweat darkening the armpits of his silk shirt, but there was no error, clerical or otherwise: I was the sole heir to the whole of the Dorcel automobile part empire. Michael took the first plane back to Houston, never saying a word to me, or anyone else in the house; I suspected forever.

The inheritance wasn’t as substantial as one might have thought; or, it was, but it came bundled with a hefty debt, and those two mostly canceled each other out. There was the store, of course.

Ever since I remember, I adored my father. He was like God to me. No, he was greater than God, as he actually performed feats and miracles right before my eyes. As I was growing up, the only thing I ever wanted in my future was to be like him: commanding, charismatic, respected, able. I dreamed about inheriting the shop and taking over the business, perhaps even expanding one day. I imagined myself coming home from work and finding my dad, gray and frail, sitting on the porch and drinking a beer, and he’d say “Come, son, sit with me. Have a beer, and tell me about how the business is going.”

By the time I was a teenager I knew that none of that was going to come through, ever. Michael was going to be the one to inherit all, he was the one who would sit by dad’s side and get all the praise while I slaved in the background, trying to make myself invisible, like Manny would on her job as a maid to some other rich asshole. And when he got sick, a plan sprouted in my head, an idea that I could turn him, by kindness and, if needed, trickery. I’d get him to love and respect me for looking after him, while making Michael look like a jerk in process (which wouldn’t be as difficult as he was a real jerk). And it worked. But, after all I’ve heard him say, after I found out what kind of a man he really was, I decided that I didn’t want it, any of it. To hell with the store and the family business. I would sell it all and get another job, one where I would never ever have to work with cars or car parts again.

I took the first offer on the store, covered all the deficits, and bought a red Corvette from the change.

“Fuck it”, I thought. “I deserve this.”

Anyway, the main part of the heritage was still untapped, and it’s where the real big money lay.

Michael actually called me one more time.

“C’mon bro, I mean, you aren’t gonna let me hanging dry here? Who cares what he wrote in the will, the guy was a fucking Scrooge McDuck, and he was out of his mind last couple of months. Hey, I’m your brother! C’mon, I’ll help you with the Malaby estate. It’s worth more than you know, it just has to be taken cared of properly. I’ll sell it for a fortune, and then you can get thirty percen…”

I hung up on him. It felt so good. That was the last time we spoke.

But he was right about one thing: the Malaby property and all the problems surrounding it would need to be taken cared of perfectly. No hasty reactions, no cut corners. Everything had to be done by the book.

I left for the site one bright morning, followed by a couple of Manny’s cousins, a cleaning crew, and two moving trucks. I notified the police, local hospital and the Plano TV station. All of them arrived before us. The guy I was going to sell the property to was there also, contract in one hand, pen in the other. He knew that it was going to be a shitshow and he wanted to make sure I would sell to him at the agreed, ridiculously low price, before someone would swoop in with a better offer. Unlike me, he had nothing to fear.

The show was a more spectacular version of the first time we found interlopers on the premise. Stench. Filth. Death. Disturbing even in broad daylight. Police cuffed and loaded all of the still walking ones into their truck and drove off; the ambulance did the same with the dead ones. I sold off all of the parts that lay boxed up (all still intact, surprisingly) at bulk price, and a man with a crew carried them off immediately. I picked up the rest, a couple of mostly old boxes and instructed my men to take them to my home a put them wherever there was place: garage, shed, basement… Then we scrubbed the place raw, with heavy-duty detergents, smelling of ammonia. And the hospital where dad was first admitted. Finally, I signed the contract.

“…the notorious ‘Damnation Domicile’, as it came to be known, is apparently no more. The son of the previous owner decided to clean up and sell the so-called cursed property, making this public area safe and attractive once again…”

I slammed the door of the rented van and drove off, leaving the Hispanic TV speaker to run her mouth. It didn’t matter anymore. The nightmare was over.

Or so I thought.

The horror continued about a week afterwards. I was pulling into my yard, returning from my new workplace, when the local busybody stuck her bespectacled face into my windshield.

“Mister Dorcel, we have a nice, safe neighborhood here, a family-friendly area, where children can play in the street, without fear…”

I rolled down my window.

“Is there something I can help you with, missis Lang?”

“Well I… I do not approve of… this kind of business you are running. And I will not ask of you to… stop it, as I don’t want to get involved in any cartel business, but I just have to ask you, as a fellow parent, if you could conduct this operation… elsewhere.”

“What in the hell are you babbling about, Mary Lue? Cartel?? What… operation?”

“I just don’t feel safe with all these men coming ‘round here, that’s all! We all know what those people are capable of! Desperate, and, in pain… I don’t feel safe, not for me, not for my daughter…”

“Mary Lue, your daughter is twenty-six and she lives in Chicago. As for that other business, I really don’t know what to make of it. I don’t understand one word you’ve said. Now, if you please would move away from my vehicle, I need to park.”

Three days passed quietly.

“Querido, there is a man in our yard,” said Manny, peering through the curtains into the dusky outside. “I think he’s looking for you.”

I stood up with a groan, leaving a half-empty beer bottle on the coffee table to refract the light of the TV screen.

I gaggled to the front door and stepped outside into the cooked air.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

The man didn’t answer. He stood in the shadows, gaze pointed towards the wall.

“Hey, pardner, I asked, what can I do you for? You here for the pumps? You gotta come to the office, amigo, during business hours. There’s nothing I can help you with now.”

The man didn’t say a word. He moved, slightly, and let out something like a low moan.

I remembered the incident with missis Lang from before. Suddenly, blood started boiling in my veins. I jumped and grabbed the man by his collar.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? What are you doing here, huh? Get out of here, you bum! You junkie!”

I pushed the man out of the gate and sent him going with a well-placed kick in the behind. I locked the gate after and paced angrily back inside.

“Who was that, querido?”

“No one, dear, just (some bum)… someone who got the wrong address.” I answered, taking a swig of now lukewarm beer.

I was seething. Thought buzzed through my head, wrecking my beer buzz. Was my dad really involved in some cartel business? I wouldn’t put it past him. Still, I didn’t really buy it. And then, there was the… But no. That story was finished. No. The store was sold. I had nothing to do with it.

It was all just a coincidence. It had to be. After all, the States were crawling with beggars, junkies and immigrants nowadays.

Next morning, I installed new locks on the front gate and the front door, as well as an alarm system with a motion sensor. All expensive, top of the line products. No cutting corners, no saving pennies. I was gladly paying extra because the mere thought of doing my best helped me relax; the commodity of a good night sleep was certainly worth it.

Next night, I woke up to a blood-curdling scream. The alarm was also on, blaring in the night, but the previous sound was far more urgent. It was Gloria. I ran like a madman through the hallway and down the stairs, ignoring my bewildered spouse, not even bothering to turn on the light. Arriving at the ground floor landing, I bumped into someone in the darkness. There was a moist splatting sound, like a slab of meat hitting the butcher’s counter. I grabbed this person’s head, mad with anger, wanting to smash it against the wall. The fingers of my left hand felt a wet, jagged bone, and a hollow, where one shouldn’t be. I felt my hair turning white. Another scream tore through the house. I pushed the man aside and continued running until I arrived to her room, almost tripping over a body on the floor.

Gloria sat on her bed, knees curled up and with her back against the wall. She had a blanket lifted over her nose, as the thin fabric would protect her from the unknown assailants. Beside the person on the stairs and the one laying on the floor, there were three more in the spacious children’s bedroom. An old man, a gaunt young woman, and a little boy with a huge scar sprawling diagonally across his whole face. They all looked ghastly in the pale green glow of the night-light. I started shoving them away from my girl, roughly, beastly even, spitting obscenities through my gnashing teeth.

“What the fuck do you want, you fuckers? You motherfucking… coward… shit-eating… scum…”

But as eerily as they looked, they were no assailants. All three of them just stood there, looking more lost than threatening. A draft from an open window somewhere in the house rustled the fluff on the crown of the boy’s head, revealing that the scar went all the way around it. And then there was the smell. That same old smell that lingered in my childhood memories, made recent again in my father’s store and around his deathbed.

“What… do you want?” I asked again, this time without anger. I felt tired, broken, and, strangely, sympathetic and genuinely curious.

All three of them lifted their fingers and pointed towards the dresser. I followed their gaze, looking first at the mirror, then at the framed photograph of mom and dad hugging Michael and me in front of our old house.

“What do you want? I don’t understand… I don’t live there anymore, I hadn’t for a long time… And the old man is dead! If he wronged you somehow, there’s nothing you can do more. He’s dead! He’s gone…”

I looked again in the direction they were pointing. And I saw something else. An ancient, gunsight-shaped hood ornament, scrubbed free of rust, polished and re-chromed. I recognized it immediately.

“Is this…? Are you looking… for the hearse? Your hearse?”

The apparitions didn’t move, nor did they make any kind of sign, but I felt the affirmation emanating from their visage.

“But it’s gone! Long gone! Scrapped for parts and sold! The rest is rust! If there is anything left of it, it’s…”

And then it hit me.

Manny and Jake were standing in the hallway in front of the room, trembling, mad with fear. I put my hand around Gloria and led her to her mother and brother, and instructed them to take a cab to somewhere safe. I finally knew what to do to end this.

There were boxes in Gloria’s room. Ancient boxes, from the time dad first moved the junk from his scattered stashes into the Malaby locale. And somewhere in them were parts of his very first score, the one that kickstarted his legacy.

“But it’s not all there.” I said to the dead. “There may be some parts of it there, but a lot of it is gone for good.”

I got no reply apart from the cold stares. A lot of you is gone for good too, I thought.

An idea rose in my head. Actually, two of them. One mostly philosophical, about how it was all connected: the old hearse, dad’s hidden rot, his legacy, the corruption he implanted into Michael and me… It all needed to be rejected and purged. Thoroughly.

I tuned off the alarm. Then, I pulled out my cellphone and rang my wife’s cousin.

“Guillermo, hi, ola… Yes, I know it’s late… It’s urgent… No, yes… No, it’s not ok…. They are fine and safe… I need you to do something for me, I need you to find some men… We need to put together an old car… No, not in a week, right now… I know… I know… Well, make it possible… I’ll pay you… As much as you ask… I know this is not normal… Guillermo, it’s very fucked up, it’s… brujeria mala or something… It’s very important…. Thank you…”

One long and confusing phone call later, I took a beer from the fridge and sat on the stairs outside the front door. The dead were still in Gloria’s room, rustling softly. I tried to ignore their existence, drinking deeply to cool myself from the hot, clammy air.

About an hour later, a pick-up pulled up my drive-way, spilling a gang of tough looking Mexicans, bulging with tattooed muscles. All that bravado disappeared the moment I showed them my daughter’s room.

“Dios mio…”

“I need that hearse done now. I don’t care how you do it. I’ve got a lot of parts here, these you have to use. I’ve got some more in the garage, and I can get you the rest if you tell me what you need. It’s a Mercedes Benz W123, pretty common, shouldn’t be too hard to put together.”

Twelve men worked like demons, sweating and straining in the warm night. They started by finding a similar hearse, and then they began changing parts, fixing, tweaking. It was still night when the deceased decided that it was finished. One by one, they started shambling out. The old man, the overdosed woman, the stitched-up boy, the man with spilt brains… Even the one from the floor got up.

One of the men threw up upon seeing the remains of his visage.

Suddenly, a thick fog materialized out of nowhere, engulfing the whole yard. Guillermo and his men began panicking and mumbling in Spanish, equal part swearing and praying. The fog was made both of condensation and mind-noise, it seemed, and I soon started feeling like I drank ten beers instead of one. My thoughts were slipping, becoming as dreams. Through all of it, I heard opening of doors and sounds of engine. I don’t know how long it all went on, but, when I came to, there were no walking corpses anywhere in the vicinity. The hearse was gone, too, like it was never there.

The tanned man in a red oil-stained tank-top stumbled towards me.

“Hombre, what… I don’t know…”

I put my hand on his shoulder.

“It’s over. It’s all over. Whatever the fuck it was. I’ll never forget you this, Guillermo. Never.”

My mind was racing. I was anxious to go, right now. I reached for my pocked, pulled out my credit card and slipped it into Guillermo’s sweaty palm.

“Here, take as much as you want. My PIN number is 2234. Treat the boys, buy them some stake. This money needs to be spent in good spirit. Take all the rest of the parts you find in the house. All the boxes we took from the Malaby place. And dump ‘em.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, seeing me walking towards my car.

I held my phone by my ear, fumbling with the key stuck in my pocket.

“I need to find my wife and children. I need to find them…” I said with a broken voice, swallowing hard and failing to suppress the emerging tears. “And I need to hug them.”

Objavljeno na sajtu/podcastu “Kaidankai Ghost & Supernatural Stories” https://www.kaidankaistories.com/june-2022/inherited-by-nenad-pavlovic