voidsequence

[voidsequence]

Sequence: Commencement - Part 3

By Phil Alighieri

Part 3 - Commencement

“... and that was that, I went outside for some air and one of those bloody creatures started chasing me.” Michael pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket and started to mess with the packaging. Father Grayson sipped his tea and gave Michael a look of mild disappointment.  Michael looked around the tired kitchen and dragged the packet off the table and back into his pocket.

“I’ve alerted the Choir Vigilant, they are sending a team to pick you up.” Grayson dropped a cheap cell phone on the tattered formica table and resumed drinking his milky tea. “I’d tell you’ll be fine, but instead i’ll pray for you Michael.” A silence fell over the room. Michael took a drink of tea and looked around the fluorescent bathed kitchen.

“So what’s your deal so? And the choir vigilant aren’t exactly the choir explain jack shit.” The young priest stood up and walked to the window. He watched the water run down the pane as the storm raged impotently outside.

“I’ll remind you Michael, you were the one that walked in here and told me stories of weird clock’s vigilant choirs. You had no idea if I knew anything and let me assure you, the overwhelming majority don’t.” Michael turned around to see the old man’s composure crack, as if he had suddenly aged a decade full of regret.”I don’t envy you Michael, I barely survived my own time as an observer, I didn’t need to see another sequence, I wasn’t supposed to live long enough to see another one, no one is.”

Michael took a deep breath, “What the fuck did I get myself wrapped up in Ben? I just wanted to watch this thing for a bit and then go back to Galway, y’know?”

Grayson regained his composure and took another mouthful of tea. He let the question hang in the air for a second, avoiding eye contact with Irishman before there was knock on the door. Grayson stood up and took a coat of a nearby coat hook and opened the door into the courtyard at the back of the church. Michael learned forward and caught a glimpse of a heavily armed man standing at the door having a heated debate with the Priest. After a minute Grayson walked back into the kitchen closely followed by the guard. “It’s time Michael, I have decided to accompany you back to the cloister, you’ll need to learn and quickly, and i’m…” Grayson stumbled his words briefly. “... the best hope you have. The only hope you have.”

Michael put down his cup and slid the battered congregational bible off the edge of the table. He made a show of feeling the weight of it before holding it to his chest and crossing his arms across it. He looked at the plain white ceiling for a second before looking back at Grayson.

“Better get going then.” He said.

[voidsequence]

Sequence: Commencement - Part 2

By: Phil Alighieri

Part 2 - 12 hours earlier, when life was still good

It was mid-morning in a lifeless beige room in the middle of a complex of buildings hidden in a old non-descript woodland.

“Father Flaherty! If you light another one of those blasted cancer sticks I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Bishop O’Rouke, If I have to spend another 5 hours in here without a smoke, I won’t be responsible for mine.”

The two catholic priests sat in in a row of 4 occupied cheap battered chairs in a dilapidated waiting room. The bishop, in full regalia, stared down the younger priest.  

“You’re a bastard Michael Flaherty”

The younger man took a drag on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. “I just punched a fellah you know? You must’ve shit on the holy father’s roses to get this gig.” Flaherty took another drag on his cigarette and chuckled.

“Why don’t you just shut up and do your job.” Snarled the old man.

The two of them turned back to look at the clock. They sat in silence for another couple of minutes in the now perfectly silent wood panelled room.

“It’s not much of a job is it?” Said Flaherty before taking another drag on his cigarette.

“You could use the time, like me, to consider the larger things in life” spoke the Imam on the end without looking around.

“The heathen has a point” said O’Rouke.

“Ay! What is with you! Always with the anger and frustration!” said the Rabbi sitting next to O’Rouke.

“I can’t argue with Imam Khan or Rabbi Aberman, I think we all agree you’re a bastard.”

“Just focus on the task in hand Flaherty, do your damn job!” Silence fell over the room again as the four men resumed their vigil of the silent, motionless clock at the end of the room. Flaherty watched the clock and fidgeted, while the three other men sat serenely watching. He looked around the room again for the hundredth time, checked his watch, and sniffed loudly.

Everyone jumped slightly as Iman Khan’s watched beeped softly. He got up, straightened out a prayer mat and kneeled down while O’Rouke looked disapprovingly. Khan’s quiet prayers breaking the thick impenetrable silence.

“So, seventy-nine years till this bloody thing ticks?” Flaherty asked. There was moment of awkward silence broken by loud sighing. “So like the pamphlet then? Fuck.” Michael wiped his mouth and looked at the static grandfather clock at the end of the room. “They could at least explain why the damn thing has 17 hours marked on it.” Khan finished his prayers and the room fell back into a heavy silence.

Tick.

Bishop O’Rouke stood up suddenly pulled his crosier across his chest and screamed incoherently, Khan started to mutter in an unfamiliar language, Flaherty shot a look at Rabbi Aberman who straightened his clothes and stood up.

“It’s okay! Calm down everybody! This is nothing! It could be decades before this thing makes another sound, no big thing.”

He put a hand on O’Rouke’s shoulder and the man regained something of his composure. The men sat down and suddenly the electricity started to fade out of the air. “These things are like clockwork! Very predictable! Probably won’t add a second for decades. No cause for alarm.”

Michael stood up and tried the door. “Still locked, shouldn’t someone come in the check this so.”

“Check what” Kahn asked, “The clock has no mechanism. What would they check?”

“The clue’s in the name you great idiot.” Offered O’Rouke.

“Fuck you, y’bastard. How’s that thing supposed to tick with no gears so?.”

“Gentlemen!” Insisted Aberman. “We must relax, we must stay calm. The choir vigilante are watching, we’re fine, we’ll get relieved very soon. Just relax.”

Michael got up and looked at the clock. It was styled as a grandfather clock, about five feet high, without the traditional glass front or pendulum. The gearless clock was as the name suggested, a clock without any discernible mechanism. It was made out of plain unfinished wood in a utilitarian style that purged all unnecessary decoration, save for a neat seventeen hour clock face printed in serifed lettering and a simple bolt holding the hands in place. He walked around the clock nervously.

Tock.

The door burst open and two Monks in brown robes rushed in, dropping to their knees chanting in front of the clock. A third man in buddhist robes walked in behind them and beheld the group.

“The sequence has started, you are to be the observers.” The man said quickly. O’Rouke buried his face in his hands and sobbed loudly. Michael met the Buddhist’s gaze for a few seconds and calmly lit a fresh cigarette.

“Ah Fuck.”

[voidsequence]

Sequence: Commencement - Part 1

By: Phil Alighieri

Part 1 - Hounds

The young priest ran down the alleyway through sewer steam and garbage, tripping every time he looked over his shoulder. He stumbled against a rough brick wall and braced himself while he took a deep ragged breath, all the time looking around for his pursuer. He stood and looked around cautiously, the quiet in the alleyway filling him with a sense of relief. Suddenly something wrenched his arm to the side, shredding the sleeve of his jacket; the priest yelled in terror and fled, unseen teeth snapping at his heels. He leapt a fence and ducked down a narrow passageway and burst into a brightly lit plaza.

He looked back at the passageway waiting for a glimpse of his attacker while he fought to grab his breath. “Keep your wits about you Micheal else you won’t live to see another dawn” The irishman said to himself. Michael took a couple of steps backwards without breaking his gaze on the alley before turning and walking towards the busy street, still bustling despite the late hour and the light rain, pulling his tattered jacket around himself as he walked away. The light drizzle sat on Michael, slowly soaking his clothes as he walked.

Fifteen minutes later Michael made his way through the churchyard of “Our Lady and Saviour”. The rain did little for the brick exterior of the church other than to make it see older than it was and to increase the staining where the gutters had failed. Michael pushed open the door and walked into the warm, dry interior of the church.

“We’re closing for the evening.” Said a voice near the altar, distracted by some trivial task.

“Father Grayson, I need help”  

An old man suddenly stood up, put down a tablet and walked down the rows of pews to the shaken man.

“Father Flaherty, what happened to you?”

“I don’t know if I have the words to describe it Ben.”

The Elderly father Grayson assisted the shaken man to a wooden bench at the front of the Church and helped him off with the shredded jacket. He held the fabric up to his face and sniffed it, receiving an odd look from Michael as reward. Grayson turned suddenly towards the door and squinted.

“How exactly did you defeat the Eindog that ripped up your sleeve Michael?” Grayson said, as he grabbed a congregational bible from the back of bench as he walked towards the large oak doors Michael had burst through moments before.

“A what? I didn’t Ben, damn thing nearly got me arm. What did you call…” A loud thump on the door cut him off mid-sentence. There a brief pause and then another loud thump. Grayson stopped walking between two red brick pillars; the space was quiet now except for heavy rain drumming against the windows. Michael stood up abruptly, “Grayson,” he hissed in a loud whisper, “Get back, that thing’ll tear you up so.” The old man stood staring at the door. There was was another thud, heavier this time, against the door. Suddenly the door burst wide, sending howling rain into the nave.

Grayson held the Bible up in front of him, “Out! You are barred from holy places and are not welcome here! Your kind are denied by the gods of this world! I drive you out as the blasphemy you are!” There was a sound like a high pitched dog yelping as the rain subsided slightly. Grayson stood, arm outstretched for a moment before letting the Bible fall to his side. He turned and pushed  the book into Michael’s chest. “Keep this with you at all times. It’s a figurative and literal weapon.” He turned and started to lock and bar the doors. Michael turned the book over in his hands.

“All the good stuff and thick enough to stop a bullet y’know” He waved the book at Grayson who eyed him unconvincingly.

“That doesn’t work as well as you’d think, I have the scars to prove it.” Grayson tapped a point to the left of his heart, he pointed to a non-descript door to the left of the Altar, “Let’s go to kitchen, you can tell me what happened over a nice cup of tea.”

Michael sighed, “Well It started shite, then I got locked in a room with that arse O’Rouke and things have gotten worse so far.” His gaze looked up from the bible he was holding to the large paw prints on the floor, larger than a man’s hand and arranged in groups of three.

“How about we start with the tea and work out from there, yes?” Grayson put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and turned the exhausted man away from the door.

“So it started about lunchtime.” Michael began as the two walked across the church.

[voidsequence]

Idle Bargins pt5

By Phil Alighieri

Falling to his knees crying as the figure turned towards him, smiling politely.

…

The third day continued the process of failure as disinterested acquaintances and dead phone numbers greeted John repeatedly. Solace came in the form of brief moments with Janet, rare moments of giggling and joy in the crushing defeat of the rest of his life. She talked of houses and grandkids, of trips to Europe and the major cities, he felt himself get caught for a second, before being dragged back to his morose task. Hours passed without a real connection to another human that wasn’t Janet, but even then John got more and more despondent as the hours dragged on. Eventually he stopped, leaned back in his chair and tore the notebook to pieces before smashing the phone on the coffee table.

John sat looking at the hourglass across the room, watching each grain of sand fall from the ever dwindling supply, ignoring the torn up address book and smashed phone on the table in front of him.

Janet walked out of the bathroom in a short purple dressing gown and gave John a big hug. “Y’all cheer up, we’ll be fine, whatever it is, it’ll be fine.” John hugged the woman’s arm as it wrapped around his chest. “You and me got a love like nothing else in the world.” Cold fear grabbed John’s heart. He stood up abruptly and looked at Janet. He only loved one person in the world, he had only ever loved one person in the world. He stepped backwards from Janet slowly, lower lip quivering, as she looked at him confused. Fighting back tears John walked to the dresser in the kitchen and retrieved his handgun, “Babe, I ah, owe a guy a bunch of money, and he’s real bad, I di’n’t want y’all involved but he’s gonna be come here in,” John looked at the clock, which had tocked it’s way to five to midnight, “a few minutes, I got take care of it, real mean guy you know.”

Janet stepped forward and kissed John. “You do what you gotta do babe, out to save the whole world.” She straightened the lapels of his shirt playfully. Suddenly there came three slow ominous knocks on the door. John took a heavy breath and walked out of the kitchen into the small hallway in front of the door and looked through the spyhole to see the blue-shirted Mr. Lice standing there.

“I’mma real sorry fellah,” John said quietly before stepping back and unloaded the handgun into door sending splinters of cheap wood everywhere. He booted the door open against the hinge, possessed of power he’d never felt before. He walked out to see the stricken Mr. Lice lying on the floor in a pool of thick black liquid. Elation washed over John who fist-pumped the air, just in time to see prone figure breathe deeply and jerk upright, coughing more black fluid onto the floor before falling backwards pathetically flailing and screaming perfectly silently, green-tinged black ichor running down his chin. A second later Ms. Gry ran from an impossible place to the left of John and dropped to cradle Mr. Lice’s head, as if comforting a small child. She turned and stared at John accusingly. “The deal’s off” John said abruptly, a confession that felt forced by the unblinking glare of his accuser. “I appreciate what y’all done, but I know what y’all want and I ain’t doin’ it.” He waved the empty pistol at the unwavering Ms. Gry. “I’m sorry about y’alls fellah, i’m sure he’ll be fine if’n y’all get him to a hospital.”

“He will be fine and will hopefully learn a valuable lesson in customer relations and appropriate professional demeanor” Said a calm voice to John’s right. John turned to see Mr. Vil, still wearing sunglasses, walking slowly towards him. He stepped back involuntarily and slammed bodily into the door frame. “We had a deal John, my employer hates when people renege on their side of a bargain. There was a contract, it was very simple.�� Mr. Vil produced a pair of brown leather gloves and started to put them on. “The death of a loved one for...” John cut him off abruptly.

“Your fellah here, y’all need to take him to a hospital, he might still make it if’n y’all...” John trailed off.

“He has had, and will again have, far worse before he is finished.” Mr. Vil finished pulling on the second glove and dropped his right arm to his side as a brutal foot long chisel shaped blade slid from his sleeve into his grasp. He continued to walk towards John silently, unwaveringly. John walked backwards as the creature advanced, still smiling politely. They walked through the damp damaged hallway into the kitchen. John waved the empty pistol at Mr. Vil impotently as he moved backwards into the kitchen dresser. Mr. Vil moved to a few inches from John’s face and then turned to walk into the sitting room. John smacked the dresser out of sheer frustration and found his hand sitting on the knob to a drawer, his gun drawer. John filling again with energy and hope, pulled the drawer open and grabbed a second clip. Mr. Vil walked to the frightened Janet cowering in the corner of the room and introduced himself before raising the murderous weapon high above his head.

The Magazine slammed into place as its predecessor fell free towards the ground. John was screaming incoherently as the firing pin sent a bullet roaring towards the target. A second followed nearly instantly tearing out of the muzzle as casings arched into the air.

John fired a third and fourth round, followed by as many as the gun held as quick as possible, his screaming was now joined by a woman’s scream, slightly muffled by the presence of an intruder standing over her, arm raised over his head to strike.

The last three rounds hit the figure in the back with no obvious effect. The screaming stopped.

The gun dropped to the floor at John’s side as he whimpered quietly at the blood splattered the full height of the wall, emotionally and physically too exhausted to do more than crawl across the room.

Falling to his knees crying as the figure turned towards him, smiling politely.

Mr. Vil stepped to one side to reveal the collapsed body of Janet slumped against the wall, blood trickling from a single bullet hole in her forehead. John barely had time to register this before the clock in the kitchen struck midnight, followed by the hourglass collapsing into dust.

“You. You bastard.” John said quietly, broken.   

“I am glad you decided to fulfill our deal John, my employer takes a dim view of breach of contract.”

Tears filled John’s eyes, he opened his mouth a few times to say something and found he could not. On his knees John sobbed openly and uncontrollably amidst the wreckage created by stray bullets.

“I will see myself out then.” Vil said politely. The unmarked Mr. Vil slid the bloodless weapon back into his sleeve and removed his gloves as he turned and left the room to John’s crying and recrimination. He walked through the kitchen, his feet crunching on shards of plastic and glass from the coffee maker and other small appliances John had hit in his volley of aimless bullets, into the parking lot and looked at the wounded Mr. Lice. “Your performance was good up to this final encounter, please do better in future.” Ms. Gry helped Mr. Lice to his feet, as he retched another mouthful of black ichor onto the floor. The figures walked off into the humid, fetid dark, as a police siren started to wail somewhere in the distance.

[voidsequence]

Idle Bargins pt4

By Phil Alighieri

The gun dropped to the floor at John’s side as he whimpered quietly at the blood splattered the full height of the wall, emotionally and physically too exhausted to do more than crawl across the room.

…

The next morning John woke up and was surprised to see Janet still naked in the bed. He got up feeling pleased with himself and walked into the kitchen. “You want coffee, baby?” he yelled over his shoulder. He looked up to find Ms. Gry sitting at the small formica table at the back of the kitchen. The coffee machine was gurgling as water boiled. John grabbed a towel and covered his genitals. “A little privacy, got a girl in the back and … I guess y’all know all about that.” Ms. Gry held up a paper, the signature on the bottom flared brightly for a second as it turned from blood red to ash black. John swallowed hard. “Yeah I know, I’ll figure it out, I’m good for it.” John paused for a second and looked around “Maybe, maybe you’d want my ol’ Mama’s bones? She was bitch, you’d love her.” Still smiling politely, Ms. Gry placed an hourglass on the table, already filling the bottom, before walking towards the door. “Thank y’all for the coffee, it’s not my usual.” Ms. Gry stopped, placed a bag of cheap store coffee on the counter and made a point of savagely throwing a bag of stale low grade hickory powder in the trash before walking to the entranceway. “Right, buy the good stuff right?” John walked to the end of the counter and looked towards the front door to find no-one there. He turned to look at the hourglass. “Oh I fucked up.” John shuddered.

“What’s that honey?” called Janet as she walked into the kitchen in a massive over-sized dressing gown. “Who y’all talking too?”

“Just m’self babe, thinkin’ we oughta dig through the rest of your apartment, maybe find some of your stuff.”

Janet dropped her robe,” Ah know, it’s like I don’t have a stitch to wear.” she walked over and sat naked on John’s lap and threw her arms around his neck. “Wanna take another shower, stud?” She bit him playfully on the jaw.

“Steady girl, I might sit a spell grab a bite to eat.” Janet withdrew slowly and walked slowly towards the bathroom.

“You’re lucky i’ll give y’all a second chance whenever you need it.” She winked at John and vanished into the bathroom. John caught himself smiling and poured himself a cup of coffee as he debated which relatives he could live without.

After breakfast the two lovers walked next door to the hollowed out cave of rubble that used to be Janet’s apartment. Janet, still clad in last night’s work uniform tried to get around the destroyed buick without much luck. John dragged a block and tackle out of his truck and dragged the ruined car screeching out of the building. As he did so, a small indian man walked out of the reception to inspect the mess in the daylight. John eyed the owner and manager with a sly eye. “Mr Patel! How are you?”

“I was fine till some idiot drove an idiot american car into my motel.” Patel eyed John with barely disguised contempt.

“We’ll figure it all out, ‘s nothin’ a little cash can’t solve, right? You and me been friends for far too long to be feudin’ “

Patel stared at John and started to laugh. “Friends? You? I live for the day you move out.” He waved at the wreckage, “ If I had to rely on you pay for this, I may as well burn the building down. Insurance covers this, you barely pay me rent.” The man turned and walked away, hands clasped behind his back.

“Shame, I’d’ve enjoyed shooting that son’ava bitch.” John said quietly under his breath. He turned back to Janet, who was excitedly waving a large makeup case at him.

He stepped over a wooden support and discarded plaster and looked at the case and shrugged. Janet punched him playfully in the chest, “It’s my makeup! It was just sitting on the Buick, must’ve gotten scooped up as the car wrecked.” Janet turned and picked up an armful of clothes, “These too, all my good clothes, it’s like all the wreckage angled right past it. Damn TV got it good though”.

“That’s okay babe, I have a big-ass T..” John trailed off for a second. “Big ass television and my own truck.” He looked around the car park to catch sight of Mr. Vil standing under a pine tree at the far end of the lot. Vil, smiling politely, nodded an acknowledgement and turned to walk away. John was staring in Vil’s direction as Janet stumbled through a small pile of curtains and plaster to unload an armful of clothes into John’s chest. John dutifully carried the pile of clothes back to his apartment.

The second day after the crash John woke, made coffee and grabbed a ratty looking notebook out of a dusty desk drawer in the bedroom. He settled on the new sofa from Janet’s apartment and started to dial the faded numbers on the yellowing paper. John quickly found himself mired in swamp of dead phone numbers. Janet went about her business re-arranging the furniture when John finally had someone pick up, a cousin by the name of Jimmy. He explained who he was and appealed to memories of nostalgia and camaraderie of years past. The man acknowledged John and promptly hung up.

“What’s wrong honey” Janet asked, crashing onto the sofa next to him.

“Just tryin’ to reach folks” He handed her the book. Janet turned the book over in her hands and threw it casually over her shoulder.

“Let’s road trip. Let’s just drop everything and leave, go find you relatives, it’ll be an adventure.” John smiled at Janet.

“Ain’t that simple.” He said.

“Sure it is.” She moved herself onto his lap, “we can do whatever we want babe, all we need is each other.”

John felt his heart in his chest. “Yeah, yeah we can, fuck this place, let’s grab lunch and figure this out, maybe head up to mississippi for the weekend.” Janet jumped and hugged him.

John took the love of his life to a Denny’s he liked nearby, and joked about the state of the restaurant. Halfway through giving his order, the tired, overworked waitress asked him what his other friend was drinking. John looked up from the Menu to see Mr. Lice sitting in the booth between Janet and the window. Janet startled and giggled a little. “Michael!” Said John, improvising as hard as he could. “He’s a magic... magician, does card tricks, fun guy.” He said to Janet. “I’m goin’ to need a minute, baby, business talk.”

“Sure honey, need some air anyway.” Janet got up and left the restaurant.

John turned to Mr. Lice. “I’m good for it, I got ya.” Mr. Lice slammed the half full hourglass onto the table. “I have a few leads, Imma clear this up, y’all be real happy with it, maybe four days?” John stared in silence at the pleasant smiling Lice. Mr. Lice slammed the Hourglass into the table again. John cleared his throat, “ I’m not balls deep in killable loved ones y’know, Maybe I can talk to your fellah, get an extension, I got a cousin in the next state over.” Mr. Lice shook his head. “Just fuck all y’all okay” John turned to look it the room. “Look i’m sorry...” he trailed off as he turned back towards the booth, now empty.

John swallowed hard “It’s all fine baby,” he took a deep breath and fixed a smile, “Pancakes?”

[voidsequence]

Idle Bargins pt3

By Phil Alighieri

The last three rounds hit the figure in the back with no obvious effect. The screaming stopped.

…

Mr. Lice stood at the edge of the L-shaped motel. It was raining heavily, as it was prone to do in the florida summer. He looked anxiously at his watch again, the second hand ticked heavily as the plan waited to be executed. The long hand reached 40 seconds past the 25th minute of the eleventh hour of the evening. Mr. Lice looked up and saw Mr. Vil standing under an overhang, Ms. Gry by his side drinking a cup of tea, on the opposite side of the U-shaped collection of buildings.

Lice took a slightly deeper breath and walked out into the rain, tucking the silver pocketwatch into his waistcoat. He walked through the tired cracked carpark to the entrance, where a mismatched tarmac entranceway peeled off the road into the motel. He walked over to the faded white line next to the stop sign and dropped to his knees in the road. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and said something silently under his breath. He opened his eyes as they rapidly transitioned from bloodshot to red before closing them again then pressing his palm hard against the road. The road glowed a faint lightning strike pattern for a second before Lice dropped to both hands and panted, winded from some unseen exertion. Finally he stood up and walked over to Ms. Gry and  Mr. Vil and bowed slightly. Ms Gry raised her teacup in salute and Mr Vil nodded his approval. The three of them walked out of sight.

Janet Dybowski raced down the road singing loudly to the radio, occasionally brushing a handful of red curls aside that had defiantly escaped a restaurant issue hairnet. She he hit the full power of a heavy rock chorus as she swung the battered black buick into the half-empty carpark of the rundown motel. Janet was screaming her way through the second run of the chorus as she tore through the stop sign at the entrance, she did not see the road glow red for a second but she did feel the front tire explode. A second later she felt the steel rim of the ruined tire bite into the floor, spinning the vehicle around and sending the injured car backwards toward room three. Janet pumped the brakes to no effect, as the rain washed away any traction with the road, leaving her yelling ineffectively at the steering wheel. The car hit the curb, jumped into the air and promptly slammed through the front of Janet’s room, reducing the door, hallway and bathroom to debris in seconds as the rear windscreen of the dying Buick exploded into the car’s cab.

Janet composed herself, caked in shock and plaster dust, as the car finally stopped. She staggered out of the partially pinned door and into the summer rain at five to midnight, stunned and aching from the impact. She looked of the Buick barely sticking out of the front of the room where all her worldly belongings used to be and mentally snapped, stepped forward and kicked the car. “This isnt happening” she chanted a couple of times. A second later the lock on John’s door started to turn. “And the fat fuck from next door is coming out, great, maybe him staring awkwardly at my tits will make this all better.” She kicked the Buick again.

Unseen Ms. Gry leaned in from an impossible place behind Janet and whispered silent things into her ear. Janet froze for a second, midway through an angry tirade and then grabbed her hair and fell backwards to sit on the ground crying.

John waddled out of his front door in jeans and a vest, handgun tucked into his belt to investigate the commotion. Across the lot Mr Vil stood rigidly, smiling politely in the dark, unobserved and dry under a large pine tree. He watched the frustrated crying of a twenty year old girl as she waved incoherently at the disaster scene behind her. He steepled his fingers as the motel manager appeared and started to yell, only to be cut off mid-sentence by John, obese defender of the distraught woman. The argument played out and the manager retreated, and John tried to comfort the crying woman. Mr. Vil looked at Mr. Lice who pointed insistently at John. Mr. Vil turned and watched Janet hug the disgusting hero of the hour, as John invited her back to his room. The girl nodded as a cheap church clock rang midnight in the distance. Mr Vil complimented his colleagues fine work and Mr. Lice and Ms. Gry accepted with a slight bow.

[voidsequence]

Idle Bargins pt2

By Phil Alighieri

John fired a third and fourth round, followed by as many as the gun held as quick as possible, his screaming was now joined by a woman’s scream, slightly muffled by the presence of an intruder standing over her, arm raised over his head to strike.

…

John walked into the windowless room with his hand on the gun at his belt, he enjoyed the solid feel of it as he walked amongst the heavy, mood lit furniture. Odd curios and strange artifacts surrounded him as he walked to a low, wide coffee table in the middle of the room. The figure strode past him in a motion that John found unnerving but that he couldn’t identify why. The figure proceeded to sit down at one side of the table and gestured to a seat at the other. John sat heavily in the wooden seat. “What the hell is your name anyway?” he asked suddenly. The figure, still with the same fixed polite smile, seemed to suddenly focus on John like he had just appeared in the room and continued to sit motionless and silent for a second. “Like Hank or Bob or Josh or.. I dunno, somethin’ foreign?” The air in the room felt cool as was promised, and John felt his irritation subside slightly.

“I believe strongly that formality should be maintained during business transactions, for that reason, you should call me Mr. Vil.” Mr. Vil snapped his fingers and a young pale woman leaned over John and placed a beer on the table in table in front of him. “This is my associate Ms. Gry, “ he snapped his fingers a second time, a pale young man walked in and handed Mr. Vil a small black notebook. “This is my associate Mr. Lice, be advised it is not spelt how it is pronounced.”

John laughed deeply, “Ville, Gry and Liss? So an Italian and two pollocks? And you don’t care about money? What are you? The budget catholic mafia?” The three figures stood staring at John silently, Mr. Lice adjusted his waist coat. After a while John stopped laughing and took a mouthful of beer, Mr. Vil waved Mr. Lice and Ms. Gry away, and started to read his notebook. Lice and Gry began cleaning and arranging the shelves around them.

“Let us review your collateral so far.” Mr. Vil, turned a page.

“I told you, I ain’t buyin’ nothin’ ” John took another mouthful of beer. “Imma drink this, enjoy your air and i’m outta here” John finished the sentence with a laugh.

Mr. Vil continued seemingly unphased, “Then please, consider this the obligatory sales pitch while you enjoy your free drink.”

“Ah, got ya! Time-share guy, well good luck to ya fellah.” Mr. Vil smiled politely and turned back to his book.

“Not a pious man, holding no faith, not learned or trained, not holding a wife or children or even significant animal stock, holds fear in his heart, burdened by a lack of imagination... That’s not much to work with I am afraid. So tell me, what would you give me for you heart’s desire?”

John slammed the empty beer glass on the table. He looked Mr. Vil up and down carefully, the immaculate brown business suit, the polite but not friendly smile, the perfect slicked back but slightly receding hair, the rigid almost unnatural demeanor, he leaned forward and glared at Mr. Vil with an air of thinly-veiled hostility. “What the hell you trying to pull here?”

“I am merely trying to make a mutually beneficial business transaction” Vil said calmly.

John drummed his fingers on the half-full glass. “I got shit y’know, good stuff, big ass TV, my own goddamn car.” John paused, rocking slightly with agitation, “I don’t need some glorified condo seller,” he gestured widely around him “in a fruity furniture store in a motel, tellin’ me m’ shit ain’t no good.”

“Holds fear in his heart” Mr. Vil trailed off. “I am concerned that perhaps I have used the wrong approach here, that perhaps I should be more blunt than I usually am.” Vil turned a couple of pages in his book. “I represent a very important client and for, certain, unusual payments or services, we can make almost anything happen.” Vil closed the book. “Maybe you can even catch the eye of a particular woman who resides at this establishment who will not even give you the time of day.”  

John found his mind wondering to Janet who lived in the room next to his, who twenty three years old, pretty and broke, still had better things to do with her time than his bloated, repellent form.

John leaned back in his chair, “What’cha got?” He asked.

“Excellent, normally I would require a certain oath of fealty after death, but as your, shall we say, extended term prospects, are fairly bad,” Vil put the book down and steepled his fingers, “my employer might require more collateral to be provided by you.” John shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Mr. Lice handed Mr. Vil an archaic looking scroll. “To be blunt John, take that unused firearm you carry, that you have been too scared to ever draw in anger,” Vil unfurled the scroll, “and take the life of a loved one. One who is important to you and Janet Dybowski will be your devoted, infatuated lover.” Vil slid the contract into the middle of the table.

John looked a Mr. Vil slack jawed and incredulous. “You are godamn crazy!” He said.

“Then sign, you have enjoyed a fine beer and nothing more will come of it. If I am real… “ Vil leaned forward with steepled fingers, “Then everything you want is yours.”

John listened to the flat business-like tone of the man as Ms. Gry leaned in from his right and offered him a large feathered quill. “All y’all are crazy.  Fine, give me ‘nother beer and I’ll sign.” He snatched the quill off Ms. Gry who instantly produced a second beer. John snatched the beer and took a mouthful, he leaned in signed the paper. “Your pen ain’t workin’ “ he waved the pen at Mr. Vil.

“Press it into the tip of your middle finger on your left hand and then sign”

John pressed the pen into his finger and signed the contract in reddish brown ink.

“Excellent” Said Mr. Vil “at the stroke of midnight, Janet Dybowski will fall madly and deeply in love with you. Payment will be due before midnight three days from now.”

John stood up, “Y’all are crazy.” He picked up his beer and turned to Ms. Gry “I’m keepin your fancy glass too.” John waddled from the table and out the door.

Mr. Lice turned and shot Mr. Vil a quizzical look. “An easy contract for double the investment, and our employer requires volume, not quality, although quality is preferred.” Said Vil without turning to face Mr. Lice. “Besides, low hanging fruit is still fruit.”

[voidsequence]

Idle Bargins pt1

By Phil Alighieri

The Magazine slammed into place as its predecessor fell free towards the ground. John was screaming incoherently as the firing pin sent another bullet roaring towards the target. A second followed nearly instantly tearing out of the muzzle as casings arched into the air.

…

It was mid-morning in mid-florida, heat haze was rising from every surface in the car-park as John stood confused by the ice machine, holding a bucket in one hand. He scratched at the secondhand shirt on his chest and looked slack-jawed at the man in front of him.

“Whatcha y’all want again?” John asked.

The figure checked a gold pocket watch and folded it back into his sweatless brown suit. He looked at John with perfectly black sunglasses and paused for a second. “What will you give me for your heart’s desire?”

John scratched the seat of his ill-fitting sweaty pants and thought for a minute, pausing to watch the young woman in room three leave for her morning shift. “So you mean, like, if I wanted something and, offered y’all something for it, you’d sell it to me?”

The figure pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deliberate breath, but never once dropped his polite smile. “Yes, you pick the thing you want most in the world and I tell you what it would cost and if it’s possible for you to afford it, vetted of course, by my employer.”

The heat haze continued to rise in the stagnant humidity of the motel carpark. The weathered shabby white buildings losing their definition at range. The background noise of cars passing on the interstate behind them played tauntingly at the abandoned little town that was bypassed a lifetime ago by bigger and better things.

John’s second chin shook as he turned and forced the bucket he was holding into the ice machine. “You got a nice suit and all, but I ain’t interested in no layaway scheme, I got me a pile o’ debt as it is, I don’t need no more.” He watched the young woman drive past and went back to filling the bucket with steaming ice.

“I am offering something a little more substantial than refinancing, for instance, I could clear your debt and would require no money for our transaction.” The figure continued to stand bolt upright, steepling his finger as he spoke.

John pulled the bucket out of the machine, and lifted his shirt to show off a 9mm pistol. “Lived here long enough to know better, I don’t want your kind of offer.” He looked the man up and down, “You ain’t really my type.” John turned and started to walk away.

“Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. How about you step into my office and we discuss our transaction over a cold beer? You have a gun, what do you have to fear?”

John turned back to face the man and breathed heavily under the heat of the day, sweat running of the side of his face. “Got AC?” The figure returned a polite but slightly exaggerated nod. “And it works right? I already got m’a AC that don’t do jack.” John wiped his brow again. The figure stood rigidly waiting. “Okay, but no funny stuff, wouldn’t be the first guy that got it.” John said tapping his unused gun. The figure turned and walked behind the building. As John followed he found the man standing next to a standard motel door on the back of the building. The figure gestured for John to enter. John passed the man as he entered the room, “Funny, didn’t reckon there were any rooms back here.”

[voidsequence]

The Forbidden Room pt 2

By Damien Hastur

You visited me that night at the behest of my parents. I told you a contrived story about a rat which had frightened me, and you left satisfied that I would return to church and continue my studies with the other youths. However, when I returned, I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched in some fashion. Not by you, the matter was quite closed to you; and not by the other teenagers, they were gracious and patient with me. For four years I struggled being there, always avoiding the hallway with the forbidden room. As I matured, I began to feel that God had forsaken me, that my moment of youthful indiscretion had pushed me beyond the bounds of God’s ability to forgive. Irrational thoughts, but this was how I felt.

The last time I entered a church, I was beginning to feel comfortable with the feelings of being watched all the time. I had convinced myself that I had suffered some kind of targeted hysteria in that room years ago. I had decided that morning to walk down the hallway by the forbidden room, and in doing so prove to myself that I was rational, whole, and unafraid of my past.

After mass, I walked alone to the hallway and waited for several minutes. Fear of what I might find fused my feet to the floor and in the silence I fancied that I heard the soft laugh of a woman from somewhere behind me. Finally, I gathered my nerve and walked around the corner; I froze with fright. The door to the forbidden room was open, and I saw a hand grasping the frame. “It could be a youth”, I thought to myself in a panic; “exploring or fulfilling some dare posed upon her by another.”

I wanted to scream, but could not; for presently I saw the top of a blond head, hair held up with ivory combs. The head made me want to shriek, but it was not what made me unable to utter any noise save for a fearful whimper. Though the hand gripping the doorframe was at a normal height, the head was not; rather it was about four inches from the floor, and sideways. The horrid face turned to me, and the mouth opened, the eyes rolled back into that horrid visage of rage I had seen before. I felt I would die of fright right then and there unless I tore my eyes away from the hellish face. My salvation came when one of the sunday school teachers came around the corner and bumped into me. She apologized and kept walking, past the closed and locked door, free from any spectral women.

That was the last time I set foot in a church. The very next day I moved to the city, and tried very hard to forget my life up to that point.

I was quite happy for about three years. I found a job as an assistant librarian, and lived in a small studio on the sixth floor of a moderately nice building. I even had a young professor trying for my attentions. Then I began to see the ghostly woman again very infrequently and from a distance, so that I always attributed it to my imagination. I would glimpse a woman in victorian dress up ahead in the throngs of people walking the streets during the day. I would see the form of a woman at the end of a long, dark alleyway. However as time went on I began to see her more often for longer, and closer; but it happened so slowly that I barely noticed. It was not until last year that the sightings became unmistakable.

I was attending an opera with some friends. In the course of the performance I noticed her in one of the upper boxes standing in the back corner, her back turned to me. Her arms were bent as if holding her face in wracking sobs. I stared long enough that my friend jabbed me in the rib to get my attention back on the tenor, who was filling the hall with musical ecstasy. When next I looked up at the box, she had turned to face me. I could make out her unearthly grin from my seat below. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. She was still there. I thought I must have had too much wine, and tried my best to focus on the performers. During intermission I asked my friends if they could see anyone strange up in the box. They could not.

During the second act, she appeared not in the back corner of the box but in the front; standing directly in front of the people occupying the box. They made no sign that they saw her at all, which only caused me to have to fight the urge to flee the theatre. It was during an aria by the leading lady, a soprano, that I knew I was not simply seeing things. As the singer hit a brilliant high note, the ghostly woman pointed at me, her mouth open and screaming. The scream mixed with the singer’s note to make a horrid note of death. Her form assumed the horrid state she had been in when I fled from her the first time. I wanted to flee, wanted to call the ushers, wanted to die; but I had gained stubbornness over the years, and I sat the whole second half of the opera trying to avoid looking at her and trying to keep my fear to a mere annoyance. After the opera I saw her everyday, her mouth open and blackness pouring out. She would be across the street pointing at me, in a taxi, her eyes rolled back to show sickly white; in the second story window of a business, watching me. I perceived now that she was very slowly getting closer to me, and began to wonder with increasing worry what would happen if she caught me. I considered moving across the ocean, thinking perhaps it would take her decades to catch up to me there; but I dismissed the idea, feeling sure that she was not bound to the ordinary rules of distance and time.

I decided that perhaps I could fight her if I understood what and who she was. I spent months researching the paranormal, but I could not find anything close to what I was experiencing save for vague accounts from places like Japan, China, and Malaysia; accounts that spoke of what happened to a person who died in great anguish or anger. I began to believe that the emotions a person died with, colored their spirit. Very powerful emotions such as love, or anger, gave a spirit power to manifest in the real world, tainted for good or ill by the last experiences they had. I then began to study the history of our small town. Records were hard to come by even for the massive library I worked in, all I ever found were rumors and whispers from the 1830’s that the priest had broken his vows with a local woman named June. It was during this time that two things happened. First, I began to see the woman in the library; sometimes I would turn into an aisle between shelves and she would be at the end, no more than thirty yards from me. Second, my fellow librarians and friends began to ask me why I was acting peculiar, and why I was so stressed. I could not tell them the truth, they would not believe me. I had made the mistake of telling my professor friend about it; he stopped calling. I began to have a reputation for odd behavior.

It was true that I was acting oddly, I was beginning to feel frantic, and my panic began to take a toll on my health. It was my best friend who suggested I go see a doctor, after I refused to take an elevator because the ghostly woman was inside waiting for me. I could not really argue with her, my health was not great, and part of me was worried that I was imagining the whole thing: Why could no one else see the woman?

I told the doctor everything, and I was admitted to this hospital. At first I thought there would be a kind of refuge here, for if nothing else, the hospital was far out in the country. I took counsel with the doctors, and began to feel an ebbing away of my stress under their therapy sessions and medications, but this is in fact just a prison, and it will be my death.

She is here, in my cell. I can see her now standing in the corner. Her shoulders are shaking, but not with sobs; with laughter. There is a guard here, watching to make sure I do not plunge this pen into my own neck. He cannot see her, and when I ask him if he can see the woman in the corner he simply smiles patiently at me and asks me what her name is.

Tonight she will get me, I know. She gets closer every day. Yesterday she appeared in the night, her clawed finger just inches from my face, her mouth open and screaming.

Oh God, would that I had never been to church at all, for I fear my torment will be to be stuck here on earth, perhaps in this very room; that is what the asian myths say, when you come into contact with an angry spirit, you become one yourself. I shall have to wait for some poor youth to explore my cell, which will be declared forbidden by wiser adults. I will pursue her slowly, over decades, until I catch her and my soul is released to hell.

The guard just told me it was time for lights out. I hope he delivers this letter to you…Oh god. She is turning around. She is going to get me! Please help me in the name of the father, the son, the

Note: Letter recovered from crime scene, unclear why it was in possession of the victim, or how it relates to the incident: further investigation required.

[voidsequence]

The Forbidden Room

By Damien Hastur

17 October 1974

Father Jones,

I write this letter hoping it will function both as my last will and testament and my final confession. I write from a guarded and padded room in the Fairview State Mental Hospital. By the time you receive this letter, if you receive it at all, I will be dead by every scientific measure of the word. And yet I fear that there is no way to prevent what I think will happen. Oh God above, what torture will I… No, I must hope to the power of God and his redeeming forgiveness.

Let me be very clear. I am not mad. No mental illness afflicts me save for the mental stress of being thought mad by everyone around me. I declare this before God in heaven and his holy angels, I am not mad!

However there is a sin I must confess, for I am not imprisoned in this place for nothing. This sin has prevented me from taking communion, or even entering a church for more than twenty years.  My sin is this: I entered the Forbidden Room.

I was fourteen, and you were a brand new priest after Father Nuggen was called to be a Bishop. Some of the other youths and I were talking as teenagers do after we had helped clean the church. The adults were enjoying themselves in the kitchen. A dare was proposed that I did not have the courage to spend five minutes in the forbidden room, the room which Bishop Nuggen declared unsafe. He had told us the door led to the oldest part of the church and they were raising funds to have it repaired. The door was locked, but youths have a tendency to find ways around rules and simple locks.There were stories about that room told amongst us; stories both made up by us and heard from others. I observed adults avoiding the hallway where the room connected and speaking of it only in whispers. The stories said that long ago a crooked priest had summoned an ancient evil into that room, and anyone who enters is tainted by that evil. Others said that there was a vengeful spirit in the room, that if you chanted a particular phrase he would come and steal your soul. I can say confidently that the reality of that room is much more horrible than any of the stories we told one another.

My courage and honor called into question, I accepted the dare to spend five minutes in the accursed room. Let me stress, Father, that I know for a certainty that I was not the only one to enter that room secretly. It was common for those who wished to show they were brave to enter; and when a new child would move in, it was custom for them to prove themselves by entering the room. Unless I am truly mistaken and you receive letters of this nature frequently, none who entered the room experienced what I did.

One of the boys had learned to pick old locks, and used his skill to open the door for my entry. I felt confident that my bravery would not be called into question after this five minutes were up. I did not believe any of the stories people had whispered of the room, and I suspected it was simply an old dark room with an unsettling feel; as old dark rooms tend to have. I can remember the details of that day as if they had been recorded on film, for they have replayed in my memory and haunted my dreams every day and night. That room has dominated my life since that day, and if I felt confident death would be peaceful for me I would welcome it.

Upon my entry to the room, when the door had been shut heavily behind me with giggled whispers, I beheld an old, dusty, stone room. I suspected it was a living chamber once, however the only furniture in the room now was a chair in the center of the floor that was no doubt placed there for these “innocent” rituals we youth subjected upon one another. The room did make me uneasy. It was slightly colder than I expected. I also fancied that the light from the narrow slit windows did not penetrate the gloom as it should. I shrugged these first observations away and sat in the chair. The room was absolutely silent save for the soft tapping of my foot on the stone floor. The minutes passed by in eons, and my fear began to mount by tiny jumps so small I was unaware of them until I heard the weeping. It was soft at first, but as I tilted my head in careful listening, it became louder. I spun my head around, and beheld a woman standing in the corner, her back facing me, her shoulders bouncing with deep sobs. Her clothes were of the victorian era, her blonde hair piled high and held in place with fine ivory combs. Looking back I think she must have had some spell upon me, for finding a woman suddenly weeping in a dark, abandoned room in an old church should have sent me running for the door, but I felt nothing but an overwhelming sympathy for the woman. I approached, and as I did her sobbing stopped as if switched off. She swayed slightly as if to some tune, and then I heard a voice. The voice was soft and gentle; sad and pleading.

“Do you love me?” it said, and the woman began to turn. I found myself speechless, for she was very beautiful. Her small mouth  began to stretch into a smile, and my horror exploded when the smile stretched beyond the bounds of an earthly smile.

“Do you love me?” she asked again. I screamed then, because her mouth had not moved to allow the voice to pass, it was frozen in that rictus and hellish smile that has haunted my nightmares for twenty years.

As soon as I screamed, her terrible smile faded; But before I could recover from fright, her mouth opened to reveal a toothless black void. Her eyes rolled slowly up into her head as if she had passed out, and her skin became pale and sickly, with dark lines emanating from her eyes and mouth. Her clothes had changed as well, now an open death robe revealed her decaying body beneath. Bones protruded from skin that looked to have the consistency of velum. A scream like none I have ever heard pounded my mind like a hammer. Her white eyes bore down on me like the desert sun, and she pointed at me with a disfigured and clawed hand accusingly. I screamed and ran for the door, pounding with all my might. I looked over my shoulder for fear that she would be upon me, but she had not moved, screaming and pointing at me from the corner. From this angle I saw that the light from the window was blotted out. I could see nothing in the room save her.

Finally the door opened and I spilled out of the room, falling to my knees. The other youths laughed patiently at me, and asked if I was alright. I looked at them, looked over my shoulder, saw the woman still there screaming at me, and ran from the church.

To be continued…