ENTRY: An Urvite Transformation?

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This is incredible! An anonymous letter (as they always are) was waiting for me today when I returned from work. The text was very to the point:

"A photo of your predecessor."

Is it a warning or a threat? I have no way of knowing. It could also be a hoax. My theory--this is evidence of an Urvite transformation. No doubt this man is dead. If my sources are correct, he has certainly merged with architecture somewhere - most likely in Redwater, where Urvus activity is the most prominent. I will attempt to fill in the detail of this image to show you what I see, in case you do not see it. I doubt I will get much sleep tonight.

Update: My artistic interpretation of the photograph

Do you see it now? I apologize for the gore, but based on the descriptions of this terrible transformation, I'm actually being quite conservative.

SHORT STORY: Groundwork

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Peter Donald trudged his way through the rising rain puddles as they filled Bremson Street's legendary potholes. The Muppets still lingered in his head, endlessly serenading him with their nonsensical melody.

Manamana.

Once it resurfaced, there was no way to fight it back down.

Do do da do do. Manamana. Do do do do.

Dan Danvers, KFUG's "fugliest" DJ, had played the damn thing for the seven AM wake-up call every day for the past week and Peter kept forgetting to set the alarm slider to a different station. Peter wondered what had driven Dan to select such an infectious song to open his program, but he supposed it was the same malevolent imp that had infected his own life. The city’s population had never felt so tense, so eager to tear each other down at the slightest provocation. There was a subtle, yet tangible madness on the streets. Nobody smiled anymore. Every stranger seemed to be a potential threat or at least an irritation. Eyes went wide. Teeth were bared. Yet industry continued; in fact, labor had become a hopelessly thin barricade between normality and an inevitable riot. The citizens fought back the perpetual influx of bills with equally unending labor, but without significant result or reward. A great sinister energy boiled and would soon erupt.

Peter’s old friends barely recognized him anymore. He had always been the designated driver, the reliable chaperon, and sometimes even the “go-to” guy. He had tired of predictable suburbia and had uprooted his perfect, pleasant life. Six years ago, he had planted himself firmly into the aged core of sprawling Redwater. Now he was one of its toiling machines.

Manamana.

Peter wanted to blame someone for his unhappiness. Dan Danvers certainly came to mind this week. But he knew that wasn’t fair; he couldn't point a finger without a million fingers pointing right back. It was the city itself, or rather the people infesting it, Peter included.

Come on you bastard, bite me. Do it. I’ll grind your shaggy skull beneath my heel.

The Pomeranian gazed up at him, its tongue stupidly dancing upon the humid air. Despite Peter’s silent demands, it scuttled past him without incident, its elderly master in tow. Peter pushed his own tongue into the tender gum recess beneath one of his molars and winced. Great. More money for the dentist.

He pressed forward on strained muscles that fought against the invasive cling of once-fitting, now twice-too-small corduroys. Peter was late for work yet again. An extended series of infinitesimal catastrophes had delivered him just a moment too late to his bus stop. For twenty minutes he had fumed while impatiently waiting for the next germ-trolley to pick him up.

Christ, I actually pay two dollars to be sandwiched between sweaty men every morning.

The odor of the Redwater River, swollen with catfish, laid claim to the industrial district and its bustling textile factories. Each day, Peter was expected to traverse its stinking alleys and make his way toward Galvin and Sons, Inc., a clothing distributor that had never employed a Galvin. Mustafa and Sons just didn’t have the proper ring to it, Peter mused. His boss was the son of a son of the original Mustafa, but that didn’t make him any less irritating. Peter loathed his job, but he relied on it to fund his meager apartment. Despite his continuous internal bitching about the place and the pact he made with himself to eventually leave it, but he suspected he’d end up doing some worse kind of labor if he tried to change. The city had absorbed him into its ceaseless, pumping bloodstream. Good natured, hungry-for-love, sky’s-the-limit Peter had been tainted by prolonged exposure to it. Like most of his fellow workers, he existed without ambition, without inspiration, and, despite his daily transit dilemma, without human contact.

Manamana.

Peter heard the telltale double honks of a diesel from one of the enormous garages and dashed across the street before it could creep backwards over the sidewalk. He glanced behind him, hoping to make eye contact with the driver, eager to let him know how he felt about the existence of such boisterous vehicles with a mere look. Of course Peter would never actually say anything. He knew the Neanderthals were likely to gang up on him, their own infected moods at a head and ready to burst at the slightest agitation. His anger stung the back of his throat, lifted up on a wave of acidic reflux. Something wasn’t right.

Something solid scraped along the back of his teeth and he probed it with his tongue. A sharpened point met tender flesh and Peter winced, sucking in damp air. He spat the thing into a cupped hand.

“What the fuck?”

It was the head of a rusted nail. Not a full nail, just the rounded tip and a small protrusion of the shaft. The point of separation was sharp enough; the pool of spit in his palm had blood in it.

Peter scrambled to think of where he might have ingested the damn thing. It could make him rich! He’d heard about people suing over finding severed human digits in their meals, but this was worse. Hell, he might even have tetanus. There had to be extra money to be squeezed from tetanus. For a brief moment he panicked. What was tetanus anyway? He knew it could kill if it wasn’t treated, but he wasn’t the type to get shots. His brow creased again as he catalogued his recent meals.

He had a slice of fridge-chilled pizza for breakfast, thin crust and single topping. In fact, half of a topping was a more honest description. Surely he would have noticed the chunk of metal floating on its cheesy surface. Last night? The same deduction applied because it was the same pizza. Winding the hours back even further, he could count a half dozen cans of soda, but he would have heard the nail rattling around inside the aluminum shell. Lunch had been a roast beef sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard on a kaiser roll. Just thick enough, he thought, his inner voice doing its best pompous lawyer impersonation, just thick enough to deliver this potentially fatal foreign object into my unsuspecting body. As he considered the type of bite motion required to consume a roast beef sandwich on a kaiser roll, he inadvertently mimed the process. To a passerby on the sidewalk, it looked like a distorted yawn, but to Peter it was confirmation that he had probably swallowed a large portion of the sandwich, along with the Trojan nail.

This realization came as a bitter disappointment. The local deli was a ramshackle establishment that had been teetering precariously on the edge of bankruptcy for the last decade. A law suit filed against it would probably just put it out of its misery before Peter collected any money. A slight grin rode his sweat-spattered face as he determined that there was no way to prove the object’s origins. It could have come from any one of the products he had recently consumed, and even from products he hadn’t consumed. He’d pick a large company, like the soda manufacturers, to pay for his pain and his new house. Just the possibility of having tetanus, of imminent death, should be enough emotional stress for any jury. He felt his jaw begin to stiffen.

Only it’s real. My jaw really is stiffening. All of my muscles are getting tight.

Peter pushed himself harder, believing he could walk off whatever psychosomatic symptoms his mind had conjured. He swept past the same alley he’d seen thousands of times but had never entered even once, and then stopped abruptly several feet past it. He moved closer to the wall and traced a gap between the bricks with his index finger as he cautiously stalked his way back. He poked his head around the corner to try to make sense of the nonsense he’d just witnessed.

The usual oddities were there: hubcaps strewn about, a moldy couch long abandoned by its cushions, shattered windows, and the inevitable boxes of discarded materials from the factories on each side. The nook maintained a perpetual shade due to the height of its neighbors and the fact that opposite fence wore a thick coat of wind-tossed garbage. It was an ugly site, but it had never seemed particularly noteworthy, nor did it now. Its occupants, however, were strikingly out of place.

The first was a tall, emaciated man who slunk around the area, casting his hand toward the ground as though blessing it with holy water. He wore an immaculate suit and jacket, buttoned up to his gullet. A hideous checkered tie neatly hung from his collar. As if the man wasn’t already a disturbing contrast to his environment, Peter glimpsed his naked legs and quickly looked away.

Completely insane. He’s some crazy homeless bastard.

The man was wearing no pants to match his jacket, nor was he wearing any protection on his feet. Trails of blood ran along the treacherous floor of the alley, forming bizarre, geometrically absurd patterns.

The second man slumped into the couch as if dead, but Peter saw that his head was tracking his pantless companion’s movements. The seated man was wrapped in black plastic garbage bags except for his face which peeped through a roughly torn hole. His eyes were glossy and distant, as if he were drugged. A rope of spittle rappelled from his chin and streamed down into his lap. His gaze lazily drifted toward the voyeur and his eyes bulged.

“No! You can’t let them do this again! Run!” shouted the bag man. His voice was a strained wheeze.

The pantless man stopped as if frozen in time, completely unmoving. The bag man began to struggle beneath his artificial cocoon, but made no progress. “I said get the fuck out of here!”

Peter turned to flee, the excitement causing another burst of painful liquid to ascend his esophagus. It deposited a clump of solid objects into his mouth. He let out a pathetic yelp and vomitted onto the sidewalk, eyes wide.

“Oh god. Oh god. What is this?” he whimpered, staring at the spatter on the ground--wooden shards and plaster.

“Wait.” It was the pantless man.

Peter bolted.

“Wait, Peter Donald.” There was no urgency or hostility in the statement. It was the voice of a rational businessman, trained to announce promising quarterly results at afternoon financial meetings. “We’ve need of your services.”

Peter hesitated, but not enough to completely stop his motion. He slowed to a casual jog. He’d make his way to work, he was close now, and he’d have plenty of time to rationalize what he’d seen. He was terrified of the hospital, but he vowed if anything else passed through his system, he would take a cab there immediately.

Get to work, run the machines all day, and get home. Simple. I can do this. He knew my name. How the hell did he know my name? Doesn’t matter. Get to work.

Peter’s arm began to itch. He scratched violently but his skin protested by burning glorious red. But there was more to it that just the color and pain, the skin itself shifted, as if the muscle below moved in trembling, patterned waves. He pressed his fingers hard against the flesh, attempting to massage the phenomenon away like some furious charley-horse. The skin broke, revealing a shiny, pulsating black patch beneath. Plastic.

Peter made it back to the alley with startling speed. People on the sidewalk simply moved out of his path, most likely thinking him mad. Nobody seemed to notice the odd men.

“What are you doing to me?” questioned Peter. His antagonist stood exactly where he had been when Peter left. His eyes, and only his eyes, turned to greet Peter.

“Oh, I assure you, it’s not me.”

Peter noticed the man on the couch was now completely covered in the grotesque pupal restraint, the portion now covering his face inhaled into a macabre mask.

“You killed him!”

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea, Peter. Please, have a seat and we’ll talk.”

“Have a seat? You think I’m just going to sit there and let you murder me too? What is this? Poison? Drugs? Why me?”

“That certainly is a mess of questions. You’re sure you don’t want to have a seat while I answer them? It will be easier for you.” The pantless man had resumed his ungainly procession around the alley, continuing his seemingly pointless hand gestures toward the ground and renewing the drying blood lines with fresh color. He seemed completely unconcerned about an attack from Peter and even turned his back to him when the pattern demanded.

“I’ll call the police. Your blood is all over the place. They’ll have your DNA, they’ll take me to the hospital, and they’ll get this poison out of my system while they haul your ass to prison.”

“You think so?”

Peter had no response. In fact, he did not believe his own threats.

“Or do you think perhaps the police cannot see me . . . or our friend on the couch there? Could it be that you are having some sort of mental mishap and we aren’t really here at all?” The pantless man was smiling.

“No. You’re here. You’re here and you’re going to fix this.”

“You’re right. We’re real, more real than any of those people out there. We are this city, as are you. We’re just children being brought up in the image of our father.”

“What do you mean?”

“Name something positive about your life. Why do you exist? What do you contribute? Who do you love? Who loves you? Who even gives two shits about you?”

“My parents.”

“Your parents are dead.”

“How did you--“

”Your parents are dead, you’ve only had one girlfriend, when was it--back in the 90s, if I remember correctly. Laura. She barely remembers you. Your fellow employees avoid you. Why shouldn’t they? You hate yourself! One might say you’ve been poisoned for years.”

“How the f--“

”Don’t be stupid, Peter. The walls have ears. Let’s just say I’m a good listener.”

“Who are you?”

“Hmmm. Redwater will do.”

“Ok, Redwater. What do you want from me? I just want to get rid of this, please. I’ll do my good deeds, spread some karma. Joy to all and all that shit. Make something of my life. Go to church, even.”

Redwater stopped for a moment, a look of concentration on his face as if what he’d just heard was impossible to process. “Good deeds? You mistake me for someone else, my friend. You’ve done exactly what you were supposed to do. And you will make something of your life. That’s why you’re here! This is an exciting day for all of us. Urvus is very proud of you, you know?”

“Here’s what I think. You’ve drugged me somehow and I’m having an especially bad trip. Or maybe you’re some kind of street magician who is abusing cheap tricks. Hypnotism. That could be it. You’re putting things inside my head that aren’t real.” Peter realized he was waving his arm at Redwater violently and noticed the plastic had begun to snake out of the wound. It clutched the outer surface of his arm, spiraling over the contours of his muscles.

“Believe what you will, Peter, but the truth lies with our friend over there. Perhaps you should have a look?”

The thought repulsed Peter, but he saw no alternative. He had his doubts about the reality of the situation, but wasn’t going to gamble his life on it. Redwater obviously knew how to help him, and maybe Peter just needed to play along. Peter toyed with the idea of tackling the frail man. He could easily force him to the ground and there were plenty of makeshift weapons within reach. The possibility of Redwater refusing to cooperate or even fighting back headed off that line of thought. Peter was a coward at heart and like it or not, he’d do whatever Redwater wanted him to do to get his normality back. He approached the couch and noticed the man-shape beneath the synthetic sarcophagus was misshapen and angular.

“Go on, pull it off. Just standing there gawking at it will only make it harder for you. It’s not as horrible as you think.”

Peter steeled himself and then pulled the grimacing plastic from the man’s face. Beneath was a twisted collage of brick and wire. Peter spun around to face Redwater.

“No, it’s not a trick. That’s Horace Gordon, reborn.”

“Bullshit!”

“Peter, walk over to the wall there and tell me what you see.”

Peter obliged. He scanned along the ground for some trace of the man who had tried to warn him--Martin, but found nothing but debris.

“No, not there, look at the wall.”

“My God!” Peter saw several spots in the brick that contained human remains. A row of teeth protruded, proudly displaying silver fillings. A skeletal finger pointed toward nothing. Other traces of human bones bulged and retreated into the lopsided wall. “They bricked people into that wall!”

“There’s only one person in that wall. Mary Evers.”

“Mary ... Evers? This is Evers and Company, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is.”

“Why are you showing me this? This building has been around since the turn of the century. You’re not old enough to have--“

”She was a whore. Now she is ... historic. Every beautiful bit of architecture here has a name behind it. Each one a person refined by their loves, dreams, and vices and then restructured by Urvus.”

“Galvin and Sons?”

“The sons were even more despicable than their old man. Posthumously, they made one of the most successful businesses in this area, but you already knew that.”

The plastic parasite sprouting from Peter’s arm had enveloped the full extent of the limb and now coiled around his torso to pull his arm tight against his body. His shoulder dislocated, accompanied by a horrific snap and a pained scream from Peter.

“I’m not like them! I’m a good person!” The statement sounded ridiculous to Peter, and he wasn’t even certain it was still true.

“This isn’t a punishment, Peter! Urvus looks for potential in his children, not morals. Your mind, your wondrous mind, has become your blueprint and he’s chosen to build you. I envy you. I really do.”

“Make it stop!”

“I can’t. I just prepare the lots, I don’t handle the architecture.”

With a metallic squeal, bars begin to worm their way out of Horace Gordon’s concrete body and sprout like vines across the alley’s floor. His corpse was dragged from the stinking couch and pulled along the meticulous bloody symbols Redwater had left beneath his wounded feet. It was both ridiculous and wonderful to behold--a man-sized sack of material rapidly traversing crimson guidelines as it sprouted the foundations of brick walls.

“Ah, construction begins. My work is done here. If I were you, I’d clear this lot. It’s about to become dangerous,” said Redwater.

Peter tried to mutter a protest, but only managed to blow a cloud of white powder from his mouth. The chalky substance invaded his lungs, causing him to fight for breath. He fled.

Redwater gave him a final acknowledgment before disappearing into the dark of the alley, “I’ll visit you when you’re done, Peter. I’m sure you’ll be a thing of wonder.”

Peter was soon completely enveloped by his plastic tormentor. He had tried to beg for help but the busy riverside workers seemed to ignore him. He finally collapsed, his heart strangled in coiling wire, beside an empty lot.

Manamana. Do do do do.

#

The Redwater River district eventually celebrated a financial boom as the government realized they could turn run-down factories into historic tourist hot spots. All of the great antique buildings were featured in the Redwater River brochure, including Galvin and Sons, Gordon’s Metalworks, Evers and Company, and of course, to the delight of the inquisitive vacationers, the final stop at the legendary Donald’s Deli, where the roast beef on kaiser was an absolute must.

SHORT STORY: Spoil

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Are you reading actual words here? I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I guess if you're able to read this there may yet be hope for me. I'll give you my name first and see if that changes things. It's Shane Leighton. Still there? Great. You've got a stronger will than most.

If you're reading a handwritten letter, it probably hasn't been long since I first circulated my story. You'll have to forgive my handwriting. Although I like to think I've educated myself thoroughly despite my problems, I haven't focused on my penmanship. I made as many copies as possible with the school library's photocopier, but eventually the ink ran out. Last night I spent three hours making sure every post and pole downtown was wearing a copy. It almost cost me my life and I won't risk so much time in public again, so I hope you're actually there.

If you're reading a typed copy, I may have changed locations again and your chances of helping me are much smaller. But not lost. No, I have to keep my faith. If someone bothered to type up my account, people are reading it, and someone was able to read through to the end.

Let me explain. Concentrate on my words because there is a great chance that they will spoil. I've left messages for people before and though rarely there is a delay in the reaction, it always comes. Most of the time it would have happened by now. I can only hope you are strong enough to have held out this long; maybe you are my salvation.

I considered all of the implications of writing a longer letter versus a brief one. At first I believed getting right to my plea would be best because you'd have less to digest and less time to react, but I'm not sure that's the best route. What if you manage to read through a tiny portion of text without incident but react negatively to my physical presence when you seek me out? That could be extremely dangerous for me (and for you as well, because I do defend myself if I have the physical advantage). I will use the space of these pages to transcribe major events in my life. I have three hurdles here, first you'll need to be immune to my curse, but more importantly, you'll have to use that immunity to find me, and finally, you need to believe me. So my task is to break through your skepticism and maybe even your fear. Why would you do what I am going to ask? Compassion? Curiosity? I honestly don't know, but I have to try.

A lot of people in my situation would simply end their lives. I have considered it, but each time I come to the same conclusion. Though I am nearly thirty now, I only experienced about nine years of my life before things changed. It's not fair, and I am not going to accept it. I want to be like you again. I will be like you again once we figure this thing out.

Right. I said this thing started when I was nine. There were always bullies at school to avoid, but one day it was different. It was during our fifteen minutes of silent reading--I looked up and the girl who sat next to me, Chloe, was madly staring. Maybe my mind has altered the event, but I distinctly remember her frothing at the mouth, her eyes opened unnaturally wide. I panicked, thinking she must have been choking, and called out to my teacher, Mrs. Crowe. Mrs. Crowe turned around with a pleasant smile on her face, as usual, but once she had caught sight of me, her face became a scowl. She began to throw various HATE YOU objects from her desk at me, violently. Soon she was screaming. My clearest memory from the attack involves a stapler, unlatched, flying end over end. It struck me hard on the cheek and even managed to leave its metal stinger in my skin. The other kids began to tackle me, drawing blood with their fingernails. I couldn't stop crying--or screaming, but somehow I got away. I couldn't understand what I had done to make everyone hate me. I still don't.

On the way home, anyone I passed on the street would stop, as if stunned. I now believe that it was due to their brains processing the sudden, unnatural anger. I have seen it many times. Fortunately, I can often use this moment of confusion to make my escape, leaving them dazed and wondering what had made them so upset. They don't pursue me. Once I am out of sight, if I make no noise, they resume their lives as if nothing had happened.

On the walk home that first day, I was attacked several times, but fortunately I was a DIE nimble child and made it to the safety of my own home.

People don't understand how significant a home is until it's taken from them. It's the foundation for our lives, not only physically, but on a mental level too. I had mine stolen from me when I was a child. My perpetual haven, a place where it was safe to cry, a place to retreat when I was sick, and to sleep BURN undisturbed, had become hostile. I stumbled into the house, blathering, my clothing stained with blood and my pants stained with shame. My voice alone was enough to enrage my parents, in fact my father trampled my mother as they both tried to grab me. It was focused, irrational rage. They did not recognize me. I could barely recognize them, I had never seen their faces so distorted.

Still with me? I hope so. I began to live my life YOU MUST KILL ME as a thief, taking my basic supplies late a night, at first from dumpsters, but later by breaking into the stores themselves. Once in a while I would encounter people, or even animals, and struggle to survive. I never wanted to hurt them, but I did. Maybe I shouldn't type it here, but really, what harm can it do at this point? Yes, I've even killed. I've lived in ROT many different cities, but I have the best luck in the suburbs where the streets are empty after midnight.

I know there is still hope because I did have a friend once. She was an elderly CHOKE homeless lady, Gladys, who caught me scrounging through her "home" and did not attack. I should have been terrifying to her; this was during my early twenties were I often went unwashed, unshaven, and carried a solid piece of rebar with me. But she didn't back away. In fact, somehow she was able to tune out whatever it is that I do. Desperation sensed desperation and welcomed me in. She managed to uplift me during one of my lowest KILL points by teaching me how to survive without drawing attention. I told her about my curse, but I don't think she believed me; she told me about her husband, who left her for the circus, and I didn't really believe her. I should have realized what would happen, but I was greedy. I needed a connection.

After a week or so of companionship, I awoke with Gladys' arthritic hands around my throat. Instinctively, I ME lashed out with my makeshift weapon. When I realized what I'd done, I reached out to her, desperately apologizing, but she was already suffering horrible convulsions. Blood streamed from her nostrils. I couldn't bear to end her life, so I did something even worse. I ran. KILL.

Did I mention I now live in an elementary school? KILL The security isn't very ME tight here, which allows me to come and go after the kids leave. If you come here, you'll find that a lot of the windows are easily opened from the outside. I KILL have to be careful that the children aren't staying late for plays or sports, but ME my only real worry is the Janitor who makes his runs KILL between ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. I think maybe you can KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. here every Wednesday KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL hope ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. you read this far it KILL ME. KILL only mean ME. KILL ME. you are immune. KILL ME. 540 Islington. KILL ME.

SHORT STORY: Blowing Smoke

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“I’m not sure how much help I can be, Mr. Hagerbaumer.”

“Charles.”

“Charles, right.”

“We’re like normal people, you know. Just a little smaller. Our minds work the same way.”

Catherine’s right eyebrow soared and her face filled with color, a rare reaction after so many years in the practice. “No! That’s not what I meant--sorry. It’s just that I’m trying to quit smoking myself. I feel a little guilty trying to be the expert on a vice I’ve yet to conquer.”

“God, I guess it’s me that should be embarrassed. I apologize, it’s just that I have to be on the defensive, considering ... ”

“Considering that you’re a dwarf?” Catherine felt uneasy saying the word, even though she was sure she’d used the right term; Charles did have comically awkward proportions. She was trained to scan him for subtle gestures but he remained still, stubby arms tucked beneath each other. His heels crossed and his legs were relaxed, despite ending several inches above the olive carpet. He's comfortable. Good.

“Yes, my height is the first thing people notice.”

“How much would you say I weigh, Charles?”

“Uh.”

“It’s fine. I know I’m heavy. No guesses?”

“Hah! Okay, I see what you’re doing. Fair enough.” Charles shifted his position, slightly embarrassed.

“Just trying to loosen you up a bit. We need to figure out why you smoke before we can work on a solution. You seem very composed. Usually people are at least a bit nervous when they have their first session.” Catherine believed she’d found a loose thread and began to tug at it.

“I think you’ll find I’m a very calm, rational person. Which is exactly why this cigarettes thing is kicking my ass. I don’t want to smoke and I don’t get any enjoyment out of it. Hell, I don’t even crave them most of the time. But here I am with a pack of smokes in my pocket.”

“Do you want one now?”

“Not in the slightest.” There was a hint of protest in his voice, as if the question was a jab at his integrity. “Do you?”

“I can’t say the temptation isn’t there. I’ve been clean for three weeks though.”

“Cold turkey?”

“More or less. My eight year old watches too much television. He was crying one night and when I asked him what was wrong, he told me the man on T.V. said I was going to die. I crushed the pack I was working on and let him throw it in the garbage himself. I’ll be honest, though. I do have a just-in-case pack tucked next to my bible on the bookshelf.”

Mirth crept across Charles’ face. Catherine chuckled.

“No, it’s not a religious experience or anything like that. It’s just that He was the only witness when I made the deal with myself, so its there as a reminder. It’s worked so far.”

“I’m not a religious man.”

“And I’m not a particularly religious woman. But if it works, it works, right?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Charles had returned to his relaxed posture.

She noted it was precisely the same position he had settled into before and she scribbled notes. “Do you have a lot of friends who smoke?” she asked.

“No, none of them.”

“Do they drink?”

“We go to bars sometimes, but none of us drink heavily.”

“How long have you been smoking?”

“It’s going to sound strange, but I can’t remember. I know I wasn’t smoking when I lived in Toronto, so it’s definitely been under a year. I couldn’t even tell you where I got my ashtray.”

“Was there a lot of stress during the move?”

“No, no more than usual. I mean, packing your whole life into a truck is always kind of bizarre, but nothing particularly unpleasant happened. In fact, I was excited because I got the job I wanted.”

“What job was that?”

“I’m a supervisor for Fenoware’s technical service department.”

“And you like it there?”

“Yeah. It’s stable. And I get paid more than I need to get by. I also like the midnight shift because I can avoid traffic.”

“And avoid people?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s much more comfortable when I’m not trying to push through crowds to get there.”

“I understand. Do you ever consider another job, one that is less structured?” She was tugging again. Let this be easy for once.

“No, not really. I’m actually pretty happy where I am. I work with a great group of people. They’re a bunch of rascals sometimes, but worth the headache.”

“It sounds like you have some fun there.”

“More like they have fun at my expense, but yeah, I wouldn’t know what to do without them.”

“Mhmm.” Catherine circled a portion of her notes and rapidly clicked the mechanical end of her pen as she prepared her next question.

“Would you say that you’re the voice of reason there? You serve as their ceiling when they get too rambunctious?”

“Sure.”

“What about home? Are you married? Kids?”

“Nope, just me and my dog Bucky,” said Charles.

“Is Bucky a small breed?” She preempted his reaction with a gesture. “Don’t take offense, I’m only asking because small dogs are easier to control, and that’s relevant to what we’re discussing.”

“Yes, he’s a collie. So you think I’m a control freak?”

“Do you think you--“

“Do I think I’m a control freak? I knew that was coming.” They both smiled. “I guess in some ways I am, but I don’t see how that causes a smoking habit.

“I don’t think we’re ready to make that conclusion yet, but I’m throwing it out there for discussion. I think it’s possible that given your stature, you’ve spent most of your life struggling to be normal, and that’s fine for Charles Hagerbaumer the dwarf, but now Charles Hagerbaumer the typical man has surfaced. Cigarettes are cool, and although entirely too common, they’ve always been a sign of rebellion. What if subconsciously, you’re rebelling against your protected environment in small doses?”

“Wow. You’ve sold me.” There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“Haha, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, it’s just one possible path and we’ll explore many if you choose to come back for more sessions. Do you know the first thing that came to my mind when I decided to stop smoking?”

“What?” asked Charles.

“What am I going to do with my hands? My cigarette was a device used for more than just consumption. I could emphasize my speech, use it as a pointing device, or the best part, pretend I had no lighter and use it as a way to meet new people.”

“I see your point.” She noted his right hand now rested on the square protrusion under his breast pocket. He noted she was using her pen to emphasize her anecdote. “Your ad says you are a trained hypnotherapist. Can you simply suggest that I don’t want cigarettes anymore while I’m under?”

“It’s not that easy, I’m afraid, or I’d be filthy rich. You can’t force the mind to stop doing something it wants to do. Extended sessions might help to change your outlook on smoking, but I suspect we need to rule out a bigger dilemma first. I’m not convinced, subconsciously speaking, that you want to quit smoking. If you’re amiable to the idea, though, I think we can find out a bit more through the hypnotherapy.”

“You promise you’ll just stick to the smoking, and not poke around in my closets?” Charles joked, but the concern was genuine.

“I promise. And most people believe they are an open book under hypnosis--it’s not true. Your defenses will still be up, just slightly less picky about what information is filtered.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I guess that’s the control freak talking again?” Charles’ protective, uncomfortable position was just as predictable as his relaxed one.

“We won’t proceed if you have any hesitations.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to do this. Are you going to swing a watch in front of me?”

“Nope. I can do this without tools, that’s how skilled I am.” She aimed her pen at him, then read his expression quickly and glanced down at the tiny psychological crutch resting in her hand. “Not even this one.”

“So what do I do?”

“First I need you to close your eyes.”

He was hesitant, and even braved a couple of peeks before finally forcing his eyes closed. Catherine noticed a lot of movement behind his stretched lids. He’s nervous. He’s got an impressive amount of control, but he’s definitely nervous.

“Now I need you to breathe deeply, imagine you’re not in an office with me. You’re at home, sitting in bed alone. There’s not a worry in the world right now. You’re completely calm and safe. Now, raise one of your hands in front of your face, fingers lightly touching each other.”

Catherine was fascinated by the size of his hands. She wondered about his daily life and how clumsy simple tasks must feel to someone using instruments designed for much larger grips. She realized it was probably no different than a growing child; he had probably adapted to the limitations of his body just as everyone else did, dexterity replacing size and strength.

“Without opening your eyes, focus on a point in your palm. It’s going to be very hard to open your eyes because you’re so relaxed, but I need you to do it now. Open them and see the point become a reality.”

Charles’ lids fought the request, but he managed to open them just wide enough to find the point he had envisioned. His lips danced softly as they sang some nonsensical, silent song.

“You’re going to spread your fingers open and as they slowly move further and further apart, you will have to strain more and more to keep your eyes open. You’re becoming more relaxed than you ever imagined possible. Now, spread your fingers.”

Charles did as instructed. She wasn’t sure if his eyes were completely closed or if he was still processing some tiny amount of light. Catherine began the usual “deepening” methods to prepare for her conversation with his subconscious. She had him raise his stunted arm and focus on slowly lowering it. The science of it, or some might say the trick, was to keep him focused on the outcome of each task while the difficulty in getting there would deepen his trance. Simple gestures such as lifting a limb became exhausting exercises for the mind. She began the final deepening routine, but to her shock, Charles leapt up into a lopsided position, eyes completely focused. One of his eyes grudgingly followed its twin as they analyzed their environment.

“Awww, damn. He went to a shrink? What for? Isn’t he shrunken enough?”

“Charles?”

“What’s he complaining about? Can’t get it up? Can’t find the perfect little woman? Hears voices in his head just before he falls asleep?” Charles popped the pack of cigarettes from his pocket with a solid tap and had one in his mouth before Catherine could react. A click-swish-click of his lighter preceded a great puff of smoke and a satisfied grunt.

“That’s a fancy lighter for someone who doesn’t smoke regularly.”

“Hey, I would smoke regularly but we don’t get smokes out here.”

“Out where?”

“So how much is he paying you for this, anyway?” His face contorted and shadows crawled across new geography. He appeared many years older.

“That’s not important, are you going to answer my question Charles?”

“Are you going to answer mine?”

Such bite in his voice. This is Charles’ subconscious, stirred by years of denied wants, now ready to burst open.

“Very well. This session will cost you forty-five dollars since it’s our first meeting, with later sessions costing sixty-five. But you already knew that.”

“Maybe he is crazy, then.” Charles snorted. “Whatever he’s told you is probably true, but I promise you--you’re not going to be able to fix it, so stop taking his money.”

“Well you told me you smoke. And here you are, smoking.”

“You’re shitting me. He’s here because of that?”

“You’re the one who-“

“Let’s stop with that. I’m not Charles.”

“I understand that sometimes it gets hard to express yoursel-“

“I’m not Charles, bitch!”

Catherine diverted her eyes into her notepad, unable to look directly at her patient. The man had much greater problems than an unhealthy habit. She typically dealt with social anxiety and self esteem issues. This was out of her league. She’d bring him out of trance and recommend someone more qualified. The repetition of her pen clicks sped to match her furious pulse. But first, she had to know.

“Who are you?”

Short bursts of spindly smoke pushed through the corners of his mouth as he laughed. “Not that you’ll believe me. They never do. I’m a dead man.”

“A ghost?” She made no attempt to hide her disbelief.

“Don’t be stupid. Do I sound like a ghost to you? I died, yes, but I’m still alive. In two places actually.”

“Two places. In Charles, and in ... ”

"Hell. Bavos. Hades. I guess it depends on your religion."

The idea was absurd, of course, but nevertheless, every one of Catherine’s muscles felt like it was flexing in one sudden ripple.

“So you’re a demon, then? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, woman! No! Psh, Demons. There are no demons. Just us. My name is Jarrod Keele.”

“So you believe you’re being punished for your actions while you ... while you were alive?”

“It’s not a matter of believing, it’s a reality."

"How do you believe you died?"

"I don't know. I was alive, and then I was here. It must have been something quick. Maybe I got hit by a bus. Aren't you curious to ask me what my days are like?”

“What are your days like?”

“I don’t have any. It’s night here, always night, and endlessly cold. There are other people here, I know because I can hear them crying out for warmth. I try to answer them, but I can’t speak English here. My words come out as fucking nonsense, just like everybody else’s. Some of the others have gone mad with laughter despite their misery. And we don’t die. We can’t die. I can’t even tell you what my body looks like because I can’t see it, but I can feel my skin peeling away. Christ, I don’t think there’s even any skin left on my legs.” He was weeping.

“So you seek out Charles as an escape?” This was exciting new ground for Catherine. She’d had plenty of neurosis pass through her office, but this was something extraordinary. This man’s subconscious was speaking with her coherently, showing graphic, elaborate signs of self punishment. For what?

“I enter him for warmth. For the taste of a cigarette. They let me smoke when I was in prison. That was paradise compared to my new home. Charles is different, no question there. His body takes some getting used to.” Charles’ hand sought out his crotch.

“So you possess him. Would Charles be better off speaking with a priest?” She longed for a cigarette of her own.

“I don’t know exactly how it happens. I stare hard into the darkness, straining so much my eyes burn, and then something ... slides. My focus bleeds into his focus and I’m here. Not for long, but I’ll take what I can get. I didn’t pick the shrimp; it just works out that way every time. I’ve got other abilities once I’m here. If I were you, I wouldn’t let Charles go to a priest or bad shit may happen to you. Really bad. That’s a promise.”

“What are these abilities? How would you stop him?”

“You really wouldn’t want to see them. Trust me.” He wagged a plump finger at her.

“Charles, I’m going to clap my hands and when I do, you’re going to wake up.”

“You filthy bitch! I’m warning you!” He lunged from the couch but Catherine brought her hands together before he could complete the motion. Charles tumbled to the floor and opened his eyes in shock. Flames sputtered forth from the carpet beneath him and he rolled to safety. Catherine assaulted the newborn conflagration with her coffee before it had time to grow.

“What the hell was that?”

“Oh, Charles ... I’m sorry. I can explain all this.”

“To cure me of smoking you made me smoke a cigarette? I don’t understand.”

“You lit it on your own. I tried to bring you back before you could, but I was too late. Are you okay?” She was helping him to his feet, feeling immensely guilty both for potentially harming him and lying about the session.

“I’m fine. But I’m not paying for the carpet.”

“Neither am I, the insurance will cover it.” They were both smiling.

“So what did you find out? Can I quit?”

“I’m going to refer you to a colleague of mine who specializes in cases like yours. Not the smoking, we could work on that. But I think you first need to work on your sense of identity. I have some concerns that I will share with her and she’ll be much better at explaining them to you.”

“Wow, it’s that bad, huh?”

“No, not at all, Charles. It’s good that you’re here. Perhaps your subconscious was using the smoking to make you seek help. And you’ve found it. I just want you to have the best therapy possible, so I’m going to get it for you. We’ll meet next week at the same time, in this office. I’ll introduce you to her and make the transition easy. She’ll charge you the same fees I would.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. In the meantime, try to cut back on the frequency of your smoking. Fight that subconscious urge. It really is a matter of will.”

“Alright. Thanks. I’ll be here. You have me more than a little worried, but I’ll be here.”

Catherine tried her best to keep a smile on her face and to at least appear optimistic even though she dreaded the amount of therapy the poor man would probably commit himself to. She would call Samantha and beg for a favor, an owed favor, as soon as she got home. She crept over to her blue tinted third-story window and peered over the sidewalk. Charles moved towards the subway station at an impressively brisk pace despite the turbulent sea of people pushing past him.

#

“Mom?” asked Anthony.

Catherine hesitated a moment, unsure if she had woken to her son’s voice or something conjured by her sleep. She rubbed her eyes into focus.

“Mom.” he insisted.

“What is it, hon? It’s ... It’s three-thirty in the morning.”

“I think there’s a kid downstairs.”

“What?” She was out of bed and fumbling with her nightgown.

Half of Anthony’s face peered through the door's gap.

“Why do you think someone is in the house?” she asked.

“I saw him.”

“You saw who?” she whispered, terrified.

“He’s little. He was in my room and then he went downstairs. I heard him in the kitchen.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just having a nightmare? You stayed up pretty la--“ Catherine was interrupted by a distinct thump downstairs. “Crawl under my bed right now and don’t come out until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

“What is he--“

“Right now. Hurry.”

Catherine spun towards her nightstand and her stomach tightened at the sight of an empty phone cradle. Shit. He was in here too. She watched her son as the draping comforter swallowed him whole and, satisfied that he was out of view, began desperately assessing the knickknacks of her room for weapon potential. She couldn't find a single object with defensive value. Her bedroom only boasted two neighbors--the bathroom and Anthony’s room.

A rapidly expanding plastic universe thrived in Anthony's bedroom, but unfortunately he wasn't the least bit interested in sporting equipment. She considered arming herself with one of his toy guns but only found "Alien Attack Blasters" and "Robot Rays," a legacy left behind by her ex-husband and his sci-fi tendencies.

Catherine made a mental inventory of the bathroom: tweezers, nail file, toilet brush, plunger, or chemicals. Catherine decided that hydrogen peroxide hurled into the trespasser’s eyes would produce spectacular results, but she’d never been able to throw accurately (not the least bit interested in sports either). Panic rode her, demanding her retreat to the bedroom with Anthony, its tone cruel and condescending. This is pointless. You don't have the courage for violence. Wait it out. Wait it out and he'll leave on his own.

She turned to flee but was promptly anchored when she noticed a weapon masquerading as a harmless piece of porcelain. Catherine carefully lifted the rectangular top from the back of the toilet. Her face pinched as the lid clumsily scraped loose. The piece was much denser than it appeared and its unpolished underside bit the soft meat of her fingers. She hefted it upward as if preparing to strike and, neither satisfied nor disappointed, headed into the hallway to begin her descent.

Catherine felt ridiculous perched at the top of the stairs, toilet lid lofted high above her like Moses receiving the Commandments. Her bare toes curled silently into the carpeted steps as she forced her shaking body downward. Each breath escaped stunted and hard as a nervous tremor reached her lungs. She reached the bottom step and scanned the main floor of the house. The harsh kitchen light revealed open drawers. A dozen flies spun in drunken circles around the kitchen's bulb. A burglar? He must have left the patio door open.

"You can put that down, Cat." The voice rose from the black of the living room.

"Charles?" She kept her weapon.

"In the flesh ... but not in the spirit I'm afraid."

"Jarrod?"

"Yeah Charles is pretty trashed right now and I'm his designated driver."

"You ... uh, Charles, told me he wasn't a heavy drinker." Catherine attempted to keep him talking. This is a sick man. He needs your help.

"This is a sick man. He needs your help." Charles mocked her with her own internal voice.

"Jesus Christ, how did you--"

"I told you I could do things."

"What do you want? Why the fuck are you here?"

"Thought I'd have a smoke." Charles, Jarrod, flicked open his lighter and produced a brilliant little flame. With new illumination, Catherine saw him sinking into the recliner, his stunted body overwhelmed by the girth of the furniture. While the fire still sputtered light, she watched him inhale the smoke and then exhale it from a good couple of feet higher than his head.

"Your cigarettes taste terrible. I've had this brand before--it doesn't taste like this. As stupid as it sounds, it may be because they've been rotting next to your bible. Isn't that funny? Turns out I've got a lot to learn still."

"What are you?" Catherine's analytical brain was caught in an irrational loop.

"Haven't we been over this already?"

"Get out of my house!"

"But you haven't introduced me to Anthony yet. Where are your manners? Where is the little guy? Anthony!"

"Mom?"

Catherine responded with a terrifying, guttural shriek. Jarrod spat out his cigarette as she charged him. His stubby arms did little to fend off the porcelain lid as she repeatedly hammered it down upon him. Moaning, Jarrod collapsed to the floor.

He rolled onto his knees and Catherine noticed he had tucked one of her kitchen knives beneath his belt. Oh God. He's here to kill us. She continued her assault before he could regain his balance. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Her stomach picked up the violent sound before her ears and she nearly retched. Soon the crimson spatter soiled the lid's pristine surface.

The wounded man managed to reach the dividing line between the living room's teal carpet and the kitchen's linoleum squares. Bloodied, shaking fingers pulled him towards the light. Now completely engulfed in flies, the bulb fought for its own life. Staccato illumination splashed across the room and in the split-second eye adjustment between flickers, in the unlight, Catherine could see Jarrod's hell.

Her unkempt kitchen was gone. In its place, a bleak cavernous landscape extended far enough to fade into fog. Iron cages sat upon the jagged floor, each one spaced from its neighbors and each one containing a battered human figure. Most were lying prostrate, all of them suffering. Some cried out while others cackled with tortured madness. Many spat foreign words like curses.

Jarrod rolled in place, his hands grasping at his mauled skull. One of the caged people nearby imitated the gesture. This man was full-sized. Infested with flies, his legs were exposed to the bone. He kept repeating a word she didn't know.

"Elichnar! Elichnar!"

In unison, Jarrod said, "Bitch! Bitch!"

"What is this?" She trembled. All faces turned towards Catherine, their eyes long since devoured by insects. Some began to reach out to her with mangled limbs.

"Is that a midget? What's wrong with him, mom?"

"Anthony! Don't look!" She dropped the toilet lid and quickly turned her son away from both scenes of carnage. She ushered him towards the front door.

"Where are we going?"

"To Grandma's. We're going to spend the night there. Hurry." She grabbed her keys on the way out and the two of them, pajama-clad, were soon on the road.


#

Catherine returned to her house the following morning with her father (and her father's pistol). Her toilet lid rested cleanly on the carpeted floor without a drop of blood on it. The kitchen bulb blazed brilliantly, perhaps stronger than ever. Her emergency pack of cigarettes was gone, but the rest of the house seemed undisturbed.

Her father urged her to file a police report, but she refused.

"Well at least move in with us, at least until you feel safe enough to move back. We never use the basement and it's practically an apartment by itself. You'll have to go outside to smoke, though."

"Dad--I quit!"

#

Catherine suspected she'd never see Jarrod or Charles again, but she kept her father's gun in her purse just in case. Charles' second appointment neared. Distracted, she knew she was providing inadequate help to her other clients. It's fine. He won't show up.

But he did. Charles showed up for his appointment five minutes early, exactly as he had for the first session. Catherine studied him closely for any sign of Jarrod Keele, but found none. His face was heavily bruised and several parts of his head were stitched into place. Bandages covered his fingers. He sat before her in his controlled posture, his eyes even and focused. She had shoved a hand into her purse (which she hid below the desk on her lap) as soon as her secretary had announced his arrival.

"Well, aren't you going to ask?" His tone wasn't malicious.

"Ask what?"

"Why I look like I was hit by a bus?"

"Come on ... I think we both know the answer to that." Her fingers tightened around the pistol's grip.

"You caught me. I'm a little embarrassed. I told you I didn't drink heavily, but you knew the truth. You were hinting at it."

"So you got drunk?"

"That's an understatement."

"And what do you think happened to you?" She pointed at his stitches with her free hand.

"I have no idea. It would seem I got into a fight. I don't think I won."

"How bad is it?"

"Lots of stitches, obviously. A slight concussion. One bitch of a headache. The guy who did this must have been huge. Well, I mean, even more so than usual for me."

"I'm glad to hear you'll recover. I'm not going to lecture you on the drinking."

"I guess I'm your colleague's problem now. Is she here?" he asked.

This is it. The big lie. Get him out of your life. More importantly, get him out of your son's life.

"I spoke with Samantha and proposed some theories. She concurred. You won't need any future sessions."

"What? But I'm still smoking--and drinking. Just look at me, I'm a total wreck. I don't understand."

"You're going to have to keep smoking. Charles, I'm going to be brutally honest here. We determined that your subconscious is desperately, actively seeking escape from its prison--your structured and controlled life. You came here to try to conquer that urge, and look where it led you. Somewhere very, very dangerous. It's a small vice, and far less damaging to you in the long run than what may come about if you try to stop it. Eventually, you may not feel the need for them anymore."

"Your solution to help me stop smoking is to continue smoking?" Charles' tone had changed. He was letting emotion slip through his perfect composure.

"For now I think it's best, yes. And Samantha agrees. You're welcome to see another therapist if you like, but I'm afraid I can't help you."

"And you expect me to pay you for nothing?"

"Of course not, I won't charge you for either session. I'm only being honest. I can't help you."

The anger subsided and Charles gave her a quick nod. He slid from the couch and landed lopsided on his feet before marching towards the door.

"Charles, wait. Can I ask you a favor?"

"What?"

"Can I bum a smoke?" she asked.

He looked up at her beneath a folded brow. "I don't understand."

"Oh, no ... it has nothing to do with you. I just need one now."

Charles unbuttoned his shirt pocket and slid out the pack. He freed one of the paper sticks and handed it to his ex-therapist. It was from her own emergency stash.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem."

"Good luck, Charles."

"Um. Good luck to you too."

She watched from the window again as he wove his way back into the crowd below. She noticed scores of people outside with cigarettes firmly pinched between either lips or fingers.


Is Jarrod the only one? It's not my problem. Christ, it's certainly not Anthony's problem. There is a game going on here and I was not invited. They can sort out the rules.