Ghost Story - The Devil's Riddle

Ex Libris Nocturnis
http://web.archive.org/web/20040816155748/http://www.nocturnis.net/art...
The Devil's Riddle

by J. Edward Tremlett (reggies_ghost@hotmail.com) Summary: Part One(Summer): Christian Hospitality This article originally appeared on Ex Libris Nocturnis at the URL: http://www.nocturnis.net/articles/wraith/default /2001/May/281/page1.html On the way out of town, in the middle of a farmer's field of soybeans, there's a house on a hill that no one will look at for long. It's an old one, that house. It sits there on its hill, both long since abandoned. The only life either of them can claim is the sea of green, stubby leaves that surrounds them for half the year. Your history professor would classify the house as a Victorian Eclectic. It has a mansard roof, palladian windows and a gothic archway over the front door. It was probably built around the tail end of the 19th century, back when people liked to live in creepy and imposing places. No one's lived there for a long time, now. The enigma of a child's swing hangs by one, rotting rope from a thick, gnarled branch. Off in the back there might be the remnants of a horse carriage, now little more than rusted, stout wheels and a pile of wormy lumber. Or maybe it's just a scrap pile that no one's ever done anything with, and probably never will. No one's taking care of it, either. The hill's grass is blonde, long and waves in the breeze. Old, dead trees threatening to fall down with just one good gust of wind surround it. Bats roost in its rotting eaves and birds fly in and out of its empty windowpanes. The empty doorway gapes like an elderly man drooling in a rest home. The farmer who tends those fields says the house is his property, but he chooses to let it sit and rot. If you asked, he'd say he's hoping a good electrical storm will settle the thing with minimal crop damage. Truth is, he won't set foot too close to it. Not even to post KEEP OUT signs. But they're not really needed, are they? You've seen that house on your walks to and from your apartment. And every time you pass, the sight of it makes you want to quicken your pace and look at something else. Even in the cold, hard light of day, with lots of friends at your side, you wouldn't want to set foot near it, either. Haunted -- it's haunted. There's no other word for it. Somehow you just know that there is something in that house: something that should have passed on quietly a long time ago, but never ever did. Something that walks through old, moldering halls unseen and unheard, but sharply felt. Something that muffles the sounds from outside and leaves the decaying house as silent as a tomb. Something ancient. Something cold. Something that's watching you as intently as you're watching it... ________________________________________________________ Richard Smith snarled and brought his saw-toothed right hand up and over his head, his narrowed eyes locked on the demon that was trying to send him back to Hell. They were caught in a hideous embrace, these two: feet mired in the mud and slop of a blasted farmer's field as the Storm raged all about them. Richard had his free hand wrapped around the thing's other, more recognizable fist, but a clutch of slimy, off-gray tentacles -- the thing's less-recognizable hand -- was wrapped tightly around his waist. The tentacles and fist tightened in their grip, preparing for this moment -- when the fanged mouth they belonged to came in for what should have been a solid, final strike at Richard's stomach. But that was a bad move. The moment it lunged forward to chew on Richard's navel, it left its long, whipping neck exposed. Richard let out a whoop and brought his sharp-edged hand straight down, cutting right through its ropy length seconds before those teeth could even nick him.
1 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
The demon's body twitched as its head fell down on its own webbed feet. Its neck whipped about like an unheld garden hose, spurting runny, dark green sludge all over Richard's waist and legs. He winced and tried to go backwards to escape the dying thing, but the grip around his hips and left hand tightened. The maimed demon was still trying to press the attack, even without a head on its shoulders to direct it. Spattered with hot, noxious sewage, Richard snarled from sheer frustration: why wouldn't the thing just stop moving and go back to Hell? He brought his sword up and down one more time -- right at the spot where the elbow turned into an anemone -- and pushed hard with the left side of his body. The combination of the two got the demon off-balance, and it fell back, letting go of his left hand as it did. Richard snapped his momentum right around, and leapt back into a crouching position. There he knelt, bashed-in and bleeding from the nicks the thing's teeth had given him so far, and he held his blade out towards the falling thing, waiting for it to make another move. If it got back up again, he'd be ready to slash and run yet again. He didn't have long to wait. The demon twitched back and forth, apparently unable to do more than that while down a head and a hand. Then, with little warning, it started to spasm and flake apart where it fell. The ground received a measure of its foulness, and then started to do the same. The demon was dying, and now a Hell Hole was forming right under it. So Richard rose, turned right around and started running again, shaking the thing's collapsing arm off as he went. More than likely the pit would just take that creature back to Hell, but there was always the chance that ten more would clamber up after him. And then the fun could start all over again. For them, that is -- not him. He just ran. The Storm's warm, slimy rains spattered across his face and soaked his clothes. Tiny shards of metal, glass, barbwire and other sharp things raked his skin. He felt tiny, squirming creatures squishing underfoot, and almost lost his footing when he stepped on something that burst. But there wasn't time to fall, or stop, or wipe his eyes or scream. He only had time to run. That was something Richard understood very well: running. His body was lean and athletic -- a track star's build, including what his team's coach had diplomatically called "the preferred racial stock." He'd even retained his running gear in death, right down to his team number, tube socks and shoes. Not that death had gone completely by the wayside. His skin was paler than it should be, and the poisonous wind of the Storms had given his close-cropped, black hair an unhealthy sheen. His eyes, once warm and brown, had grown narrow and sharp from having to look everywhere at once, and his face had become sunken and drawn, like a man who's had too much bad news all at once. Then there was his body, and what he could do with it. It had taken him a lot of practice, but over time he'd learned how to make his skin tough and thick like good shoe leather, which made running through the Storms a lot less painful. And he'd also learned to make a short, rasping sword of sorts from the bones in his wrist and hand, though that was really hard to pull off. It had taken him more than a few go-arounds with this thing before those bones finally cooperated with him, but the results were more than worth it. Back there, now a fair clip away, he heard one more sickening, wet bellow, like an elephant screaming through something moist and slick. The death scream changed its tone and pitch as the Hell Hole claimed what was making it, eventually sounding too much like a baby's cry for comfort. And then there was silence -- an eerie white noise, soon replaced by the whipping, rasping cry of the Storm. Richard could only hope that noise would be enough to cover his retreat, in case others like that one were closeby. He didn't have enough power to do any more stunts with his hand or his skin, which would also make healing the wounds he'd gained slow going, too. And, any moment now, the Devil was going to start whispering in his ear again. So he kept running, his track-star muscles taking him across blackened, sere fields of pig feed as fast as he could ever go. Off in the distance, through the blinding, gray and stinging winds, was something that looked like a house. He thanked God for the chance to rest and headed that way immediately, hoping it wasn't just some damn mirage. The Storm could be that way, sometimes -- especially when he really needed someplace to rest... "There's someone coming," the old man said, leaning back into the ratty, upholstered chair by the gaping window. "That's odd. The Quick don't normally get too close--" "He's not Quick. He's Dead." That caused some stir in the sitting room. The old man leaned back so the younger man and the little girl with him could see. "It's just some nigger," the younger man spat, black-stained hands on the sill: "What's he think he's doing?" "Running here, God-Bespoke," the older man replied, standing up from the chair. "Can we let him in, Uncle Mattias?" Marybeth asked, eyes wide as trenches as she jumped up and down in excitement. The men looked at one another, knowing a little too well what the other was thinking. God-Bespoke knew if he protested too much he'd get a lecture on Christian hospitality. Mattias knew if he proceeded to lecture on Christian kindness he'd get an earful of God's intentions for the lesser races. And they both knew what would happen if they disappointed Marybeth.
2 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
God-Bespoke sighed, ending the silence: "I'll go greet him at the door, Mattias." "Let me be with you," the older man said, hitching his breeches: "Marybeth, you sit here and behave." The little girl obeyed, still so excited. A guest! They hadn't had guests in so long. About halfway to the house from where he first spotted it, Richard blinked his eyes and saw that it was much further away than he'd thought. This dejected him somewhat, but he didn't have time to feel sorry for himself. So though his muscles felt like taffy from running so hard for so long, and he wanted nothing more than to just stop and rest where he was, he redoubled his pace. When he'd been alive, he could only run so fast for so far before he had to quit. Here, in this dead world, he didn't need to take a breather so much at all, but it didn't stop him from feeling tired. And a man could get very, very tired when he ran non-stop for three whole days. He'd have given almost anything to be able to run like this when he was alive. What he could have done! He could have been the next Carl Lewis if he'd been able to push himself this hard for this long. Tired or no, he had to give these dead muscles some credit. But now those muscles were all he had to rely on. That and those tricks his friends had tried to teach him before they'd disappeared. They'd called them a few names he couldn't really remember, and said that those things would just come naturally if he used them whenever he could. "Practice makes perfect...," he mumbled as he ran, remembering how much of a shiver he'd had when those words -- which his coach used to say all the time -- tumbled out of his dead friends' mouths in almost the exact same way. But before he could learn more of what they knew, they were gone, leaving him lonely in this stormy, dead world. Lonely, but not alone. There was the Devil, of course. And then there were the Devil's own, always lurking around corners or lying in wait out in the open. And on that cheery thought, he was sure that he could hear something -- or several somethings -- skittering after him. He gritted his teeth and ran all the harder, not daring to look back for fear of what he might see. Better safe and tired as hell than sorry and back in Hell. Much better. Do you need some help, Richard? the Devil asked. "You be quiet," Richard hissed, putting more effort into running just to spite him: "I'm not interested." Really? You have to be joking, the voice mocked: That house is too far away, and you're too tired to make it before my servants catch up to you. "It's not that far...," he replied, but then he saw that, somehow, it was still even further away than he'd thought. Hadn't he covered the distance by now...? Not that far? I think you were wrong there, Richard. But that's okay. I can help you, if you'll let me... Richard could almost taste what the Devil was offering. It glittered in his mind. He remembered the gentle rolling of pills in his hand, and the bitter aftertaste on his tongue after they were down his throat. And how he felt when they were doing their thing. And how... "The Lord is my shepherd..., I shall not want...," he prayed as he made himself run just that much harder and faster. They're coming now, Richard. Can you hear them? the Devil mocked. Sure enough, over the roiling hiss of the storm, Richard really could hear more demons right behind him... "He leadeth me through green pastures..." Teeth and claws and things you never got to learn about, Richard. And they're all for you. All for you. "And though I shall walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." That's this. "I shall fear..., no evil...," he insisted, the house getting closer or farther away with every other step, the demons getting steadily closer. Foolishly naive of you, Richard, the Devil continued. "For thine..., is the kingdom..." Full of blind angels -- eyes plucked out by their own hands... "And the power..." To send one bastard son spiraling into the masses, throwing his father's pearls before swine... "And the glory..." Of my kingdom, where the swine eventually wind up in droves... "Forever and ever..." I'll be seeing you soon, running man. Very, very soon. Richard stalled out there, not knowing if he should say "Amen" to that. But the moment of realization disappeared as something pulled his feet out from under him. He landed right on his face, colliding with something hard and painful with his feet, then knees, then face. It was like being thrown to the mat by some over-eager wrestling partner, and he was sure he'd bloodied his nose on...
3 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
The floor? He opened his eyes and realized he was on something wooden and dry. A warped, wooden floor just inside a house. Was it the same house he'd been running towards? How did he get there so fast-"Look up, mister," a gruff voice demanded. Richard looked up, neck aching from the whiplash. Inside the darkened, front hallway were two men, looking right down at him. The one who'd just spoke was older, wearing homespun breeches and shirt, with a white beard hanging down to his brown, leather belt. His face seemed puffy and knotted, as though he'd found some way to work out with his facial muscles. The other man was younger, wearing a checked, off-brown shirt and overalls. His hands were blackened with what might have been soot and his face seemed a little twitchy. He was carrying a gun -- the sort of piece that Richard had only seen in Civil War museums -- and that gun was pointed right at Richard's head. "I don't think they're coming in, God-Bespoke," the older man said. He looked over past Richard's shoes, and then back to their visitor on the floor. Richard twisted around, looking where he'd come from, and he saw that the Devil hadn't been lying after all. There, just past the open doorway he'd tripped into, were somewhere between four to six demons -- all snarling and licking their chops as they paced around the front step. They should have had him cold, and yet they didn't come in...? These ones were prize specimens. They were storm-blackened and rubbery, their dark, weatherbeaten skin shot through with raw, ichor-filled pustules and toothlike outcroppings of bone. Their deformed bodies were intertwined with things they had no business belonging with: writhing, fang-toothed snakes; twitchy, crack-skinned spiders; monstrous deep sea creatures from science magazines, and countless other dark and scrabbling things with no likeness in the world of the living. "God help me..." Richard whispered, trying to get up before the things could redouble their nerve. "Don't you move, boy," the younger man said, putting the gun's barrel a little closer to Richard's head. "I'm not..., I'm not going to hurt you...," Richard said, looking up at the man and trying to ignore the racial slur: "They were chasing me..., I just need to rest a while--" "You can rest right there for a long, long time if you don't shut your mouth." "God-Bespoke," the older man said, holding up a hand: "Save your shot for the ones who need it." "How do we know he don't?" "You're the Preacher, son. You tell me." God-Bespoke winced at that, tightening his grip at the gun and re-aiming it: "Look up at me, boy." Richard turned to do what the man said, hoping these two knew what they were doing. Big talk and a gun weren't much match against these kinds of things, from what he'd seen. Still, after a time of staring down the one with the gun -- God-Bespoke? What kind of name was that? -- he found he cared less and less about the things at the door. The man's eyes were almost hypnotic in a way, gun or no. It was like he was seeing right down to Richard's very heart and soul in that gaze. Mattias said something, barely heard over their private communion. In the background, just a little louder than the Storm, Richard could hear scraping hooves on the front stairs. It sounded as though one of the bolder demons was slowly edging towards the door. But Richard paid that no mind: he was too busy looking in God-Bespoke's demanding eyes. For a moment, Richard remembered the friends he'd made just after..., what had happened to him. They'd looked at him like that too. Could this man with a gun be one of them-A gurgling scream broke their stare. The man blinked, and his gun went from Richard's head to the doorway in one fluid, well-practiced gesture. Richard turned back just in time to see the older man shaking his fist at the doorway. The puffy spots on the old man's face were twitching and in spasm, as though something was crawling under his skin. And past his fist, right at the doorstep, a demon was falling back, clutching what was left of its face... "You get that gun ready to fire, God-Bespoke" Mattias said, steadying himself to do something again, perhaps: "They might chance it." "I got it ready," God-Bespoke answered, priming it for a blast. "Mister, I see you have a Masquers' skills," Mattias continued. Richard looked up at the old man, not knowing what he meant, but somehow knowing that he was thinking of the raspy bone-blades sprouting from the edges of his right hand. "Uh..., yeah," Richard answered, going along for now. "If you want shelter in this house, you help us defend it." God-Bespoke sneered at that but said nothing. Richard nodded and got to his feet, getting his hand ready. He was tired -incredibly so -- but with others beside him he felt much better about a rematch. Mattias looked at Richard and nodded, and then took a careful step towards the door. He held his fist ready to strike again, but it didn't look like he'd need to. The demons seemed to be cautious: they normally weren't at all, as far as Richard could tell, but this day had been strange enough already. One of the demons finally broke the stalemate. It grabbed their fallen comrade and dragged it away, taking noisome bites
4 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
from its chest as it did. The others soon saw the fun of that, and before long they were all dragging gruesome, wet pieces of it behind them as they scampered back into the mist. And then they were out of sight. Gone. The relief was as solid as a rock. God-Bespoke exhaled and lowered the gun, patting the barrel with his free hand. "For a moment I thought they were gonna come in," he said, looking at Richard: "They don't come nowhere near the house, most times." "They can't get in here?" Richard asked, hoping that was the case. "We don't know that for sure, mister," the old man answered, shaking his head: "There's times I think they might, when the Maelstrom's at its worst, but each time they stop just short of looking in the windows. This time was no different.., thanks be to God." "Thank God...," God-Bespoke echoed, looking past the doorway and into the stinging wind and rain raging out there. Introductions were short and to the point. The older man was Mattias Johnson, and the younger was God-Bespoke Stewart. Richard was Richard, and completely forgot he still had long, sharp flecks of bone jutting from his hand before offering to shake. "Ah, damn it..." he said, looking at the offending hand and taking it back, wondering why the spurs wouldn't retract: "I'm sorry. It takes forever to get them to come out, and then sometimes they won't go back in so quickly, either..." Mattias nodded: "You're not long dead, then?" "No. I'm just...," he thought about that. How long had he been dead, now? Time had lost a lot of its meaning since he started running. "I don't know how long I've been dead," he admitted: "I kind of lost track." God-Bespoke chuckled darkly and turned, putting the gun over his shoulder as he went. "What's so funny?" Richard asked Mattias, who scowled a little. When he did the puffy spots around his face seemed as though they might pop. "God-Bespoke is..., not the most accepting of persons." "He doesn't like black people?" "No, nor anyone else unlike him. He came across during the Civil War. I don't think that's what turned him that way to begin with, but it didn't help things..." Mattias got a tired look on his puffy face, and then gestured down the hall. There were two, shut doors on either side, what looked like a stairway going up at the end, and an equally doorless doorway leading out back. "You're welcome to bunk with us 'till you're ready to go on. I don't expect you'll want to stay for too long. If God-Bespoke has his way, you won't." "I won't be any trouble," Richard said, maybe a little too quickly for his own liking. "I hope not." "Actually..., if you don't mind a little company I'd like to stay for a few days. It's been a long time since I've been with people." The old man shrugged, and started heading towards the nearest door on the left: "Suit yourself. "Oh...," Mattias paused: "There's one other rule." "What's that?" Richard asked, feeling the sharp bones start to slide back under his skin at last. "We have a young lady here with us. Her name's Marybeth, and she's an innocent." "What do you mean?" "I mean..., you don't touch her. Otherwise, I'll help God-Bespoke beat you half to death, and then we'll truss you up and leave you for the Doomshades to find." Richard blinked, and was about to ask the old man what the hell he was on about, but the old man was walking through the nearest door before he could get out a word. Some rest you'll find here, Running Man the Devil mocked again: Nice, Christian hospitality. You're a nigger..., and they hate you for it. Richard winced. Sometimes the Devil was just a little too right, and this was one of those times. But as he stood there considering his options, he realized he didn't have much choice. The wind outside was picking up, and the dreaded thunder of Hell Holes opening wider cracked and boomed in the distance. It was getting worse out there. Much worse. "Of course, you could help me through that, too, couldn't you?" Richard said, moving nearer to the doorway. The rain and wind wasn't crossing the threshold at all. The storm, or the men in this house? "Either." Well..., I see we're finally seeing some sense. I can help with both. But which will it be?
5 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Neither," Richard said, smiling a little as he did: "Hypothetical question." Very funny, Running Man. Did you learn that in school? "That and a few other things..., like how to deal with crackers." Yes, you know all about that. Look where it got you. Richard sighed, leaning on the doorframe and looking out into the worsening Storm. Once again, when the Devil was right... Thunder with no lightning rolled and boomed. It took Richard a few minutes of watching things get worse just outside -- and marveling at how well this house kept all that out -- before he was ready to follow after Mattias. He also took the time to heal those nicks the demon had given him, rubbing the wounds shut with his hand like his friends had taught him. In time, they were gone. Richard had made up his mind to not be intimidated some time ago, but something about this house made him off-balance. Or maybe it was just the run that had him off-balance, or the fight, or the crash. Maybe all of it. So he took a few "breaths" to steady his nerves before going through the door to join the others. He felt the odd, familiar feeling of walking through a still wall of water -- body going slightly feathery and translucent as he did -- and came out the other side. He'd have to heal the little bit of himself he lost doing that, too, but that's what came with being a ghost. It wasn't as though he could have opened the door. That door led to what Fredrick's grandmother would have called a sitting room. It must have once had large windows to let in the Sun, several chairs, a cozy fireplace and several shelves full of good, thick books. The sort of place the family would gather to sit and talk -- or, in the case of children, be seen and not heard. Hardly any of that remained. The windows were gaping holes that contained the Storm in spite of having no glass. The crumbling shelves had only a few, somewhat rotted books to their name. The fireplace was still there, more or less, but the mantle was a good sneeze away from falling into a pile of sandy bricks. And as for sitting -- only one chair had survived, and it looked like a thousand cats had had their way with the upholstery. Mattias was standing by the chair. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking intently at God-Bespoke, who was over by the mantle, trying to look like he wasn't noticing Mattias or Richard. At a guess, they'd either been having words or desperately avoiding them. There was no sign of any little girl in the room, either. "Wasn't sure you'd be coming through that door, boy," God-Bespoke said, not really looking at Richard as he said it. "Me either," Richard said, hands at his sides: "I wasn't really keen on getting called 'boy' again, but I'm in no hurry to go back to Hell, either." "What you mean?" God-Bespoke demanded, eyed narrowing. "Storm just got worse," Richard replied, gesturing to the window and the terrible sight beyond: "Didn't you hear? It sounds like every Hell Hole for miles around opened up wide." "Hell Hole...?" Mattias asked, raising an eyebrow but still not taking his glance from God-Bespoke's direction. "Yeah..., those holes the Demons come from?" God-Bespoke chuckled again, shaking his head: "They're rightly called Nihils, boy. I guess you ain't been dead long at all." "And they aren't demons, mister," Mattias added: "No matter what they look like, they haven't a thing to do with Hell..., at least as we understand it." Richard smiled a little, trying to bite back the obvious comment. Well, I guess you don't understand as much as you think you do, then? It wasn't until Mattias' eyes went from God-Bespoke right to him, and God-Bespoke took his arm off the mantle and looked ready to swing with it, that he realized he'd said it out loud. "You might want to watch that mouth of yours, mister," Mattias said. "Right now, I'm the only one saying you can stay--" "Aww..., damn..., I'm sorry," Richard stammered, putting his hand to his forehead. "It's..., well, I bet you know all about that by now." "What? Niggers can't keep their mouth shut?" God-Bespoke replied, turning a narrowed eye in Richard's direction. "Look, I'm grateful for the assist back there," Richard said, pointing a finger and stepping towards God-Bespoke: "But I swear, you call me boy or..., or that word--" "Nigger?" "Yeah. That word. You say that one more time and--" "And you'll what?" "I'll--" "You'll be quiet," Mattias interrupted, standing his ground. Such was the force of what he said that they did. "Both of you," he continued, looking at them in turn: "Mister, you're a guest in our Haunt. The reason we let you in was out of pure charity. You don't want to push that too far. "God-Bespoke, you go on all the time about how God gave us his son, but you keep forgetting who you mean when you say 'us.' This is your chance to be a good Samaritan, and look what you're doing with it."
6 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Lord Jesus didn't say nothing about--" "You just quote chapter and verse on where he didn't, then." Mattias replied. God-Bespoke opened his mouth once, then closed it. There was a slight staring contest between him and Richard, and then God-Bespoke relented, heading back to the mantle. "There," Mattias said, uncrossing his arms: "Now, if that's settled?" Richard nodded, heading back away from God-Bespoke, who just kind of shrugged. "So this is what we'll do," Mattias continued: "The Maelstrom's gotten worse, and I don't think it would be right to send anyone out into that, or make him feel like he should go there. But once it's calmed down a bit, maybe you ought to go, mister." Richard nodded again. "That's fair enough. I don't want to be any trouble--" "Well, that's the problem, mister," Mattias interrupted him: "You are trouble. And I'm sorry that's so, but that's the way it is. So you make yourself less trouble from now on." God-Bespoke smirked a little at that, right at Richard, who said nothing, just nodding again. He'd have to watch his temper: there was a little edge of a threat in what Mattias had said, and there was every chance that God-Bespoke would be doing his best to see Mattias carry it out. "Can I come in now, Uncle Mattias?" a young girl's voice asked from the door connecting this room with the next one down the hall. "Yes you can, Marybeth," the old man said, his voice going from gruff to fatherly in a snap. Richard blinked a little at the change, but he was pretty distracted. He was thinking of God-Bespoke's sneering eyes. He was thinking of how to get through the Storm if it came to it. And, a less proud part of himself was thinking of what God-Bespoke might look like with a demon tearing him to pieces... Then Marybeth came running through the door, and he couldn't think of anything else but her. At first, Richard could have sworn that she was made of gold. Her hair was so fine and blonde, her skin was so white and her eyes were so bright that she seemed to shine, even in the dark and the gloom. She was wearing a bright, gingham dress that came down to the tops of her bare feet, and it seemed like silk. She cradled a raggedy, old teddy bear missing an ear, an eye and an arm, loving it to death in spite of its condition. Or maybe because of it. And, maybe most important of all, she was looking at Richard with no hatred. No fear. Nothing but the look a young child gives someone she thinks she might want to play with: a look of joy and total trust. Something in Richard's heart slid aside with a white, quiet noise, and he smiled in spite of it all. God-Bespoke was still looking at him, and the look was very clear; don't even touch her, it said. But Richard wasn't looking at him and didn't even care. So what if he couldn't touch her? Just seeing her smile at him was worth all the horseshit from all the prejudiced folk in the South. "This is Richard," Mattias said to Marybeth, putting a hand on her shoulder when she went near the chair: "He'll be staying with us, 'till the Maelstrom dies down." "Hi!" she said, taking a step forward. "Now don't get too close, Marybeth...," God-Bespoke said: "You know about guests." "I know," she said in a sighing voice, stopping in her tracks and hugging the teddy: "No touching strangers." Richard took that in: so it wasn't just him, or his skin color, after all. "Well, we can be friends, anyway, can't we?" Richard asked, leaning down a little to look her in the eyes: "It's good to meet you, Marybeth." She smiled at him. Her teeth were very white. "Do you like teddy bears?" she asked, holding hers out to him. God-Bespoke looked like he was going to say something, but one sideways glance from Mattias put him quiet again. "I love teddy bears...," Richard said, carefully extending a hand and taking it, once he saw that Mattias wasn't going to say anything: "In fact..., I had one just like this." "Really?" She asked, eyes wide. "Yes indeed," he said, gently taking the bear. The moment their hands were both on the bear, it was as though some current passed between them, and he smiled at how it felt. It was almost the exact opposite of how the Devil made him feel. "He looks a lot like my old teddy bear...," Richard continued, holding him up for an inspection: "Who made this for you?" "Mommy," she announced proudly. "Well, your mother was a darn good teddy maker," he said, looking at the face one last time and then handing it back. She took it and hugged it tight, having missed it while it was away from her. And Richard looked at her and smiled again, wishing he was her teddy -- the poor thing was probably just smothered with love. And that feeling... Right then and there, Richard made up his mind that he wasn't going to do a damn thing to get shoved out of this house and away from that bright smile. God-Bespoke could go to Hell, and Mattias could join him. He was staying here until that Storm
7 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
was gone. Thunder without lightning rolled and boomed closeby. Richard looked out the window, just to see, and right above the gaping frame he saw something written -- carved right into the wood, as though with a knife: GOD FORGIVE ME The thunder boomed again. All Content and Art is copyright 1998-2004 Katherine Burress and Christopher Simmons unless otherwise Specified. Applicable information, books and products are 1997 White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved, any reproduced artwork or text are for review purposes only.
8 of 8
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
The Devil's Riddle

by J. Edward Tremlett (reggies_ghost@hotmail.com) Summary: Part II (Fall): Emerging Patterns This article originally appeared on Ex Libris Nocturnis at the URL: http://www.nocturnis.net/articles/wraith/default /2001/July/303/page1.html Fall creeps up slowly around these parts, just after the harvest. The farmers are the first to really feel it. The day's rhythm changes, getting ever slower. Grass loses its prickliness. The leaves start to curl at the edges. Clouds darken as they edge across the sky. By and by, the breeze gets cooler. Before you know it there's ample reason to wear a heavier shirt, and have that extra cup of coffee before going back to work in the afternoon. You can roll down the car's window and save some freon, now that it's not so hot anymore. The season is changing. Fall is as much a season of revelation as preparation for Winter; what was kept hidden all Spring and Summer comes to light as it approaches. The leaves change color, the late fruits ripen. Birds fly South and the vermin burrows to sleep the cold away. Of course, even among all this change, some things just seem to stand still and timeless -- like that old, empty house on the Winters' farm. The soybeans that surrounded it all Spring and Summer is gone, now. There's just a field of rough, broken dirt there to mark its passing. But the house's hill is still covered in long, blonde grass that waves in the cooling breeze. A rotted swing still hangs there like a dead man no one will bury. And every so often, at night, the bats will burst out of the gaping windows and flitter away into the darkness, free as birds. A couple of the neighbors got together a petition to have Old John Winters deal with the thing. They called it an "eyesore" and threatened to talk to someone in town about it. He told them to get off his property and go talk to the Devil for all he cared. He minded his own business and expected them to do the same. He did make some half-promise about putting KEEP OUT signs on the hill, if only to get his neighbors out of his living room. (And one of them noted, later, that Old John'd refused to even say the word "house" while they were there. It wasn't something he liked to think about, was it?) That was about three months back, and he never has come through with the signs. Still, they're not really needed: there's just something wrong about that house. Something that's kept neighborhood children and townsfolk away better than any sign ever could. And recently, it seems like it's gotten worse. Again, it's nothing anyone could put their finger on. It's just a feeling in the back of the head while passing closeby, or daring to look right at it.. A sense that whatever was wrong with that house has accelerated, for want of a better word. It's like a car
1 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
that's going too fast and clearly out of control -- looking at its' empty windows, one can almost hear the screeching of tires... Fall is coming, and something's coming with it. Something unseen and unsure. Something quiet. Something bad. ________________________________________________________ "That's not what Jesus said at all..." Richard sighed, resting his leathery jaw on one hand as he sat and watched the Storm whip by. "It surely was," God-Bespoke insisted from across the sitting room, a wet, nasty-looking whip in his sooty hands. He'd been tending to Mattias' Shadow, earlier... whatever a Shadow was. "Uh-huh." "Lord Jesus said that to John before he went to the Garden to pray." "Okay, so let me get this straight, GB...." Richard said, raising a tired hand: "On the night he's going to be arrested, just before he goes to ask God if there's some other way to do this... he tells John not to waste time taking the Good News to the lesser races?" "That's the truth indeed," the fellow insisted, sounding all the world as though he were a young boy extolling the virtues of his coon hound. Richard squinted his eyes: "There wasn't any Good News then! The Good News came once Christ rose from the dead. That's what the Good News was!" "Well, now... he knew he was gonna be killed, and he knew he was gonna be--" "Which is why he was asking God if there was some other way?" "He had to be in Hell those three days, boy. That's not a fitten place for the Son of God--" "Chapter and verse, GB." God-Bespoke opened his mouth to say something, then closed it by degrees and shrugged. Richard shook his head and went back to watching the Storm go by. Something halfway between a slug and an elephant was flailing at the ground as the winds hustled it through the air, and quite frankly Richard would rather be discussing Biblical matters with it than GB. There was a coarse mutter from the fireplace -- the word "nigger" was intentionally broadcast -- and Richard knew that the debate was over for the day. His would-be educator would leave, go upstairs where Marybeth was playing with her teddybear and try to pour poison in her ear. Richard would hear all about it later, in the form of Marybeth asking why God-Bespoke said such funny things about him. And they'd laugh at how silly God-Bespoke was, and talk about something much nicer -- like what the teddy bear thought about butterflies. That was how it'd been for the last three months, and Richard didn't see it changing any today. He smiled, knowing that, if patterns held, Marybeth would be down soon. They'd play until it was time for "bedtime" -- when she'd settle into her bed, upstairs -- and then he'd go back to listening to GB prattle on. It was heaven sandwiched between two slices of hell, but it was all bearable when Marybeth smiled at him. She made it all go away. The first few weeks of Richard's stay in the house had been edgy and uncertain. There had been quite a few times that he'd almost chucked it in and left. But then, every time, he'd thought of never seeing Marybeth again, and that was enough to make him reverse tracks and just go cool down for a while. At first, the three men had some things to talk about. Neither Mattias nor God-Bespoke had been far from this house for a long time -- how long, they wouldn't say -- and they were curious how things were outside of the immediate area.
2 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
Apparently, not many ghosts had come by before the Storm started, and Richard was the first one they'd seen since then. They kept asking about The Hierarchy, or if the Renegades were active. Richard couldn't answer because he had no idea what the hell they were. This always made God-Bespoke chuckle, which earned him a dull, quieting stare from Mattias. "Well, who reaped you, Richard?" Mattias had asked, holding court in the chair by the window. "Reaped me?" "Yes. Someone had to have taken you from your Caul. That man was your Reaper." "Um... slow down here, please. I have no idea what that is at all." A long, silent sigh from Mattias: "When you died, what happened to you?" "That's... not something I want to talk about," Richard replied: "I'm sorry. It's kind of..." He trailed off. Mattias just nodded sagely, and God-Bespoke smiled in a very cruel way. Richard was sure that God-Bespoke was full of mean ideas on how that'd happened, but he could just keep wondering on that one. "That's your right to not say," Mattias replied: "Let me ask this, then: what happened after you died? Who was the first ghost you saw?" "Brother Quiet," Richard answered: "I was dreaming... I was... well, that's not something I want to say either--" "I bet it was your momma," God-Bespoke spat. "God-Bespoke, you be civil," Mattias warned before Richard could get up and do the obvious thing: "I'm sure you wouldn't want either of us to know of your dreams. You extend him the same privacy." God-Bespoke put a hand over his mouth, trying to make it look like he was biting back the Devil's control over it. Richard knew that'd been intentional, but he let it drop -- for now. "Please... Richard," Mattias went on. "Brother Quiet took me from... it was some kind of wet sheet, like a... maybe like a frog's egg. It tore open like one when he touched it, but I only remember him taking me out. "He didn't say anything. That's why he was Brother Quiet. I tried to ask him a few questions... I mean, who wouldn't have? I'd just been fighting and--" God-Bespoke's grin turned into a leer. Shit. "Okay... I was killed. Dumb, I know." "So the Grim Legion should have laid claim to you," Mattias announced before God-Bespoke could say anything: "But they did not?" "He looks more like he was Quiet to me," GB piped up. "I have no idea who they are, Mattias," Richard replied, shrugging off GB's equally-unintelligible suggestion: "What's a Legion?" "That is a very long story... perhaps for another day," Mattias replied after a few moments: "Continue, please... I'll interrupt no more." Richard did so, telling of his meeting the others, and how they'd been teaching him of this world. But all the while, he could not get it out of his head that his ignorance was disappointing to the old man. It was as though Mattias really needed to know about these "Legions," or what those "Renegades" might be up to. "Did they all have names with 'Brother' and 'Sister'?" God-Bespoke asked at some point.
3 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Yeah, they did." "So you were a Preacher?" "No, I'm no preacher," Richard had said: "Just a Christian. I don't have--" "Maybe they said they was Pardoners?" God-Bespoke pressed. "No..." he shook his head: "We called ourselves Believers. That's the only name I ever knew. I didn't even get in too far... I was going to get a name, I think, but then... I..." Richard trailed off and looked askance, not wanting to talk about that time. God-Bespoke seemed relieved at something and asked no more questions. Mattias seemed to know what he was on about, but offered nothing. And there was silence for a time, that day. Richard heard Marybeth before he saw her: happy, bouncing, bare feet gamboling down the stairs. He smiled in anticipation, turning from the window of horrors to the door across the way. Like a lot of things in this dead world, Marybeth was a strange wonder. She was a ghost, sure as anything, but she was so untouched by death that she looked blazingly alive. In fact, if Richard hadn't known any better, he'd have sworn that she was a living person who'd somehow tumbled into this hell. Had she fallen down the rabbit hole, like Alice? Even more amazing was how everything bad or strange just washed over her. She knew there was a storm outside, but never even flinched at the horrors that slid past in its winds. She didn't think it was odd that she could walk through walls or doors, or that she slept ()inside() her bed instead of on top of it. Maybe she had special talents, but she never used them, and she never made any comments about Richard's looks, GB's hands or Mattias' pumped-up face. It was like all this was just something she either couldn't see, or was... what? He'd had met some child ghosts in the Believers he'd been with. They were kids, and they still acted like kids, but there was something of a world-weary grownup in all of them. They shared a dull, soul-dead look: proof of having had the best meal ever ripped from them and being handed a plate of shit in return. Their eyes had lost the sparkle of childhood, and their smiles were hesitant and guarded. But Marybeth's eyes were still as bright as diamonds and warm as the Sun. Her smile was real and ever present. Whatever may have happened to her, she was as happy as anything in spite of it. And, oddly enough, Richard had never once seen her have any trouble with the Devil... The blond girl ran through the door, and the sight of the shimmery form in a gingham dress smashed any other thoughts Richard was having. Her one-eyed, one-eared and one-armed teddybear was clutched in her arms and her smile was warm and real. It was love at first sight, all over again. "Hi Richard!" Marybeth said, run-bouncing over to the chair by the window. "Hi Marybeth," Richard replied, smiling: "So how's Mr. Bear doing today?" Marybeth brought the raggedy teddybear up and wiggled him, as though he were talking: "I'm good, Richard," she replied in a deeper voice: "How are you?" "I'm fine, Mr. Bear." "Can we play a game, Richard?" "Sure. What would you like to play?" Marybeth turned the bear around: "What would you like to play, Marybeth?" 'Teddy' asked. "Reading!" she answered in her own voice, turning the teddybear back around so he could nod vigorously in Richard's face.
4 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
They were in agreement, as usual. "Okay," Richard said, smiling: "You go first, Mr. Bear." Teddy nodded, and Marybeth walked him over to the bookshelf, where a few rotted books lay out of reach. "I can't reach the blue book, Richard," Teddy said. "Well, let me get that for you, Mr. Bear," Richard rose and brought the crumbling book down. At one time it had been a farmer's almanac, but now it was a mismatched pile of pages barely held together by a spine. One good sneeze would have been enough to pulverize it. "Reading" was one of Marybeth's favorite games. Whoever went first made another player read something for him, as fast as he could. If the other player did it, then he could pick someone else to read something for him. But if that player messed up -- skipped a word, mispronounced, or whatever -- then he had to read it backwards, fast, three times. Messing it up was part of the fun, of course, and was aided by the other players' duty of making silly faces and funny noises while he read. "Read that, Richard..." Teddy gestured with his paw to a long sentence in one of the larger fragments of the book. "'When Fall is in the air, it is time to harvest apples and make scrumptious pies with grandma's dough...'" Richard began. Marybeth crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue while Teddy stood on his head and wiggled his legs -- with a little help from Marybeth, of course. It didn't stop Richard from finishing his reading on the finer arts of coring an apple, though, and then it was Richard's turn. "Okay, Marybeth... how about... this," he said, pointing to a short sentence close to the one about apples. "'When the... horse is dragging his hooves...,'" she began, pronouncing it 'hoo-VEES.' Richard was technically supposed to call her on it, but he let it slide, making chicken noises instead. She made it all the way through her sentence, and then nominated Teddy to read something. He did -- with more mispronunciations -- then the game went back to Richard. And round and round they went, giggling and making faces and trying to read in spite of them. It was the sort of thing that Richard could remember doing when he was a kid, since his older sisters were always looking after him, too. Returning the favor was as good a way to spend the afternoon as any. Besides -- just like at his folks' place, there was nothing else to do. Of course, there ((itallics))were((/itallics)) other things to do in the house -- it's just that they weren't all as pleasant as "Reading." There was guard duty, such as it was. Even though the demons didn't get too close to the house, Mattias and God-Bespoke were pretty keen on having someone watch out the side window in the sitting room. There was a big Hell-Hole out that way, between this house and the farmer's home, and if anything large and nasty crawled out they wanted to be ready for it. With two men it had been a real bother, but with three they could split it up into six, four-hour shifts. The only inequality in the arrangement was that while the other two men sat there with God-Bespoke's breech-loading rifle in hand, Richard wasn't allowed to even look at it. "I don't want no stranger holding my gun, boy," was all the guy ever had to say on the matter. If asked his opinion, Mattias would just look askance -- like he always did when he had to decide between the two of them -- and point out that it was God-Bespoke's property. Besides, Richard himself admitted that he'd never held a gun in his life...? Other than that, Richard didn't mind watching the window at all. He could sit down and play with Marybeth when she was downstairs, and when she was up in her room he could watch the Storm go by. There was something oddly fascinating about being immersed in the Storm, yet not feel it at all. When he wasn't on guard duty, he could watch the Storm go by somewhere else, or talk to Mattias, provided the old man was in the mood to talk. He could also play some more with Marybeth as long as she wasn't in her room, which was someplace neither God-Bespoke nor Mattias wanted him to go; he didn't even have to ask why, but three months on it really rankled him.
5 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
His talks with Mattias were useful, sometimes. The old man had been dead for a long time -- longer than GB, anyway -though he wouldn't say how long, nor where he came from. "That's not the thing to tell a man you're not sure of," he'd explained, once. They were on the second floor, in what had once been a larger bedroom: only the cracked remnants of a poster bed spoke of what might have once happened there. Mattias liked to go up there and watch the front of the house. "I understand," Richard said, looking as a car skittered across the nearby road: "I'd rather not talk about how I died, either." "Then why did you ask me?" Richard looked at the old man, who was not looking at him, and shrugged: "Just trying to make conversation, really. It's not like I can talk to God-Bespoke." "No. I suppose not." There was a measure of silence. A truck passed by, then another car. "You told the ones you were with, for a time?" Mattias asked: "What happened to you." "Yeah. I did." "You trusted them?" "We trusted each other." "Trust..." he mused on that: "That's not an easy thing here, Richard. Anyone you meet might be out to harm you." "Well, as long as I see them coming--" "You won't always," Mattias pointed out, turning from the window to look at Richard: "A man can hurt you without touching you, here. You've seen.... what I can do. There are those who can do far worse." "Really?" This was interesting. "Yes. And then there are those who can find a way to hurt you without your ever knowing. The Monitors can see your Fetters..." "Fetters?" Richard raised an eyebrow: "What are those?" "Did your friends teach you nothing at all?" Mattias seemed annoyed, probably from having to explain all this: "Fetters are those things which bind us to the world we left behind, Richard. They're the things which we held dear... places and people that meant everything to us. Surely you can think of one?" Richard nodded, almost seeing it right before his eyes now that he'd let his mind wander down that way. It was the one place where he'd spent most of the time he'd been in college, running its paved course time and time again until his coach had been satisfied. The one place where his past and future came together in his favor... at least when he'd been alive. "Yeah, I can think of one," he replied: "And I bet you're gonna tell me not to tell you about it." Mattias nodded, seeming to smile behind his beard: "You keep that a secret, Richard. Always." Marybeth had bobbled along, then, and ruined any chance of playing "catch-up" any more that day. But it was a subject that they didn't need to return to, from the sounds of things. Mattias wasn't eager to play the part of teacher, and thought Richard thought the old man was more reasonable than GB, he still felt unsure around him. "You can tell a person's intentions by the way he looks at you," Sister Music had told him, once, back in Savannah: "From the start, and ever thereafter, the eyes say more than the mouth ever can." At the time Richard hadn't been sure how true that was, but he was getting more assured of it the more he stayed in the house. Marybeth looked at him with nothing but trust, and gave it utterly and completely. God-Bespoke knew nothing but
6 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
hatred, and had plenty of it to give out. But Mattias was very hard to read. And that made him difficult to deal with. "Reading" went on for some time, as usual. Richard got bored after around a half an hour, but Marybeth and Teddy were having too much fun for him to want to stop. All the same, they'd read every sentence in those rotting books about ten times over since Marybeth had introduced him to this game.. Richard really wanted to find something else to read; how did they get books on this side of things, anyway? "Let's see...," he said when it got to his turn: "Mr. Bear, you read something for me." "Yes, Richard..." Teddy said. Richard looked around, was there something else here they could read? Anything? By chance, his eyes caught the carved words above the window. The ones he'd seen on his first day here, just after meeting Marybeth. "Can you read that from here, Mr. Bear?" he asked, pointing up there Marybeth looked at it, and held Teddy up so he could get a good look at it too. Teddy nodded. "Okay, but it's short so you have to spell it, first," Richard said: that was one of the rules he and Marybeth had developed. "Gee-Oh-Dee-Eff-Oh-Are-Gee-Eye-Vee-Eee-Emm-Eee," Teddy replied: " 'God forgive me.'" "That's good, Mr. Bear..." Richard said, patting the doll's head and feeling that warm, comforting rush of love go from the bear into him: "Hey, do you know who carved that?" Teddy and Marybeth looked at one another and then both shook their heads. "How long's it been there?" Richard asked "It's been there a hundred years!" Marybeth announced with glee. "Really? A whole hundred years?" Teddy nodded: "Maybe a hundred hundred years," he added with just a touch of conspiracy. "Oh, come on..." Richard winked: "How long has it been there, really?" "Marybeth?" a loud voice boomed from behind the door. It was Mattias. "Yes, Uncle Mattias?" Marybeth replied. "What are you doing?" "Richard and Teddy and me are playing reading." Mattias walked through the door, his form shimmering and going wispy at the edges as he did. He was smiling, but it was a fake smile worn for Marybeth's benefit. Richard knew he was about to get it for something. "Let Richard and I speak," he said to her: "You may play with him later." "Okay, Uncle Mattias," she said, and bobbled off, turning around halfway to the door so Teddy could wave goodbye to Richard. He waved 'bye-bye' back, and then he was all alone with Mattias. The old man's smile dropped the moment Marybeth left the room. "What's wrong, Mattias," Richard sighed: "Did I get GB in a bad mood, again?" "You should call a man by his rightful name," Mattias observed: "God-Bespoke is what he likes to be called." "I'm sorry. I have a hard time associating him with God."
7 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
Mattias scowled a little: "He is a preacher." "Well, I feel sorry for his flock. You sound like a man who knows his scriptures, Mattias... haven't you noticed how often he gets things wrong?" "He knows what happened. The words he uses to describe those times are--" "Okay, look..." Richard interrupted: "We've danced to this song before. What's the problem?" "Marybeth is an innocent," Mattias replied after a second of measuring Richard up: "I know you've been told this. So why do you continue to ignore it?" "I haven't ever touched her--" "That's not what I mean to say. There are other forms of innocence... not just the body." "Yeah, but why do I get the feeling that's what God-Bespoke is trying to insinuate?" "He sees things from up high. It blinds him to things you must look at closely." "He's a bigot, Mattias," Richard said, sighing: "There's nothing high or righteous about that. He looks at me and her and all he can think of is.... damn, I don't even want to think about it. That's just sick" "You care about her," Mattias stated. It was not a question. "You're damn right I care about her. Why else do you think I'm here? If it was just you and GB playing me I'd have taken off a long time ago." Mattias looked a little unsure: "I don't understand your words, Richard, but I think--" "Oh, come on..." Richard snorted: "You know how this dance goes by now. GB--" "God-Bespoke--" "God-Bespoke sees me about to do something he thinks I shouldn't. Now, the right thing would be to say something beforehand... or maybe warn me just before I was about to do it. But does he?" "Richard--" "No. He doesn't. He lets me do it, and then he jumps up, screams like a bitch and goes running to you. Just like this was... like this was grade school, or something." "I am the one who leads here, Richard. He knows his place." "Yeah, and he's playing it like B-Ball. He started with the cellar, and he's been doing it ever since. Maybe you haven't figured that out yet, but I got the point right then and there." The incident with the cellar had been early in Richard's stay. The first week or so, after he'd taken a fairly good look around the place, he'd seen the cellar door on the back of the house, outside. Richard's grandmother'd had a cellar like that, just full of weird, old things and cobwebs, and he'd been curious as to what might be in this house's basement. God-Bespoke saw Richard eyeing the thick, lattice-boards over the entrance, and he saw him looking at the floor. He had to have known that Richard was thinking of going down there, but he'd waited until Richard looked around, closed his eyes and began to walk through the floor. Then he'd jumped out of the chair like his ass was on fire. "Don't go downstairs, boy!" he'd screamed: "It's none of your business!" "What?" Richard had asked, opening his eyes like a man shaken rudely awake: "I'm sorry..., what--"
8 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"You use some sense!" God-Bespoke pressed: "The cellar door's outside the house. If'n you can get down there from here, what's to stop them from getting in from out there?" Richard was about to ask why they weren't up to their armpits in demons when Mattias coughed for effect. "There's nothing worth looking at in that cellar, mister," he said: "It's not a place for you to be. Please come back up here." Richard had looked from Mattias' neutral face to the rather hideous, almost giddy-looking leer on God-Bespoke. He realized that he'd been jerked around, but there was nothing he could do about it. And since then, hardly a week had gone by that God-Bespoke didn't catch Richard breaking one rule or another. "So why do you think this?" Mattias asked Richard, crossing his strong arms before him: "Why would God-Bespoke go to such trouble?" "You said it, Mattias. He doesn't like me and wants me gone. So he's playing class snitch because he hopes that one day he'll catch me doing that one thing you just won't stand for, and then you'll just fling me out on my black ass." There was a moment of silence, with Mattias curling his lip to the side and just looking at Richard. Deep down, Richard realized he'd pushed his point a little too hard. In his head, the Devil was chuckling. "I know he's your friend... and I'm just your guest," Richard said, trying to calm down: "But... that's just wrong. That's like leaving something out for a dog to break and then hitting the poor thing upside the head with your shoe when it does." "Except that a man might want to have a dog," Mattias added: "God-Bespoke does not want you here, as you said... and there are times when I wonder...." He didn't finish the thought. He didn't have to: he just stood there, slowly curling his lip and staring at Richard. It was the closest the old man had come to doing what GB wanted, and Richard knew it. Now that wasn't so smart, Running Man the Devil chided Richard: You might have danced this dance before, but this time you stepped on his shoe. "You be quiet..." Richard muttered, looking off into space so Mattias would know who was being spoken to. "God-Bespoke is willing to silence your Shadow, Richard," the old man said. "Oh, I'm sure he is..." Richard replied: "But he can just keep dreaming. I'd rather have Lucifer screaming in my ear than let that KKK wannabe come at me with a whip." "Did your friends not tend to your needs?" "Oh sure... of course. But they were spiritual, Mattias. We laid on hands. You'll excuse me if I'm a little edgy around whips." "And it hurt? It burned like fire?" "Yeah, it hurt, but I trusted them. And they liked me. I think you can see the little problem, here?" "Don't think of the means," Mattias said, putting an oddly fatherly hand on Richard's shoulder: "Think of the ends... the consequences. Your friends didn't teach you all there was to know of this world. You may think your Devil can only speak through your mouth and whisper in your ear... but there's much worse awaiting." "I am not letting that man whip me," Richard insisted, wanting to shrug the hand off his shoulder, yet not daring to. Mattias nodded, and slowly took the hand from his shoulder. "Your pride'll be your downfall. You must put it aside... and trust." "Pride's all I got left, Mattias," Richard said: "And I don't know about you, but I have a hard time trusting people I don't like." "I once had that problem," Mattias replied, turning to go.
9 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"And now you're all better?" "Maybe not..." the old man said: "But here I am, where so many others who I once called friends are not." Richard raised an eyebrow at that remark: wasn't that something Jesus had said? Trust your enemies like your friends? Or... damn, it was hard to think straight. Isn't it always, Richard? the Devil cooed: You better learn to think on your feet, Running Man. If he walks away mad, he's just one more sermon from GB away from doing what that buck-toothed bigot wants. Let ME handle it. I know how to smooth things over. They don't call me the Prince of Lies for nothing... Richard thought of things, then. A friend on the track team with a sure-fire edge to share. A plastic bag full of edge. The way the edge felt in his mouth, and his stomach... and what it did for him. And-No. The old man was just about to go through the door when Richard spoke up: "Mattias... wait." The old man turned around, looking at Richard: "Yes?" "You were going to say something... before we started arguing," he said: "It was important enough to come down here for. What was it?" "Innocence isn't only in the body," Mattias continued, his features softening a bit: "It's also in the mind. Marybeth is... very innocent, in many things. You know that I've asked you not to speak of the whip, or the Shadow?" "Yes," Richard said, though he couldn't think -- then or now -- why a young girl's ghost should be shielded from such things. Or why they refused to call the Devil by his rightful name...? "Time's also not a thing to speak of," the old man said: "Nor her death, nor her family. She is here and now. The past needs no mention." Richard nodded: "Okay... I won't bring any of that up again." "Thank you," Mattias said, and then he was gone through the door. Richard was alone, with only the sounds of the storm outside the window for company. It'd be another hour before Mattias came down for his watch, but Marybeth'd be in her room -- and GB would be watching the door like a hawk, as always. "Alone, again..." he mused, sitting back down in the chair by the window. The Devil laughed again, just to remind him that he wasn't. Same as always. Time passed along, as it was used to doing. Mattias came down, rifle in hand, right at Noon. He took the chair with a salutary nod to Richard. "Marybeth and God-Bespoke are having Bible study," he announced: "I don't think it's got anything to do with your argument this morning." Richard sighed: "It probably has everything to do with it--" "It is Sunday," Mattias said: "You don't suppose the Good Lord moved the day up just to spite you, too?" Richard fell silent. Was it really Sunday? It didn't feel like a Sunday.... but then, his sense of time was never so good. His timing was perfect, at least when he was running, but he'd often wake up and not know what day it was, or what month it was. Once he even forgot the year. "Yeah..." he mumbled, shrugging: "Sorry." "Not me you should be apologizing to," the old man noted, and then went to looking out the window.
10 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
There was silence, again. Richard left the room, grumbling, and went up the stairs. Maybe the sounds of his feet in the hallway would get Marybeth out of the mood for Bible study, and away from God-Bespoke. Or... That's the spirit, Richard... The Devil chuckled: Get the brat away from God's word. Yet another one for me! "You..." he muttered, but didn't want to say any more than that. When the bastard was right, he was right, and even God-Bespoke couldn't foul Christ's central message up too badly. Still, he did walk sort of loudly as he passed the girl's room -- just in case -- but to no avail. "...and then Moses led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt?" she was answering, somewhat unsure. "That's right, Marybeth..." God-Bespoke replied. His voice was tender and full of pride. It was a side of him that Richard rarely heard, much less saw. Maybe he wasn't as bad as all that...? Or maybe he's got his hand somewhere he shouldn't? "You... you be quiet..." Richard muttered, quietly. Oh, come on. There's got to be a reason why he's so eager to get you out of the house. "It's because I'm black, remember? He's the one who thinks I'm trying something with her--" And maybe he's jealous that you just might be... hmmm? The Devil went on as Richard marched well out of earshot of Marybeth's room: He's got a good thing going when Mattias isn't looking, and then along comes you... and you know what you're packing under those shorts-"Shut. Up," Richard said, turning the corner and going into the bathroom. If he was going to chew the Devil out he didn't want either Marybeth or God-Bespoke hearing any of it. The bathroom had seen better days, to put it bluntly. The tub was missing, the drysink was corroded right through and it looked as though the toilet had imploded. Only the mirror was still there, and it gave off a very warped reflection. "Okay... now you just shut the hell up," Richard threatened his reflection, knowing the Devil was looking through his eyes: "I might not want that hick freak coming at me with the whip, but I swear... you just keep talking about that girl that way and I'll--" You'll what? Let him whip you? "If I have to... yes. I will." Now, what would your grandfather say about that? "My grandfather isn't here, now... and if he were, I think he'd agree with me..." Richard's voice trailed off. There were footsteps in the hallway outside, and he could hear God-Bespoke's voice. Had he heard? How much had he heard? "I know what you two been talking about," God-Bespoke said, and Richard sighed. Shit. Now he was in for it. "Oh... just..." Richard started to say, but he was interrupted by another voice: a new voice he'd never heard before, with a drawl two shades removed from GB's. "Well, it's kind of obvious..." that voice said: "I'm about ready to stop talking, though. I've heard enough." "I thought we didn't know how to do that?" God-Bespoke replied, sounding a little more unsure of himself than Richard had ever heard. "You just leave that to me, God-Bespoke," yet another new voice said, somewhere between a woman's bedroom purr and a snake's hiss. Just hearing it made Richard feel like his heart was stopping, even though he hadn't had a heartbeat in years. It was even worse than the Devil's voice... just dripping with barely-concealed malice.
11 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"That's what you done said before, Sword-Swallower," the other voice said: "And now look where we are. If'n they catch us--" "They won't, my dear... sweet Wilbur..." that voice purred again, and there were odd, wet sliding noises that went along with it... like a knife slicing into raw, ropy meat: "They're too busy looking for Legionnaires who won't do what they're told... and we're too far South for them to mount a search just for us." "You aren't thinking what I..." God-Bespoke said again: "I mean.... we talked about it, but... you..." "He is," the other voice -- Wilbur? -- said: "Ain't you?" "I am. Can you think of a better spot?" There was an uneasy silence. Richard blinked, and took another step forward, heading for the door. What was he supposed to do -- just step out and introduce himself? This was going to be awkward any way he played it... but somehow he had to know what was going on out there. And he had to know who -- or what -- that evil voice belonged to. And those wet noises... they were... "Mattias won't stand for it," Wilbur replied, just as Richard was about to step through the door. "Maybe we could find someplace else--" God-Bespoke began, but he was cut off by the voice, again. "You don't have to stay, if you don't want to... either of you. Of course, on your own you might be caught... easier." "But... it's..." God-Bespoke said, only to be cut off again. "It's what... cruel? Unkind?" That voice mocked: "We gave up such things when we passed over into the truth, God-Bespoke. Maybe you still cling to your pathetic religion, but I prefer to be a realist." "You're speaking blasphemy," Wilbur started, only to be halted by the most hideous, black laughter that Richard had ever heard outside of a horror movie. There was sickness there. Insanity. Death. "God? There is no God here, Wilbur. No Devil. No Hell below and no just rewards above. There is only an eternity of sunless days, howling pain and endless reminders of what we've lost. "And I will NOT spend that time limited by sentimental lies... the slop we feed the children to keep them from rising up and killing us in our sleep like the tired, old animals we keep forgetting we really are. We can have only what we will take from those who cannot stop us. "AND I WILL HAVE THIS HOUSE!!!" There was silence, and then Wilbur spoke up again: "Mattias won't stand for it." "Won't he?" that damnable voice asked, more self-assured all of a sudden: "Then let's just go ask him..." Richard couldn't take any more. He stepped out into the hallway to see just what they were on about, and who these two new people were. Whatever that hissing voice was on about, it sounded bad, and Richard didn't like the sound of anything that could shut God-Bespoke up. His form shimmered and blurred, and he felt the familiar sensation of walking through a standing, still wall of water. But when he got out of the bathroom, the hallway was empty. There was no one there but him. How could they have gotten downstairs so quickly? They were right there, outside the door. Had sound been traveling from another part of the house, somehow...? There was a flurry of motion by Marybeth's door, and God-Bespoke stepped out. He looked down the hall at Richard and sneered a little. "What're you looking at?" he asked, as though he hadn't just been playing third-fiddle to something that sounded worse than Hell itself.
12 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Uh... nothing..." Richard said, shaking his head: "Sorry... I just thought... were you talking to someone, just now?" "That'n I was. Marybeth was receiving the word of the Lord." "Uh... besides her?" God-Bespoke looked at Richard silently, and then shook his head. "Your Shadow's playing tricks on you, boy," the man said: "You been here three months now, it's a wonder you ain't done nothing stupid yet." "Yeah, I bet you'd love that." "I'll take it out of you, if'n you need me to," God-Bespoke replied: "I don't want your skin on my whip anymore than you want my whip on your skin, but I got a responsibility." "That what you call it?" "Power begets responsibility," he said, simply: "Long as you're under the roof, you're my flock, too." Richard just let that drop, turning to the window to watch the Storm go by as God-Bespoke wandered back downstairs. He did not like the sound of that line. Not at all. He tried to clear his mind. Marybeth'd probably play with her teddybear for a while and then she'd come out, and they could play something else until it was time for Richard to take guard duty again, at eight. "Nothing like a routine to set a man's mind..." he mumbled, watching a truck get swallowed up by the Storms, out there. It just disappeared, much like those voices he'd heard. Had all that been another illusion? Just another trick this world liked to play on him from time to time? But it had seemed so real. He could have almost sworn that he'd felt that malign, hissing presence outside the door. It was just too real. Too terrifying. But then, he'd been wrong before, and it had cost him. Richard didn't need the Devil to remind him of that -- though he often did -- and this could very well have been yet another trick. Only the wind. Only his imagination. Outside, the winds weren't seething as hard as they were just a few moments ago. The clouds parted and, for a brief moment, Richard could almost see the cracked, crumbling Moon overhead. The Storm seemed to be dying down for the day: maybe that was a good thing, or maybe it wasn't. Like most things in this world, it was hard to tell one from the other. All Content and Art is copyright 1998-2004 Katherine Burress and Christopher Simmons unless otherwise Specified. Applicable information, books and products are 1997 White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved, any reproduced artwork or text are for review purposes only.
13 of 13
7/24/2012 8:24 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
Devil's Riddle Part III: (Winter) Cold Truths

by J. Edward Tremlett (reggies_ghost@hotmail.com) Summary: The third installment in the ongoing Devil's Riddle saga. This article originally appeared on Ex Libris Nocturnis at the URL: http://www.nocturnis.net/articles/wraith/default /2002/March/335/page1.html It is Winter, here, and the skies are full of cold rain. A chilly breeze sluices between the black, wet trees and brings waves of cold and wet. Light, roiling clouds of mist move slowly across the landscape, pushed along by the winds. The Sun only shows itself as a dull presence behind a curtain of slow, steady gray, if at all. It doesn't snow in these parts: never has, never will. But it's still Winter, and it's as cold and damp as anywhere else. The roofs and trees still creak and bend under an unusual weight. Those who go outside wear thick coats and boots. And school might be called off any day - though it'll be due to floods of muddy ooze rather than ice or snow. Inside the country homes, there's no real work to be done now: there's just what's been stored and saved all Summer long. There's an extra log on the fire and preserves at every meal. There's piping, hot coffee for everyone, all the time. It's a time of quiet slowness - a time to wait and see. Mother sternly admonishes the children to wipe their feet at the door and keep the outside where it belongs. Father doesn't want to go to town unless it's an emergency. Grandmother watches the rain come down with a distant, faraway look in her eyes. And everywhere, outside the fogged-up windows, there are signs of what Winter truly brings - a slow and certain decay. Trees blacken and sag, losing branches to the winds or else falling over. Dead leaves turn to papery slime, exposing the bones of creatures that had died beneath them in Fall. The grass turns brown and folds back in on itself, and the mud below becomes sickening, brown rivers. There is no joy in these parts at this time: no real desire to play, or rejoice in the throes of the season. There is only the sure look on the old man's face as he watches it all come down, and feels the grave beckoning. There is only call of the earth, letting what walks above it know that all will one day lie below it. There is just the cold, and the rain, and the wetness that soaks clear past the skin and into the bone. And then there's that old, abandoned house outside of town. It sits on a brown, moldering hill on the Winters' farm, surrounded by a wide field of brown slurry. In Spring and Summer, that sea of mud is a sea of green, leafy soybeans, but it's hard to see that far off from here. When you're standing there, it's hard to think much further than now. That old house is the sort of thing people built when they lived in places as solemn as they were. Its gaping, palladian
1 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
windows seem locked in an eternal but silent scream. Long-dead trees stand like crooked tombstones on its front and sides. Some signs of life can be found, of course. Though the birds have all flown South for the season, a skinny, lost cat pads carefully past the gaping doorway. The bats may roost yet within those eaves, and a child's swing hangs by a single thread of rope, dangling from a tree out front. But in spite of those traces, and in this season, the house is a testament to decay. Even in the midst of so much death and rot, it stands out: a diseased and eyeless monarch reigning in the kingdom of the blind. It looks like it should be somewhere else, like a graveyard or abandoned town... In fact, it feels as though it was in the wrong place as well. There's a keen, otherworldly quality to it: a sense of its' belonging to two worlds at once. One world is seen - here, before the observer - but though the other might be unseen, its presence is felt all the same. And for the last six months, that presence has been getting steadily worse - much like the way an angry parent's footsteps get louder as they fall closer to the stairs... But where there was uncertainty in that presence, before, now something is starting to show. Just as Fall reveals most things, this Winter has laid bare what little remained. Those who work the land for their living - and time their lives by the changes of the seasons, and what those changes bring - have gotten a terrible notion about that place. For now it is Winter, but soon must come Spring. And with the Spring comes fullness... *** The first blow is always the worst one. In truth, it's not the blow itself that's so bad - it's the waiting that kills. It's the tangible silence after obeying a single, brusque command. It's standing there, with your hands on the wall and your back bared. It's not knowing what the other person's up to, exactly, but being able to feel the boards shift under his weight, or hear the creaking as he rocks his legs from side to side to get his stance just right. It's the sound of something long and whispery uncoiling from a practiced hand, just after those creaking noises stop. And it's the noise that something makes as the man brings it back. And up. And back. And up. And back. And... "... and Teddy says that he doesn't need any shoes at all!" Marybeth announced, holding up Mr. Teddy's paws for inspection. "Why not?" Richard asked, sitting in the chair by the window and keeping an eye on the Storm. "Because he's a bear!" She said, grinning. "Well, bears wear clothing sometimes..." Richard said, scratching his chin to think of one: "I seem to remember there was this bear I read about, and he had a shirt with buttons on it..." "He's a bear!" Marybeth insisted, still grinning. "Paddington bear wears a hat." "Bear!" She chimed in again, shaking her head with a larger grin on her face. Over the last three months, "Reading" had started to get boring for the both of them, so they'd started playing charades and word association games, instead. The latter always turned into bad plays on words and atrocious puns - like the one she was
2 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
pulling right now - but Richard was able to keep a straight face. It was the best thing to do. That way she couldn't see how worried he was getting. *** The Storm had been getting bad, the last couple of days. At first, Richard had just passed it off as one of its usual changes - it could go from relatively clear to howlingly bad within a sheer minute, after all. But when the clouds kept roiling higher and darker, and the demons kept getting more aggressive, and larger, he got the distinct feeling that things were taking a turn for the worse. "Have you ever seen it like that?" He asked Mattias, once, when Marybeth was out of earshot. "A few times, yes," the old man replied, looking out the window. His puffy face was furrowed, as though he were squinting to see past the broken frame. "What does it mean?" "The Storm is like the skies we left behind in death, Richard," he said, pointing at the darkening horizon: "But here, our skies are filled with black and terrible storms. One cloud pushes another one way, that cloud pushes another yet another way... and then they all come back, like ripples will when you throw a rock into a still pond..." "...And that forms another ripple," Richard said, getting a bad idea about what was coming next. "That is correct.," Mattias replied, looking away and back at Richard: "These form great and terrible storms, and they herd the lesser ones before them, like wolves chasing sheep. Since you've been with us, as bad as it has sometimes been, we have only seen sheep. "Now... one of the wolves is approaching." "Will we... will we be alright, here?" Richard asked. Mattias tried to keep his face unreadable, most of the time, but Richard saw the trepidation there, in his eyes, just then. And that's when he really started to worry. *** Marybeth went upstairs for bedtime, later, and Mattias was standing watch, with Richard and God-Bespoke looking out the window with him. Outside, some distance away, the horizon was boiling over with pitch and falling in on itself. It reminded Richard of a tidal wave he'd seem in a movie, once. But this wave was black as night, and seemed to be made of something more solid than water. It also seemed to be getting taller, yet no closer... "It just seems to be sitting there," Richard said: "Is it coming, or...?" "It might be..." God-Bespoke said. For once, his answers to Richard's questions weren't sneers. He seemed as worried as Richard. "It might also be going across from us, instead of towards us," Mattias said: "It would be hard to tell from here, though." Richard nodded; Time and distance weren't certain things, here. "We'll just have to wait," the old man announced, leaning back in the chair and hefting the gun: "I think it would be best if we doubled up on our watches." Any other time, the two men would have groaned at the thought. Now, they were in complete agreement. Neither of them relished the idea of being alone by the window when that thing came through. "What do we tell Marybeth?" Richard asked. "Oh, dammit..." God-Bespoke muttered: "Ain't you got a lick of sense in your head, boy?" "Why?" "She don't know nothing about what's going on, so don't you worry her pretty head none. She just won't see it, is all." "Are you sure, GB?" Richard asked. "Course I'm sure. You think this is the first time this has happened?" "Not like this, God-Bespoke," Mattias said: "If that comes this way, I cannot say if..." His voice trailed off, and that was all it took to get GB's adam's apple to bob up and down in near-panic: "Now... this house... it's supposed to-" Mattias shot GB a look that could have gone through a brick wall: "You don't want to take that for sure." "But it's supposed to-" "I said you don't want to take that for sure!" Mattias roared.
3 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Take what for sure?" Richard asked: "Did the house come with an owners' manual?" "That ain't none of your business," GB said, snarling and poking a black finger in Richard's chest: "If'n you're so worried about Marybeth, why don't you go up and send her off to sleep? We'll figure out what's to be done." Richard looked at Mattias, but the old man had nothing to say. He just stared right at GB, as though the preacher had really put his foot in it, somehow. And as nice as it was to see GB get the big chew instead of himself, Richard felt like he was on the outside, looking in again; That wasn't somewhere he wanted to be. "Look," he sighed: "If you two want to argue about it, go right ahead. Call me back in the room when there's a decision to be made, or you've already made one without me. I don't care either way... really..." He walked out, and no one tried to stop him. For a moment, he thought someone was calling after him, but it was just Mattias upbraiding GB over whatever they'd been arguing about in the first place. Fine then. He went upstairs, hoping to catch Marybeth before she went to bed. At times like this, he needed a reminder of why he was staying here. He needed to reconnect to something a lot better than... well, better than what the two guys downstairs could offer him. She knew someone was there before he even put a hand on the door. "Come in!" she said, and Richard smiled, going through the door. Marybeth was kneeling in front of her old, broken bed, with Mr. Bear "kneeling" right beside her. She looked up at Richard as he came in, and seemed very surprised. "Hi, Richard!" she exclaimed. "Hey, Marybeth,"Richard said, kneeling down beside her: "God-Bespoke and Mattias are talking about something, So he asked if I could help you say your prayers." "Okay," she said, smiling. "Is that okay?" he asked, just to be sure. "It's okay," she replied, picking Mr. Bear up so he could nod in agreement. So he helped her through the Lord's Prayer. And he made sure she asked God to bless Mommy and Daddy, Grandpa and Grandma, Uncle Joe and her Brother Johnny, Mr. Mattias and Mr. God-Bespoke and - with a giggle, since he was right there - Mr. Richard. And Mr. Bear, too. Then Richard kissed her on the forehead, and a wave of happiness ran over him like sunlight and fresh air. He smiled in spite of it all, and she and Mr. Bear went into the bed, cuddled up to fall asleep. When he got out of the room, he felt a lot better than he'd felt going in. If he concentrated, he could hear God-Bespoke and Mattias arguing downstairs. But he didn't give a damn; They could beat one another senseless for all he cared. He'd had his moment, and they couldn't take it from him. *** Yes, they'd touched - he and Marybeth. It had started very innocuously at first. He noticed that, when they both held onto the same things at the same time, a feeling of being surrounded by warm sunlight and fresh air had washed over him. It happened with Mr. Bear, and that old, raggedy book they'd read from. And then, one day, while they'd been playing, she'd just touched his hand. It happened right out of the blue, and he wasn't aware it had happened at first. And then that feeling came over him - three times as strong as before - and he never ever wanted to be away from it again. Of course, the Devil had made any number of rude and lewd comments, but Richard knew better than to listen to them; There was nothing like that going on at all. It was the same feeling Richard used to get when he'd gotten to hold an infant cousin, or been teaching Sunday School at his church when he'd come home from college - just so much stronger for it being here, in this dark and dead world. But then, the Devil also said something that Richard couldn't ignore: what if God-Bespoke and Mattias found out?
4 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"I'll just cross that bridge when I come to it," he said at the time. Are you in a hurry to be beaten and tossed out to my demons, then? "They said no touching strangers. I'm not a stranger anymore, am I?" So do it right in front of them, then. The Devil had challenged. And, try as he might, Richard had to give the Devil that round. He couldn't do it. He didn't dare. *** It had been about five minutes since he'd helped Marybeth with her prayers, and Mattias and God-Bespoke were still arguing downstairs. Richard couldn't make out a lot of what they were saying, and - quite frankly - it didn't interest him in the least. He'd made up his mind that he'd wait until it sounded like some kind of resolution had been forged, and then he'd go downstairs to get the ass-end of it. Same as always. He just smiled, thinking of how he'd felt when he'd kissed Marybeth, and once more the worry and pain went away. He closed his eyes, reliving the moment. Of course, he could hear the Devil chuckling at that, but... "What do you mean you're gonna let him do it?" asked an ephemeral whisper of a voice, floating on whatever substituted for a draft in this dead world. Richard blinked. That was God-Bespoke's voice - whiny and lost - and yet God-Bespoke was somewhere downstairs. His voice shouldn't be carrying that much, should it? "God-Bespoke... try to see reason," came a reply. It was none other than Mattias, though he wasn't there any more than God-Bespoke was. What was going on here? "Reason?" "It's assured me that nothing can go wrong with this..." "Nothing wrong?" the phantom God-Bespoke spat: "The whole thing is a heathen, godless mockery, Mattias. You ought to know better than that." "It's settled," Mattias said, the steel showing in his voice: "We're going to let It do this, God-Bespoke. Now, you are the new one along with the group. If you want to leave...?" "Where would I go?" God-Bespoke replied after a moment, sounding lost and afraid, like a little kid: "But, Mattias..." And then there was a terrible silence. It wasn't just the absence of voices, but the pause in a conversation when someone has nothing to say. The rustling of clothes, fidgeting of hands and rocking side to side on heavy, homemade boots. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come up. Richard rolled his eyes, remembering a certain, disembodied conversation from three months ago: the one by the washroom; the one that had scared him silly for weeks on end... "Okay," Richard muttered, looking ahead in space as he figured who it had to be: "That's twice now. You got something to say, let's hear it." What might that be? the Devil replied. "What do you think? Are you the one doing that?" Doing what? Letting you hear voices? Richard sighed: "Yes..." Oh, well - for once, I am totally innocent, here, Richard. That's not me talking. "Well, then what it is?" There was a deep, bass chuckle: Wouldn't you like to know? "Come on, man. We're the ghosts here, so who's haunting us?" The Devil had no more of a reply to that than another deep, bass chuckle. Richard sighed and shook his head, and leaned against the stairwell to listen for signs of the real Mattias and GB having stopped their argument. They hadn't, though; He could still hear angry voices floating up from downstairs. So he sat down on the edge of the stairwell, cupped his chin in his hands and just grumbled. It was all he could do, for now. *** Some time after the last conversation he'd heard - the one by the washroom - he'd had cause to wonder what it had really been. At first, he was sure that it was just some silly trick the Devil was playing on him: an attempt to undermine his confidence in both GB and Mattias, and to get him to leave the house. It sounded low enough. But, after a while of thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that if it had been the Devil, it would have been a whole lot worse.
5 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
So he started going from the idea that maybe - just maybe - it had been real after all. But how? And what had it been? He hadn't paid much attention in the Physics course he'd taken in college, just before he died. If the truth be known, he was paying more attention to the girl in front of him who wore loose hip-huggers with no panties, and always leaned forward at her desk... But he did remember one day that his professor - a stodgy old lady named Dr. Wilder - said something very interesting about sound waves. "They never, ever go away," she announced, turning to look everyone in the class in the eye - one by one - as she often did: "You might not be able to hear them with your own ears, but they are there." "So, what..." one of the class eggheads had asked: "If you put a powerful enough microphone in the room and turned it up so loud you could hear a cricket cut the cheese...?" Someone laughed, but they laughed alone, and quickly shut up. Surprisingly, Dr. Wilder didn't scowl at the rude example, but simply nodded - probably because it was a fellow egghead. "You could, conceivably, pick up sounds from some time ago. It is theoretically possible to go into a room with such an apparatus and hear conversations from hundreds of years ago." The next few minutes of class time were spent with the two of them discussing white sound, feedback loops and optimum microphone positioning, but Richard hadn't been listening. He'd been imagining the idea of things he said being recorded forever and ever in some room, somewhere, just waiting for some nerd with a microphone to pick up and record. That spooked him a bit: it's be a scary thing to know that someone could pick up the worst thing you'd ever said, and could hear every word... So was that what had happened, here? Was this sound waves reverberating back up from zero - just like the Storm outside receded and then grew once more? Some weird twist of physics that this dead world had in spades? He felt that he should ask Mattias and God-Bespoke if they'd heard it, too. GB was in it, and Mattias was mentioned, after all. How could they not have noticed? But, after one really rude and condescending lecture from GB about tending to his "Shadow" - complete with GB's whip brandished as a visual aid - Richard decided against that. They'd just chalk that up to the Devil playing tricks on him, and maybe this time they'd insist he bend over for God-Bespoke and his damn whip. No way in hell was he doing that. So he'd kept mum, and just kept his ears open to see if it happened again. And it hadn't - until today. *** By the time it was time for Richard to go downstairs for a double-shift, Mattias and God-Bespoke had stopped arguing. They had nothing to say to Richard when he came down, though, so whatever problem they'd had either hadn't been settled, or else the solution had nothing to do with Richard. Either way, Richard could live with that. "So, about time for a watch?" Richard asked, looking at GB. But GB wasn't looking at him: he and Mattias were both staring out the window, their eyes unblinking, and GB was gripping his gun very tightly. "What's...?" He tried to ask, but Mattias turned to look at him, and the look on the old man's face stopped his question cold in his mouth. It was the look of a man who'd lost everything. "I... I think you'd better see this, Richard," Mattias said, edging out of the way so Richard could take a look. He hesitated for a brief moment, but walked over anyway, knowing that he'd have to see it sooner or later, anyway. And so he looked. At first he wasn't sure what he was seeing. For a moment he thought some high, long and heavy cloud had placed itself between the dead sun and the ground - casting a heavy shadow that went as high as the sky itself and obscuring everything behind it in a wall of night. Then he remembered that they'd been looking at a tall wave of pitch blackness not that long ago, and wondered if it was going to come closer. It had. "Oh my God..." Richard said, getting a good look at the worst thing he'd ever seen - alive or dead. The wave's crest was lost in the stormclouds, and it went as wide as the horizon. In its folds and bends, he could see things moving: tiny specs, flitting in and out of the wisps of dark clouds that ran just before the wave. Demons. Thousands... maybe millions of them. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd have sworn that a good half of the
6 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
black in that wave was made up of them. And it was getting closer with each second, the wave. He could see it eating the landscape beneath it as it came ever nearer. He could see the place where the shadow met the ground, and how things were whipped up ahead of it like debris from an explosion. It was headed right for them. "That's the wolf, Richard," Mattias said, standing by the chair: "It's the worst stormfront I've seen since the Storm started. I..." He didn't want to say it, but GB shook his head: "We got through that one, Mattias. We'll get through this one, too." "It just feels different, this time..." the old man said, his eyes getting a far-off look in them. "So what does that mean, then?" Richard asked. "Sometimes... I can see as an Oracle sees," Mattias replied, looking back out there: "And something bad is about to happen, here." Richard didn't know what an 'Oracle' was, but he didn't care. If the old man was that spooked, it was bad news. Instantly, he found that his skin was changing. The leathery texture it took puffed up in certain areas, forming a sort of armor. His face did the same. He felt a little weaker for it, but he didn't mind it. "Well, ain't you just dressing fancy for the ball," GB sneered: "Use some sense, boy. The wind ain't getting in here." Mattias shook his head: "We can't be sure of that. And you'd do well to have someone with those skills with you on the watch, God-Bespoke." "He's just showing off." "Well, I could always go up and hold Marybeth's hand, if you don't think I'm good for much else," Richard snorted, trying not to look as hurt as he felt. "You know you ain't supposed to be doing no such thing, boy," GB spat, turning from Mattias to look at Richard. "Well..." Richard started to say, but something happened, just then. Something about how quickly he started to answer - and the look on his face when he did - rebounded wrong with whatever God-Bespoke was going to say next. Everything the two men had between them dropped to the floor, and, in that split second, they could read one another like books. God-Bespoke blinked, and Richard looked down, and by the time he looked back up again it was too late. He knew. "So you have touched her!" God-Bespoke shouted, pointing a finger in Richard's face: "I should have known-" "You just back off, GB," Richard said, raising his voice. "You hear that, Mattias?" God-Bespoke yelled: "He done touched her, just like I said he would!" Mattias' face fell down, as though he'd received the worst news he'd ever heard. Richard didn't know how to read him, just then. Was it anger, there... or...? "Is it true, Richard?" the old man asked, looking very weary all of a sudden. "Yes, it's true, Mattias," Richard said: "I've held her hand. I've even kissed her on the forehead... but I swear, that's all. It's the same thing I'd do for any little kid... I don't know what GB's problem is, but-" "We told you not to!" GB shrieked, almost losing his composure: "If'n we can't trust you to not do what we tell you-" "Hey, now don't you start with this trust shit," Richard protested: "You haven't trusted me from the first day I set foot in this house." "And now I reckon I see why..." "Hey! I've been here with you guys for the last six months! If I was going to do something to fuck you over, I would have done it before now, don't you think?" "You touched her..." the old man said, sinking down into the chair again. He looked about ready to fall apart, somehow. "Yes! I touched her! It was perfectly normal! Can't a grown man be affectionate with a child without it being some kind of... " He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to even think it. "That ain't the point!" God-Bespoke insisted, taking advantage of the lapse in Richard's talk to poke a finger in his chest again: "We got rules, here, boy. If'n you can't follow them-" "You just watch your mouth, GB," Richard snarled, raising his fist up: "I've put up with your corn-pone crap for the last six months, but-" "You'll what?" GB challenged him, getting in his face. "I'll take your fat, honkey mouth and shove it up your ass is what I'll do." "You just go ahead, Richard," he sneered: "You just try it. You'll see what happens."
7 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"I will." "You just try it." "I will!" "You just try it! You'll see!" Mattias was in the chair, looking like someone had dropped a load of bricks on his head. He wasn't making any attempt to separate the two of them. Richard kept threatening GB. GB kept leering at Richard. It went round and round like a scratched record that just won't let the arm get to the point where it lifts up and returns. And then *** It takes an eternity for the blow to fall, and in that time between, there's time for a hundred memories. A hundred thoughts all rush up to greet you just one more time. A hundred chances to have avoided this all flutter past your eyelids. What could have been done differently plays its heart out on the drum that your heart's become. A hundred different, flickering things that crest and break like waves, washing one another away like so much sea. It's just a split second, but it seems like forever: a silent moment of contemplation dragged out to obscene lengths, until the contemplation of the punishment becomes ten times worse than what's really approaching. And he thinks - could I have done this differently? And he asks - would it have even mattered? And he wonders - why the hell am I here, anyway? And he answers... No, his memory answers for him: there, in the front of his mind, is the smiling, blonde face of a little girl who loves him. And that's why he didn't do it differently. Why it might not have mattered. Why he's here. His smile's as quick as it is real - one moment's respite from the pain of an eternal split-second's wait - and then the waiting is over. And Richard's - thinking he was back in Hell, somehow. He didn't know how he could have gotten there, but the first sensations were the exact same. Blackness, and the feeling of falling endlessly, as though he'd stepped into a Hellhole going straight down to you-know-where. There was nothing to see to gauge the fall, of course, but a man ought to know when he's not upright. He dealt with this by tucking his legs up under his chin and wrapping his arms around his shins - or at least, he tried to. He couldn't feel himself doing it, and that worried him even more. He was deaf, blind and paralyzed: a lump under a thick blanket he couldn't even feel. Where was he, then? On the way down to Hell? Or somewhere else? What had happened, just then, back in the front room of the house? Richard tried to remember. He and GB had been arguing, and then... what? GB hadn't made a move past what he'd already been doing, so who else would have...? ...Mattias. He'd just been sitting there, looking disappointed. But back on the first day Richard got into the house, he'd threatened to help GB string him up for the demons if he ever touched Marybeth. Well, Richard had gone and done it, and Mattias was one to keep his word... Dammit! That must have been it. The old man must have just reached out and did some weird trick that made his muscles
8 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
distend like a hernia, and it knocked Richard out like a swift left jab to the right temple. Well, Richard wasn't going down without a fight. He raged at the walls of this black prison he found himself in, trying to wake himself up. He screamed in rage and anger, drawing strength from that fury. "Get up!" he screamed at his body, as he imagined it - being dragged to the door by GB and Mattias, his face a bloody mess from the kicking they'd given him. "Get up!" he screamed again, trying to beat it with the fists his mind could offer him: "You get up, Running Man! You're not letting me down now! Move! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!" It was the same catechism he'd used before, on the track. All those times when his body had told him he couldn't go any further, he'd shouted at it. He'd refused to let it let him down. Maybe he couldn't run as fast as Carl Lewis, and maybe he couldn't win every race he was in, but he wasn't going to let himself quit. No way - no how. "MOVE!" He screamed, imaging his body moving in time to the chant: "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! MOVEAnd the blackness stirred, ever so slightly. He wasn't awake, he still couldn't feel things quite right, and he was still blind and deaf, but... But yet he knew, somehow, that his body was moving - on its own volition, too. He was not being dragged; He was running. He could feel a gooey, stinging wetness on his face, his neck. He could feel an odd pulling on his feet, as though he were slogging it through muck and slop. And there was an odd weight in his hands: something heavy and oblong... "Where am I?" Richard asked, his voice distorted and echoed horribly. Don't worry about it, Richard, the Devil said, his voice louder and more distinct than usual. "Don't you tell me not to worry about it..." Richard insisted, trying to flail about yet unable to feel his arms or legs: "I can't see!" There's not much to see, anyway. "What happened?" "What happened?" Are you kidding me? "Do I sound like I'm joking, dammit?" No... but... look, I'll explain it all later. Right now... um... "You talk to me, motherfucker! Uh... hold up The Devil's voice changed, just then. Richard heard something that sounded like insects crawling over one another. Insects crawling through the dirt, whispering clicks and long, wet chirps into one another's ears. Exchanging words only things that small can know. Terrible words. "Where am I?" Richard demanded, feeling very soiled all of a sudden, just hearing that... Don't worry about it, Richard. It's like I told you. Everything's under control. "What? What are you--" Shhhh! I need my concentration, here. If I screw this up, it'll all have been for nothing. You don't want to go back to Hell, do you? "What...? What are you doing?" The same thing I've been trying to do all along, Richard. Help you. Now trust me for a change? "But..." Richard started to say, and then everything went blank yet again. He couldn't feel the sludge running over his forehead, or anywhere else. He couldn't imagine what it must be like. Something had risen up like a smothering blanket to block out what little he'd gotten back. "NO!" He screamed. Not now. He wasn't going back to nothing, again. Something was wrong here and he was going to get to the bottom of it, even if he had to tear heaven and earth apart to do it. "Come on... Lord Jesus, I'm praying to you, here," he said, doing his best to recreate whatever accidental trick had brought his senses back to him, however briefly: "Don't let the Devil do this to me. Maybe I haven't been what you wanted me to be, and I'm sorry... God I'm so, so sorry... but please... just this once... let me get some control over the situation, here. Please!"
9 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
If Jesus was listening, he wasn't acting. The blackness remained, and Richard despaired. What was wrong, here? What was going on that even God's own son couldn't help him out? And then he felt it. Even here - wherever 'here' was - in the darkness and the gloom, cut off from his real senses, he could feel something else out there. Something awful. Something bad. Something that felt like what it had felt like to see that big, black wall coming closer to the house - only a hundred times worse. Something that felt like the black, inky sludge that gums up an ink pen. Smelled worse than pig shit right out of the hog. Felt worse than bringing home all F's, or seeing your father bitterly disappointed in you. Hurt worse than the woman you loved saying she never wanted to see you again. It was something - some THING - that took all those awful, pathetic and gross things and wrapped them up into a tight, terrible ball as black as night and as heavy as a water-logged corpse. It made him feel sick. Even with no stomach to lose, he felt nauseous. And with each passing moment, it got worse and worse. It was like being buried alive in heavy, bug-infested dirt. You have it something horrible said. Not a question, but a statement, and each word made the feeling of being buried alive all the more horrifying and intense. And the voice... "Oh Lord..." Richard mumbled, fighting off the urge to scream: "Oh Lord Jesus, please... please get me out of this... please..." The sickness grew. The dirt went past his eyes and trickled through his hair into his scalp. The shit smoked and steamed on his bare, twitching flesh. Somewhere, someone lovely was walking away, not wanting any part of the wonderful world they'd shared right up until now. Father was asking what he'd done to deserve him. Over and over the feelings of despair and defeat went around and around, dragging Richard's soul down into a black, endless whirlpool from which there was no escape. Is this Hell, again? He kept wondering as he went further and further down, not knowing anything except the feeling of falling faster and faster... right down into a blackness he could both see and feel... Something dark and unlovely laughed at him. And Richard, sensing the end was near, started to scream... *** ...and then, there Richard was, in a heap on the floor of the front hallway of the house. Demons were bellowing out in the distance, louder than he'd ever heard them before. The Storm outside was going by so fast that it was nothing but black, screaming swirls. Droplets of rain and muck were wafting in through the open door. The ground itself was shaking, as though they were caught in an earthquake. The wolf was on them, then. Richard was leaned up against one wall, face feeling like six miles of bad road and his body soaked clear to the bone with that damnable rain. He was cold and sticky, as though he hadn't showered for weeks. And he felt tired and weary, as though he'd been exerting himself, but he had no memory of any such thing. Beside him was God-Bespoke, or what was left of him. His body was torn and lacerated, as though he'd gone a few rounds with an alligator and just barely staggered away. Nasty collections of bitemarks ringed his arms and legs, and three fingers on his left hand were missing, along with his right kneecap. A dark, black substance was trickling from the wounds and pooling on the floor beneath him. And he did not look happy: not one damn bit. Across from them both was Mattias. His eyes were stern and humorless, as ever, and they were locked right on Richard's face. In his hands he held God-Bespoke's breech-loader, and it was as wet as the two of them. How'd it gotten out there, in the storms? How had either of them? What was going on...?
10 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"What..." he tried to ask. "You were taken over by your Shadow, Richard," Mattias said, either guessing Richard's question or needing to state the obvious: "You struck God-Bespoke, took his weapon and ran out into the Storm." "The Devil... possessed me?" "Your Shadow!" Mattias bellowed: "Damn you! When are you going to learn? You never listen to anything we try to tell you-" "Well how much of it am I supposed to believe? Huh?" Richard yelled back: "Half the time you tell me too much, and the other half you won't tell me a god damn thing! I'm sick of playing charades just to get a simple answer!" That stopped the old man - cold. His face went a little puffier than usual, as though he were getting ready to make things break at a distance... "Why would we be tellin' you lies?" God-Bespoke asked, trying to sit up. His wounds were nasty, revealing things. Had he been alive, he'd have been dead by now. "I don't know. All I know is that I've had to wade through a lot of your horseshit to get to the pony, pal. And sometimes there ain't no horse at all-" "You just watch your mouth, mister..." Mattias said, pointing a finger at Richard's nose: "For all your aching and complaining it were God-Bespoke that went out and brought you back." Dead silence. "What?" Richard asked, unbelieving... "I told you, boy," God-Bespoke said, his battered face as earnest as a dead president's: "Long as you're in this house, you're my flock. You go astray, I got to get you back." Richard opened his mouth to say something - that 'boy' thing again - but stopped before the words could be formed. He'd saved him. God-Bespoke had saved him. All they'd ever done since Richard had arrived was argue and fight. There'd been nothing in his eyes but anger, mistrust and hatred the entire time. If there was anyone in the house that Richard wouldn't have minded seeing blasted off the face of this hell, it was GB... And yet... he'd saved him. "I... I don't know what to say..." Richard stammered. "'Thank you, God-Bespoke' would be the polite thing," Mattias pointed out: "But don't get too full of yourself. You did take his gun." "I think it was pointed at me at the time?" Richard said. "Aw..., I wasn't gonna use it..." GB muttered: "You ain't worth the bullet, boy" "Gee... I feel so loved." "Naah. If I wanted you hurt I'd just smack your head with it." "And probably break the stock, given how thick it is..." Mattias added. "Alright, look..." Richard said: "I fucked up. Okay? I. Fucked. Up. I'm sorry. I lost my temper and the Devil took me over. I didn't know he could do things like that." "Is that what it takes to teach you anything, Richard?" Mattias grumbled: "Did your elders have to hold you down in a coalpit to teach you to respect fire?" "No..." "Then why do you have to learn everything else like that?" "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know this could happen." "I know," Mattias said: "I know that you didn't mean for this to happen. And I'm glad to see you recognize your error, Richard... but that was a bad and foolish mistake. It could have cost us." "It cost me a bit, I'll tell you," GB piped up. "And it could have been avoided," Mattias continued: "You have had many chances to have God-Bespoke deal with your Shadow, and yet you have refused." "I know-" "You know nothing, mister, and every attempt to teach you has been cast aside. And do you see where this has led to?" Richard said nothing. His mind was whirling around the thought that his worst enemy had saved his life, such as it was. That and the fact that Mattias was right: he had been too proud to take what aid there was, or learn anything new. "Look at me, Richard..." Mattias said. But Richard couldn't. He waved his hand and shook his head, looking down at the floor, where his blood had finally stopped pooling and started to smoke away. "I said look at me!" the old man bellowed.
11 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
He still could not. Mattias looked down, hard, and shook his head. The disgust on his face was obvious. "I have said little of your problems with God-Bespoke, other than to point out things that even you must see, mister," the old man went on, his voice gaining speed and strength like rolling thunder: "I have tried to keep the peace between you two. I have tried to overlook your dislike of him. But this... this is the last thing I shall abide. "I allowed you to stay because you said you would help defend this house, and you have. But I will not be undone from within because of the dislike you two have for one another. If you wish to stay in this house, you will let God-Bespoke tend to your Shadow." That did it. Richard's eyes went from the floor up to Mattias' face. "That is all there is to it, mister," the old man said, and then, by degrees, turned and left the room. Richard didn't know what to say. He might have protested his innocence, but he had none to spare. He might have complained about GB's intolerance, but he had just as much to go around. He felt as bad as GB looked, and... Off in the distance, he heard Marybeth humming. Or maybe she was talking to Mr. Bear. Her voice was sweet as honey, making him feel like hugging the whole world, and... "Jesus..." he muttered, looking back down at the ground. You aren't going to just sit still for that, are you? He didn't say anything in reply. There was nothing to say. Nothing at all. *** The first stroke of the whip was like fire on Richard's back. Just like fire. It was a nasty, fast flash of pain, followed by a sudden, wet cool feeling, and then a slowly-building, hot itch that got worse and worse with each passing second. And then, just when it couldn't possibly get any worse, another line of fire cracked across his back. And another. And another. And another. And another. And - he is sitting at a desk. It is 1st grade with Mrs. Dithers. The room is dark. They are watching a movie. It is black and white. The kid next to him - what was his name? - is crying. There is a young man on the ground, in the movie. He is wearing a t-shirt and jeans. His skin is the same color as the asphalt he is lying on, almost. He is hugging a fire-hydrant as a jet of harsh, fast water splashes over him. He has got his head down as best as he can. And then the dogs get him. Big dogs. Biting, angry dogs. The kind of dog you would see behind a chain-link fence with a big, white and red sign saying "BEWARE OF DOG" on it, somewhere. Police dogs. And they bite him. They maul him. And he cannot fight them off because he is trying not to be swept away by the spray of water on him. And though the movie is silent, somehow Richard knows he is screaming. Mrs. Dithers is up front, by the screen. She has her face buried in a handkerchief. She cannot bear to watch this. It is too terrible, and yet it must be seen. It must be understood. It must be remembered. It - 's against the rules, man," Richard is saying in the darkened, smelly lockeroom to Max, who has just said the craziest thing ever.
12 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Oh, come on," Max says, leaning against the row of lockers: "It's just chemistry, man." "It's a cheat is what it is." "Okay... so you don't stock up on carbs before the big run?" Richard thinks, and then shrugs: "Yeah, but that's food. That's different." "Why? Because it comes in a bar instead of a pill?" Richard shrugs again: "It's against the rules, and that's good enough for me. I don't need the coach riding my ass any more than he already does." "Who's to know?" Max asks, sitting down beside Richard: "Just come talk to this guy, man. It's harmless, and I guarantee you'll be improving your timing by at least ten seconds." A moment of silence slips by. Richard thinks of the steel in his coach's eye, and the disappointment that sometimes flashes behind them. Disappointment at Richard, and his legs, and what the two of them just can't seem to do. "Well, wouldn't hurt to listen, at least," Richard sighs. "That's the spirit," Max says, slapping him on the back: "Meet me in two hours at Lucky's." Richard just looked at Max, prompting the other guy to smile again: "Hey, come on... there ain't nothing - to fear, Richard," Sister Music says. Brother Quiet's hands are growing warm on the back of his neck. Very warm. Uncomfortably so... and yet, he does not try to squirm away. No matter how hot her hands become - and he can smell his skin burning beneath them - he does not move nor cry out. "Fear is our worst enemy," she whispers in his ear as Brother Quiet's hands burn into his neck: "Fear makes us foolish." "Doesn't it save us, though...?" Richard asks: "I mean... sometimes, fear gets us to not do something stupid." "Sometimes," she agrees: "But that is not fear, Richard. That is instinct. You must always be careful to listen to what your mind is truly telling you." He nods, gritting his teeth as Quiet's hands become red-hot. He can feel his skin cracking from that dull, horrid heat... and yet - something is wrong. Something has not gone according to plan, and It knows this. This is not how the thing is supposed to have gone. Something is wrong. The elders... Its teachers.. they had described this process in loving, exquisite detail. "As above, so below" they had said with borrowed smirks and knowing, stolen eyes. There should have been something more. Something ELSE. Something is wrong. The form is resisting Its control. The deed is starting to leak through, in spite of the state of control established. Control is being lost... It has to get out... get away... let the form loose to go do what it would so It could decide what to do next... Something is wrong. It is all falling apart around It. Falling down as the form runs screaming from the murder room and down the hallway. Falling down as the room's dark reflection buckles and warps, straining to contain the meal it has just devoured... Or is it... oh... Oh no. No... The form is screaming. So is It. Something is wrong *** -Richard fell to the floor, his hands still touching the wall he'd been up against. His back was a webwork of fire-lines. Something warm and wet was running down his legs and onto the floor. He was so weak that he could barely get his head over his neck to look up.
13 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
But it was over. Somehow he knew it was all over. "You alright?" God-Bespoke asked, but Richard couldn't say anything. The pain was such that it had driven all breath from him. There was a hand on his back, now. It was God-Bespoke's, and with the touch came a measure of healing. "Just breathe easy..." he said: "Just rest there. Don't try to move just yet." "How..." Richard panted, wincing as the hand forced his skin to close up: "How long..." "Just sit still, damn it... you had a lot of it in you..." "How... how long... how long... were we...?" "I dunno... it look like I got a watch?" "How... long?" God-bespoke sighed: "Three minutes, I reckon. I count to ten between swings... does more good that way..." "Three...?" "Yeah... about eighteen swings. That's three minutes, right?" Richard went quiet. God-Bespoke went on about how this was a bad case, and than if he'd come to see him sooner - or at least, more often - they wouldn't have had to go for so long. He explained that he was putting some of himself into Richard to help him heal. But Richard wasn't listening. He was wondering how in the hell all that could have been just three minutes. It felt like forever. *** All told, the experience was as degrading and painful as Richard had thought it would be. The whip had left wounds in his back that seemed a half inch deep. He'd felt the leather scraping along his bones as it cut through the skin. Even now, hours later, sitting in the chair by the window in the sitting room, he felt as though there was a web of fire-filled pits going down his back. He had to lean forward to sit down. He felt like he'd struggled to not cry out loud, during the ordeal - at least, for as long as he'd had been aware of his surroundings, before those visions came through. But he was sure that there'd been screaming to go with the pain. There had to have been. Just like there'd been humiliation, and anger, and fear and everything terrible that he'd been expecting from God-Bespoke's whip. It felt bad. It hurt. And yet ... ...yet there was also peace. Glacial calm. The odd sense of being unburdened that his friends had once given him with their own, more gentle methods. It was the same thing. It had been the same thing all along. A different hand, and a different way, but the same thing done for the same reasons. Richard's eyes slid upward, to the space on the wall above his window. Up there, carved into the wood, were the words GOD FORGIVE ME. Are you proud of yourself, Running Man? the Devil chuckled: Here I'd worked that out so far in advance, and just when I was all ready to help your sorry self out of this mess, you had to"You be quiet," Richard said, a mark of confidence in his voice. There was no sighing or anger there - just a sense of calm, as though he were standing in the best Church he'd ever kneeled in and had the best preacher he'd ever known right at his side, Bible in hand. Why? the Devil taunted: So I can just sit here and watch you submit to more torture? Ha! These good old boys really did a number on your head, Richard... and for what? "For me," Richard said: "And against you. All of you." Oh, I see you've bought the party line? They've got you fooled, alright... "Maybe. And maybe you were the one who had me fooled." And maybe your "friends" were lying to you? The "Believers?" Do you want to go that far, after all they did for your sorry ass? "No... I don't think they were lying. I think they might have had the wrong words for the right things, and maybe that colored
14 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
their judgment... but no, they weren't lying to me. "But you..." Maybe... and maybe not, the Devil went on after a second's pause: I guess it's a matter of whose lies you'd rather believe? "You know... that's the funny thing," Richard said, smiling a little: "All this time, you've been saying you're helping me, or that you'll really, truly help me if I do just one little thing I really know I shouldn't do. And sometimes you're good to your word, and sometimes you aren't... and sometimes you'll tell me what's really going on... and sometimes you'll just lie your little, red head off..." I'm the Devil, Richard. I lie. I also cheat and steal, and I encourage such behavior in others. What more do you expect of me? You should be grateful I help you when I do. "Help," Richard said, smiling a little more: "You want to talk about help? All I know is that, when I was out there, wandering towards God-knows-what, with your sorry ass in charge, it was God-Bespoke who saved me." "Saved?" That's an amusing way to put it. I was trying to help you"Now that's a lie." How can you be so sure? "Taking me out into the worst thing I've ever seen come over the hill? Trying to get me to give the gun over to... whatever? That doesn't sound like help. That sounds like... bullshit." Even a liar can sometimes tell the truth. How do you know this isn't one of those times? "Because it doesn't follow your usual pattern-" Patterns can change. "... and because someone else changed theirs. God-Bespoke had nothing to lose by my being out of the house. So why was he the one who ran out there to get me? I wouldn't have done the same thing for him, but he did it for me. "I think that says something." It says that he's a fool, Richard, the Devil sneered: You just wait and see. He'll come to his senses soon enough, and then it'll be the same thing all over again. "Okay, fine..." Richard countered: "You know everything? Let me ask you a question..." There was a sigh: Go ahead. "While I was being whipped... there was a memory in there that wasn't my own. What the hell was that?" What memory was that? "The one right at the end? Where I didn't feel like myself?" And there was a still, comforting silence inside Richard's head. For once, the Devil didn't have anything to say. "Come on, man," Richard said, smiling: "I can handle the truth. Lay it on me." There was still a silence. "Well... that's just fine," Richard said, smiling a little wider: "You just keep quiet about that. I don't really remember what it was, and I'm willing to bet that's because it's something like what you did to me, back there. "I don't know what it was, and I don't care. All you need to know is, it's not happening again. You can threaten me all you want, or try to scare me, but it's not going to work. "I won't let it." There was nothing but silence. Not even a sneer. Richard smiled and leaned back... and then rushed forward, wincing when his back touched the back of the chair. Ouch. There was a movement outside the door, close to it. Richard recognized Mattias' footfalls, and then the old man was walking through the door. A second later, God-Bespoke came through after him, gun in his hands. They both had serious looks on their faces. The smile fled Richard's face: "How long were you listening?" he asked. "Not too long," the old man said: "A man shouldn't eavesdrop on another's talk." "Except when he's right by the door?" The old man sighed: "Indeed. Forgive me, Richard." "It's okay," Richard said, nodding: "It happens. I guess we're all kind of curious."
15 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"True." There was silence, for a time. God-Bespoke coughed and looked uncomfortable. The Storm rumbled and shook the house, and something unsettling began to scream off in the distance. Something large and unhappy. "For what it may mean to you..." Mattias continued: "I am sorry for the words I spoke, when you came back inside. I was angry and frustrated with you. Can you understand why?" "I do," Richard said. There was no trace of anger in his voice - just calm. "Were you in my place...?" "I'd be just as angry," Richard replied: "I might not have even given you the chance you gave me, Mattias." "I almost did not," the old man said, looking down. "Thank you," Richard said: "And thank you too, God-Bespoke." God-Bespoke smirked a little, but it wasn't his usual, cruel smirk. It was almost an embarrassed smile. "Second chances..." Mattias mused: "That is all we've got, here. That and trust. And trust's the hardest thing to come by, but once it's earned it's worth more than the whole of the world." Richard looked at the gun: "So... is this where you tell me to get out?" "Nah," God-Bespoke said, shaking his head and looking up from the breech loader: "This is where you get what you deserve." And with that, he handed the gun over to Richard. "You ever loaded a gun?" "No..." Richard replied, smiling a little in spite of it all, and taking the gun with careful hands. "I'll show you," God-Bespoke said, kneeling down, pulling a bag of shot out: "You're gonna need it with the Storm like this... and you'll need to be quick about it, if'n those things come over the porch, so you pay attention, y'hear?" Richard nodded and leaned forward to watch God-Bespoke as Mattias looked on, smiling. The gun felt good in his hands. It felt like trust. All Content and Art is copyright 1998-2004 Katherine Burress and Christopher Simmons unless otherwise Specified. Applicable information, books and products are 1997 White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved, any reproduced artwork or text are for review purposes only.
16 of 16
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
Devil's Riddle Part 4

by J. Edward Tremlett (reggies_ghost@hotmail.com) Summary: The fourth part of a continuing series. This article originally appeared on Ex Libris Nocturnis at the URL: http://www.nocturnis.net/articles/wraith/default /2003/May/371/page1.html After the terrible cold, dark wet that is Winter, Spring is welcomed with open arms by those who live around this neck of the woods. The wet remains, of course: it wouldn't be Spring in farm country if it didn't rain. Some days it hovers on the horizon but comes no closer than that. And on others it rains so hard that you'd swear God was mopping Heaven's floor. It's all or nothing, here. But this rain is warm and life-giving, rather than cold and deathlike; It brings smiles instead of worried frowns. When it rains the children laugh and try to run between the drops as they fall from the clouds. When it's dry the farmers fire up their machines and start planting their crops, hoping for just enough rain to get a good yield without having it rot or wash away. Before long that rain brings forth Spring's bounty, and the life comes back to the landscape. Green shoots pierce the earth, slowly spiraling up towards the Sun. Lumps in the ground bubble up as the things below puff out and develop. The flowers climb to where they were before, spreading their petals open with something approaching trust. The trees get their leaves back, the bushes grow fat once more. The air takes on a different quality, filled with fresh, buoyant smells and sweet airs. And everywhere there is the singing of birds, the buzzing of insects and the sudden, sharp rustles of small animals in the tall, verdant grass. Things are growing, and growing full at that. The creatures of the field and sky are engaging in the ancient dances of courtship. Late-night ruttings in the cornfields fill the night air with grunts and strange cries. Things grow luscious and distend, nesting down and promising to bear new things into the green world before long. It's a season of life - the sort of season that makes you glad to be alive. But even in such a time there are things that cause a shiver. And one such thing is the old house, out by the Winters' farm. The house that everyone swears is haunted. Spring has improved the view, somewhat. The squat hill the old, 19th century Victorian Eclectic house sits on has started to regrow its grass. And the field surrounding the hill is filling up with young soybeans once more. Its ruin is contained by life, or so it seems... The vermin that fled - or lay sleeping - for the winter have returned. Bats flutter in and out of the palladian windows at night, and the occasional cat pads past the door with its gothic archway. Past, yes, but never inside. Even cats have more sense than to go in there. The house is just not right. It hasn't been right in living memory. Even in broad daylight it seems like there's something oppressive about it - something that makes you want to keep driving past, or else walk a lot faster when passing by on foot.
1 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
There's a feeling, there: one of being watched by something that means you harm. A look of evil. A nagging doubt of sanity. A sense of death, itself, come out of the boneyard looking for a new, special friend. Just this last year, that awful feeling's gotten worse, somehow. Starting last Summer, there was an odd sense of a far-off - but swiftly-approaching - end to things. That feeling marched closer through the Fall. It continued on into that awful, wet Winter (the worst in years, the old folks said). And now - now that Spring has come and the rest of the world has woken back up again - that awful feeling has truly come 'round at last. Old John Winters, whose property holds the house in its soybean-clad embrace, won't even set foot on the hill. He's hardly done much with the crops on that side, either. He promised to put up KEEP OUT signs around the old house some time ago, but he hasn't yet. Of course, no one from the town is in any hurry to force him. No one's in any hurry to investigate it in on their own in favor of a condemnation order, either. It's best left alone. Ignored. Forgotten. The folks would like to say that none can divine the shape of what's coming, but that would be a lie. These are folks who work the earth, and they know better than any what's happening. They've seen it mirrored when the crops go strange and bad. When the eldest daughter loses the gleeful shine in her eyes, and won't sit in the same room with her uncle anymore. Or when the prize cow bellows in birthing pain for hours, and then shits out a thing that can't rightly be called a calf. Something is growing there, too, in that old house. Something alien and evil - awful and insane. Something that came of no creature of God's, and wishes those righteous things parodied by its approaching birth nothing but spite, scorn, harm and then death. And if you stand in front of the house at the right time of day - when the Spring winds are coursing through its empty windows, back to front - you can almost hear it screaming in labor... ***** The dining room was silent, now, belying the terrible violence that had just taken place inside of it. Things were smoked and blackened on this side of the Shroud. The breechloader was off in one corner, where it had tossed it aside, unfired. Smoking, black plasm was splattered all over the walls, the doors and the dilapidated, crumbling furniture. A pooled, vaguely man-shaped mess of liquid slop on the floor was all that was left of one wraith, sent down to face the Labyrinth for his sins. As for Richard, he was sitting up against a wall, horribly wounded. Sharp spikes that he'd protruded from his flesh were slowly sliding back and away as he made his body heal. His chest was a gaping, smoking hole from his ribs to his waist, with what might have been organs sliding all over his legs. And the rest of his body was warped and shaken up, as though someone had turned his atoms loose from their moorings, pointed a fan at him and then frozen him back up a second later. The pain of healing was terrible; It hurt almost as bad as being horsewhipped by God-Bespoke. But it was a healing pain one coupled with the odd feeling of things moving under his skin. He could feel the structures knitting themselves together once more, like the meat of a roasted chicken being slowly peeled apart in reverse. You know what your problem is, Richard? His Shadow asked. "What?" Richard asked, too damned tired to give his Devil much of a fight. You're too curious when you should be trusting, but when you really should just be trusting... "Yeah..." he admitted, closing his eyes and wincing as what passed for his guts were pulled back inside his chest: "You got me there..." For what it's worth, I'm proud of you.
2 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Makes one of us..." Richard said, keeping his eyes closed. A tear pooled at the corner of one eye and tracked its way down his cheek.
The last few months had been both very good and very weird, to say the least. Most of the interpersonal bullshit between the three men had gone away, after that one nasty Catharsis. The awful wavefront - The Wolf - lasted for a whole two months before it finally died down, but no matter how bad it got, or what went flying past their windows because of it, the three men had faced it down without a massive mistrust of one another. It was uncanny: God-Bespoke and Richard actually started getting along, to the point of alternating Bible studies with Marybeth. And Richard was actually trusting him enough to go to him for Castigation rather than waiting for Mattias to order him into it. Likewise, Mattias was being a little more forthcoming with information about this dead world, even if he still played some of it close to his chest. Pieces of dead history had come filtering through in conversation as well, and while Richard didn't know everything about the situation, he was getting a better sense of what he'd stumbled into. He'd also learned a few more tricks - what they called Arcanoi - and how to tell when his Shadow was getting too powerful. This was courtesy of Mattias and God-Bespoke, respectively. It got to the point that he was starting to amaze himself with some of what he could do. Now that everything was perfect; There were still some rough edges here and there. Some times Richard wasn't so sure of GB was kidding or not, and there were times that Richard let his temper get the better of him. But by and large things were forgiven - if not completely forgotten - and every so often it felt like they'd all been together forever. But there were other things going on, too. Things that - try as he could - Richard couldn't just shrug off. They were things that he couldn't identify or explain. They were also things that he didn't dare ask about directly, either, for fear of messing up the improved situation. Those things were the phantom conversations, and they were driving Richard up the wall.
The conversations were nothing new, of course. He'd heard the first one while he'd been arguing in the washroom with his Shadow, back in the Fall. That had been the conversation with the inhuman thing that spoke with a person's voice, but just couldn't have ever been anything even near human. It was something about this house, and how he wanted it for himself. There was a second one, then, on the stairway. It was the one where Mattias had made his mind up about something, and God-Bespoke was complaining, but obviously in no position to do anything about it. That was back in the Winter, just before The Wolf had shown up. At first, Richard had just put them down to some trick his Shadow was pulling on him. He even accused it of being the culprit, which it, of course, denied: what else would you expect of something masquerading as the Devil? But the more Richard thought of it, then, the more convinced he became that it had all been real, somehow. Mattias had told him of dark wonders out there in the Shadowlands: amazing things that were all somehow part and parcel of this reality. So who was to say that this wasn't yet another wonder? With that in mind, he started keeping an ear pricked up for those conversations, and he was duly rewarded. Ever after, when Richard had been alone, going from one side of the house to the other or standing still, he'd occasionally hear another conversation from nowhere.
3 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
First there was a strange sensation, as though his ears had just shaken out the last droplets of water from a long bath and he could hear everything anew once more. Then little wisps of words would float from around a corner, slowly growing in tone and depth as he became aware of them. But, unlike the previous conversations, he could never make out more than snips of words or phrases. It were as though someone were gradually turning the volume up on an old, scritchy-scratchy radio that got worse reception the louder it became. And the voices never lasted for long, either: they would cruise along at a certain level for a while, and then they'd go away as quickly as they'd shown up, as though the radio's plug had been pulled from the wall. After a few weeks' of hearing alien voices, he'd gotten curious enough to consider asking his housemates about them. But there was one problem with that: he didn't just hear their voices. Much like that first time, there were other voices being replayed as well. And - also much like that first time - he didn't like the tones he heard from some of them.
He'd tried to get God-Bespoke in on the act, once, but it had been something of a disaster. "Can I ask you something, GB?" Richard had asked. He'd been coming onto his watch and God-Bespoke had been there, just watching the Storm go by. (This was, perhaps, a few weeks after The Wolf had crashed down on them, and large, dangerous things were definitely afoot out in the roiling clouds) "Uh-huh," GB had said, shrugging a little. "Has there ever been anyone else in the house, other than the three of you?" GB'd blinked for a moment, and then shrugged again: "Why you want to know?" "Oh... just curious." "You know what that got the cat, boy." GB chuckled. "The cream?" "The what?" "Never mind," Richard had said, shaking his head as he sat down in the chair: "Seriously, though." "Why you want to know?" "Well, it's a good house as far as haunted houses go. I'm surprised there aren't more folks out this way." "The dead don't come out this way," GB'd replied, not taking his eyes off of The Wolf outside the window: "Not now, not ever. It's not that no one ever dies 'round here, it's just that they go on by without so much as a look." "I didn't." "No, you didn't... did you?" GB'd said, turning from the window to stare at Richard. And Richard hadn't liked what the stare seemed to be saying. After a few weeks of being nice to one another it was shocking to see that look again. "Well, I was just running on by," Richard had said, shrugging and looking past God-Bespoke, though the window. "That you were." "You mean that no other ghost comes through this way? Not even one?" "That's what I said. You still got that problem with your hearing?"
4 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"No," Richard had replied, ignoring the insult: "I'm just... well, isn't that a little weird?" "Why?" "There's ghosts all over the place, man. I mean, a lot of the ones back where I came from weren't too friendly, but they were there. I'm just wondering why we're all alone out here." God-Bespoke had looked askance for a moment, and then looked right back at Richard, his eyes boring through him like drills: "It's just the way that it is. There's no point asking fool questions about it. Might as well ask why the rooster's talking to the Sun." With that, the conversation had ended. God-Bespoke got up, handed Richard the gun and walked off without another word spoken. And, since Richard had no desire to pursue the matter further, he didn't. But as Richard had thought about it, during his watch that night, he started to wonder. After all this time in the house, he was pretty sure he knew when God-Bespoke was holding something back. And the question about other folks had rattled his cage a bit. Something had happened, alright. And whatever it was, it had ended badly.
After that, Richard decided to do what made the most sense: see if he could solve this one on his own. He didn't have much else to do, anyway. He'd enjoyed putting puzzles together, back when he was a kid, and this was a puzzle, alright. But unlike the jigsaw puzzles of clowns and cars he'd put together as a boy, this one didn't have a picture to guide him. He really was working blind, this time. That in mind, he knew that he could only rely on what he observed. So he kept a mental tally of what he heard, where and when. And, before too long, patterns started to emerge. The conversations were rarely longer than five minutes, and never shorter than one. He couldn't pinpoint how long ago they'd taken place, but he got the idea that it was anywhere up to a hundred years in past. And they all seemed to have happened within a short time of one another, as though he was hearing a choppy repeat of one day's significant conversations. Sometimes they had Mattias and/or God-Bespoke, and sometimes they had neither. He identified a few other people, like Wilbur, by name, but some of the other players were never identified by the folks they were talking to. He never heard anything from Marybeth, nor anything about her. And the one person who'd scared him that time by the washroom - the Sword-Swallower - had not appeared in any of the other conversations, save by mention, or the careful attempt to avoid one. Each conversation seemed to have laid claim to a certain part of the house. Mattias and God-Bespoke always argued on the stairs - though repeats of that conversation were now as tinny as the others - while Wilbur and God-Bespoke always talked of the ladies of Jacksonville by the back door. A larger group of them talked angrily about something in the foyer, but if Mattias or God-Bespoke were there at the time, they remained silent. The conversations themselves seemed fairly important at some times, based on the tone. But most of what he heard sounded like plain old bullshitting: two or more bored ghosts in a haunted house with nothing to do but shoot the breeze. He heard talk of "Legions" - which Mattias had explained to him, by then - and "Renegades" - which he hadn't. "Stygia" was mentioned, and he knew about "patrols" from his time in Boy Scouts. - but he never caught enough of the context to know how it all fit together. As for the "insurrection," which was mentioned quite often, he chalked it up to talk of the Civil War. While the conversations did repeat themselves, there was no clear pattern to it. None at all. And no matter how many times he'd been treated to one of the others, or been by the washroom, Richard never heard the first one he'd heard again. And that was a problem for Richard, because as nasty as that horrible voice was, and as terrible as the things its owner said
5 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
were, Richard got the feeling that it was pivotal, somehow. A very important thing had happened just then, by that washroom. And with every day that went by his memory of what had been said grew less distinct. But still he kept at it, knowing it was only a matter of time before he got lucky again. If you could call hearing that thing "luck," at any rate...
But, in spite of his listening and careful observation, Richard was never as fully rewarded as he'd have liked. The whispers never aspired to anything further than that. Their organization became no clearer; No method was revealed. And - just to frustrate him all the more - the conversations began to slow in frequency, and lose what little audibility they had, a short while after The Wolf finally died down. It was almost as if the Stormfront's presence had been aiding them along, which made him wonder how real they'd been after all. The impasse in solving the puzzle was frustrating: if it wasn't going to make itself any more presentable then what else was he supposed to do? He'd actually considered trying to talk to the house, itself, once - just to see if he could get it to be a little more forthcoming with its past - but the thought of being caught by anyone - especially Mattias - in the act gave him pause. Things were going too well to mess them all up with that...
"You look like you've got something on your mind," Mattias told Richard one day, when they'd been up in the hallway for a while. Richard was over by the window, practicing his Masquer skills by stretching his fingers out as far as they'd go, and Mattias was watching him. "Other than this?" Richard asked, flexing his grotesquely long, spindly fingers. He'd been able to get them out to three feet, and to have ten joints a digit, but they still all bent the same way. The old man just smiled: he'd never had much luck with the Masquer's Arcanos, apparently, but he had some definite ideas on how to best proceed, and they'd served Richard well. The old man had been urging him to stop thinking of his body as a "body," anymore: it was just a form, and if he could really believe that, then he might be able to do some amazing things with it. As it was, he could get his fingers to stretch out just so far, but no further. Something always 'gave' at that point, as though he'd reached some limit. Increasing the number of joints was Richard's way of testing that limit, but even then he felt like he was just missing the point... "You are doing better, Richard." "Doesn't feel that way. Maybe that's what's on my mind?" "That's not an answer," the old man replied, smiling slightly: "I know when there's something unsaid." "Ah... it's nothing, really," Richard said, wondering if it was the right time to ask Mattias what GB had brushed off, all that time ago. "What is it?" "Well... you ever have a puzzle that you think you ought to solve, but it's not very easy and you're just plain tired of it?" The old man raised both eyebrows and crossed his arms, and for a moment Richard thought he might be about to get another lecture. But the old man leaned against the window and just nodded. "That's as good of a question about this world as any," Mattias answered: "I have been dead for... a long time. And in that
6 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
time I have seen things I've never been able to fully account for, nor ever been given a reasonable answer about. So I have had to make up my own mind about some things." "Yeah, I guess this doesn't come with an instruction manual, does it?" "No," the old man chuckled, getting what Richard meant: "I was fortunate. The one who reaped me was knowledgeable. He told me much that I needed to know before I was handed to my Legion... but..." The old man paused, leading Richard to ask "What happened?" "Some of what my Reaper told me was proven to be lies by them," he replied: "And some of what they told me was nowhere near the truth, which he had given me, before. Both of them told lies and yet spoke truly." "Or they were both just wrong?" Richard asked. "Perhaps." "That's life, I guess. No one knows everything." "That is very true. No one here has all the answers, Richard. All we can do is ask one another questions, and maybe we will learn something." Richard nodded. He almost picked that moment to ask Mattias the big, burning question. Almost. But something pulled him back from that moment. "Did you have a question?" the old man asked. "Naah," Richard lied for the second time that conversation, balling up his fist - superlong fingers and all - and chuckling: "I guess I just wanted to make sure I wasn't the only one going crazy." "Death will do that to you, if you let it." "Puzzles do it to me no matter what," Richard replied: "It's weird. I loved them when I was a kid, but that was different. This is too real." The old man nodded: "You've had many riddles presented to you since your death." Richard nodded, remembering: "Yeah. That whole thing back with the Believers was one big riddle, sometimes. Half the time I wasn't sure where we were or what we were doing for all the questions." That sparked Mattias' interest: "What sort of riddles did they give?" "Well, there was one really important one..." Richard started, but shook his head: "Naah. It ain't worth a damn, now. They were wrong about so much, I bet they were wrong about that, too." "No... please, tell me," Mattias asked, looking rather earnest as he did. "Well, the Heretics... God, I hate that word. The people who found me, they said that the Devil... our Shadow? It had a riddle for each of us. And once we answered it, we could leave this place." "Transcendence?" the old man asked after a moment, his eyes flashing. Richard blinked, wondering what was going on behind Mattias' knotted face: "I don't think so. We thought we were going to Heaven." "So do a lot of people who believe in Transcendence," Mattias said: "So what was your Devil's riddle?" "That's a bit personal, Mattias," Richard answered, looking off in the distance: "No offense." "Ah. None taken... I am sorry if I gave it."
7 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
Richard chuckled again: "That's okay. Truth is... I never got the chance to ask. I wasn't in any real hurry, either." "Why not? If it was just a question...?" "Yeah, but that's the problem. See, you can only ask the Devil once, and you only get one shot to answer it right. So when you ask it you'd better be real damn ready." "Ah," the old man said: "And if you fail... then what?" "Well... it's like that saying - if you miss the brass ring...?" Mattias nodded, getting the reference. "Surely there must have been some further hope?" the old man asked, eyes flashing once more. Richard shook his head, not wanting to remember the look on Brother Joy's face as he flung himself down the Hell-Hole, weeping loudly as he did. His despair was so thick that Richard could feel it coming from him: it felt like swift, thick waves at sea - the sort that slap your face and try to drag you down when you're already well out of your depth. "No," Richard said: "One chance and that's it. After that, the Devil just laughs at you." The old man nodded and sighed. Whatever had been in his eyes before had faded away: "And, of course, now you know that much of what they taught you was not true." "Yeah, but they believed in it. Some of the people who ran things knew people who'd answered the riddle. They'd seen it happen." "And what happened, then?" "Depends who you asked. Some of them said they saw the clouds part and a stairway come down, some of them said they saw a chariot of fire. Stuff like that... but I never saw it happen. So I really don't know." "I doubt that you ever would have seen it," the old man said, rising up to his full height: "It is just as well that you were with them for as short a time as you were, Richard. Transcendence was always a fool's errand." "So you don't believe there's any way out of this?" "No," Mattias said, maybe a little too quickly: "It was only ever a wishful dream, but it's a dream that far too many have wasted far too much time upon. "No. The only way out is through the Void... and I am in no hurry to go there."
That conversation had put a damper on the lessons for that day, and it also sounded the end of Richard's investigations into the other conversations as well. He was about to give up on it, anyway, as going nowhere and trying to keep it all in his head - and to himself, as well - was getting to him. So he just gave it up, right then and there. Knowing his usual habits, he buried himself in other, smaller projects - not wanting the investigation's absence occupying his mind and bringing him back to where he'd just left off. He also decided that, in a world where you couldn't trust everything you heard, it would be a better use of his time to work on what he could see, or at least feel. As such, he practiced his skin-shaping a little every day, after that. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed daily exercise, being dead, then in the Believers, and then cooped up in this haunted house. The old man was right in that Richard had made some progress with it, and that - at least - was both visible and steady. He also pumped Mattias for what further information the old man would give out about the dead world they lived in. The old man was unsure of what to say, sometimes - and very unsure of what to say it - but Richard found that he would tend to
8 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
ramble and let things slip if he was handed an open-ended question. He learned quite a bit more than he knew before, that way. And he also turned a bit of a corner with Marybeth. Before, their games had consisted of educational things - like "reading," which was also suffering for a lack of new things to read - but Richard figured that she didn't need any of that crap, really. So he told her stories, instead: crazy, funny stories that his grandmother, mother and older sisters had told him when he was little. She loved them, no matter how badly he told them, and that made him feel a lot better. It all did, really: things were a heck of a lot easier to take without the added stress that those weird conversations presented. But, still... in spite of finding other, more visible and rewarding things to concentrate on, Richard couldn't help but feel that he'd made some mistake in abandoning the puzzle. Especially when he walked into the sitting room for his turn at watch and saw the desperate words scrawled up on the wall. The ones that screamed GOD FORGIVE ME.
And then came the day that it all fell apart. It started out fairly normally, with Richard playing with Marybeth until it was his time to come down and relieve God-Bespoke's turn at watch. Today was the day that Richard was due for his Castigation, so he made sure to be a little early; Better relations or no, it never paid to keep your Preacher waiting. On the way down the stairs, he saw Mattias standing by the front door. The old man was looking out at the clouds as they sluiced on by, and though he had his back to Richard, he could tell that there was a frown on that old, knotted face. "Anything wrong? Richard asked him. "No..." Mattias said, not turning around: "Nothing more than usual, Richard. I just felt there might be trouble on its way." "Foresight?" "Perhaps. I told you that I can sometimes see as an Oracle does, but my sight is not so clear..." He turned and looked at Richard for a moment, and in that moment Richard thought he felt nails being raked over his skin. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "Is anything wrong with you?" the old man asked, just then. "No," Richard lied, not even sure why he'd done it. "You look ill at ease." "Yeah... well, it's whipping day for me, Mattias. My Shadow's just being its usual self." The old man regarded Richard, and nodded: "You'd best be relieving God-Bespoke, then." "Yeah," Richard said, and turned to go through the door into the sitting room. "A bit early, ain'tcha?" GB chuckled, getting up and handing over the gun. "Never hurts," Richard said. "Not on your whipping day, anyway," the man said, chuckling a bit more: "I'll see you when you're done." "Yeah. Was there anything out there I oughta know about?"
9 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
GB raised an eyebrow and waved at the window: "It's the same old Storm, Richard. There ain't been much excitement since The Wolf went on its way." "Nothing at all?" "Well, I think I seen another Behemoth out there in the distance, but it ain't coming no closer." Richard looked out the window. Sure enough, there was something the size of a mountain, off in the distance, where there hadn't been a mountain the day before. It was mostly hidden by the swirls of the Storm, but every so often a trick of the light and a chance parting of the clouds revealed its outline, if not its true shape. Mattias and GB weren't quite sure what those things were, since they'd never gotten close enough to see one clearly - thank God. They said they only ever came out during Storms, and called them Behemoths. Richard figured that name was as good as any for a walking mountain, but he shuddered to think that there was anything even larger to be called "Leviathan"... Richard nodded and sat down in the chair: "Mattias thinks there's trouble on the way. I figured I'd get ready, just in case it does." "Well, if'n that thing starts moving this way, you just call. If'n I ain't asleep, I'll come a running." "And if you are asleep?" GB grinned: "Then you two gonna have to fight him on your own. Wake me when it's over?" Richard waved the man off, trying not to laugh. And then he prepared himself to keep an eye on the Storm for the next four or so hours, making a note not to look too long in the direction of the great behemoth; It might start moving just to spite him it felt like that kind of a day. Marybeth came into the room about an hour after he started, complete with Mr. Bear, and jumped into his lap before he could get the gun out of the way. "Agh!" he laughed: "Give me some warning, next time!" She giggled and snuggled up against his chest along with Mr. Bear, who - of course - demanded some kind of a story. "He" always did. "Ah, I can't think of any," Richard said: "I'm sorry." "Oh please?" Marybeth said, moving Mr. Bear in front of Richard's face so "he" could nod and plead along with her. Saying 'no' wouldn't have done much good, as Richard knew, but he was a little too preoccupied to tell anything approaching a good story. Two demons (strike that: Spectres, he should be calling them) rolled by outside. They were fighting with one another, tooth and claw, and rolling atop one another in an attempt to decapitate their opponent. Of course, Marybeth didn't notice a thing, but it gave Richard an idea... "I tell you what, Mr. Bear," he said: "I'm always the one who tells stories. How about today be your turn?" Mr. Bear "looked" at Richard, and then at Marybeth, who nodded at him, and then back at Richard, who also nodded. Mr. Bear looked down at his feet, "coughed" and then nodded, very slowly. "Oh goodie! A bear story!" Marybeth said, and Richard tried not to laugh. This was probably going to be silly as hell, but he was too tired to think of anything good, anyway. Mr. Bear tromped over Marybeth's lap a bit, and then turned and raised his one remaining arm, demanding silence - which he got. "This is a scarrrrrrry story..." Mr. Bear warned: "Richard, can you listen to scary stories and not be too scared?" "I think I can handle a scary story, Mr. Bear," Richard said, really trying not to laugh, now.
10 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Okay. But if you get scared, just remember... it's only a story!" Marybeth looked at Richard and nodded, and Richard hugged her a little tighter: "I won't get too scared if you don't," he said to her, which made her laugh, almost forgetting to drop back into a deep voice for Mr. Bear. "Once upon a time," the bear began: "There was a big castle, up on hill. In the castle was a king's treasure. And in that castle lived a little princess and her best friend in the whole, wide world... a bear!" Mr. Bear raised his hand again, and Richard had to not laugh, again. He just smiled, instead. "And they lived very happy in that castle for a long, long time. They had tea parties and cookies and played dress-up all day long!" "Yay!" Marybeth cheered. "But then, one day, trouble appeared..." the bear intoned, darkly: "A band of evil men stormed the castle, and took the princess and the bear prisoner. And they put the little girl and the bear into the closet, and locked them in!" "Boooo..." the little girl hissed. Richard made a raspberry. "And try as hard as they could, the little girl and the bear couldn't get out. The men locked them in tight, and kept telling them they'd let them go if only they'd tell them where the treasure was buried!" "But they didn't tell, did they, Mr. Bear?" Marybeth asked the stuffed toy, who shook his head proudly. "No!" he exclaimed: "Though they beat and they kicked and they pulled at her hair, the little princess said nothing at all. And though they beat and they kicked and they pulled at his fur, the bear said nothing at all." "Yay! Mr. Bear!" "So the men just stayed in the castle, and waited for one of them to find the treasure. But the castle was full of monsters!" "Monsters?" Richard asked: "Hey, why were the princess and the bear living in a place like that?" "Because these were nice monsters who didn't eat little girls or nice teddy bears," Mr. Bear explained: "But they did eat mean, old men. And they ate them, one at a time. Yum yum yum!" Marybeth laughed, and Richard smiled a little. Yeah, it was goofy, but it wasn't a half a bad story for a kid. Just a bit brutal, maybe, but kids could be brutal, sometimes... "And then, one day a brave, young knight came to the castle," Mr. Bear continued: "And the men who hadn't been eaten yet let him in, because they needed someone to walk in front of them while they looked for the treasure." "So the knight would get eaten and not them," Marybeth explained. Mr. Bear "nodded" in agreement. "But the monsters didn't eat him, either," the bear went on: "And the little princess and the bear decided that they should tell the knight what was going on. So while the knight was asleep, the bear snuck out of the room and whispered things into his ear!" Richard chuckled. He really wanted to ask why the bear hadn't opened the door for the princess and let them both out, but it was Mr. Bear's story to tell. "And then what happened?" Marybeth asked, all wide-eyed in wonder. "The knight woke up, and he grabbed those mean men and threw them to the monsters!" Mr. Bear exclaimed: "And the knight let the princess and the bear out, and the princess and the knight were married, and they all lived happily ever after!" "YAY!" Marybeth cheered, as did Richard. "That's a good story, Mr. Bear," Richard said: "Where did you hear that?"
11 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
Mr. Bear "looked" at Richard for a moment, and then Marybeth pulled him close to her chest and hugged him. "He's too shy to say," Marybeth explained: "He came up with it all by himself. Didn't you, Mr. Bear?" The Bear nodded, though it was a very half-hearted nod of his fuzzy head. "Well, that was a good story," Richard repeated. "Can you keep a secret?" Mr. Bear asked, looking sort of conspiratorial for a moment. "Yeah, sure," Richard asked: "What is it?" Mr. Bear leaned his muzzle up to Richard's ear - aided by Marybeth, of course - and "whispered" into his ear: "It's a true story!" "No way," Richard said. "What did he say, Richard?" Marybeth asked, a grin on her face. "I can't tell, honey," Richard replied, playing along: "It's a secret." Mr. Bear "nodded" at Marybeth, who looked slightly crestfallen. She got up from Richard's lap and wandered off to the door, squeezing Mr. Bear in the crook of her arm as if to make him talk. But the bear said nothing at all. Richard raised an eyebrow: it was a little odd for her to do that, even if she was pretending to be mad at Mr. Bear. He was about to call out to her and ask if she was okay, but something at the window caught his attention. "Hello, Richard," a familiar-sounding voice said, right from the other side of the windowsill. Richard almost leaped out of his chair, barely able to keep a hold of his gun. He whipped the business end around and pointed it at what he saw standing outside, not believing what his eyes were telling him. There were several people, there, not all of them fit to be called "people." About a dozen gruesomely deformed spectres crawled about on the ground, trotting around the figure who had spoken to Richard by name as though they were dogs. There was no sign of self-will in their eyes at all, and it was evident that they were obeying some higher command. Their "master" - no other word would do - was a young, fairly handsome man. He was wearing a dark, simple robe over street clothes, and had his hands folded over one another at his waist. A slight smirk played over his features - an expression that Richard had never seen him wear before, and one that he didn't particularly like seeing now. It was Brother Joy.
Mattias came running a few seconds after Richard shouted the alarm. God-Bespoke stumbled down half a minute later, not very happy to have been interrupted just before his sleep. "What in the sam hill is...?" he started to ask, and then fell quiet when he saw the person standing there, and what was with him. "God-Bespoke?" Mattias asked GB, not taking his eyes off of the window. God-Bespoke stepped forward, took a good, long look at the man, and then nodded, uncoiling his whip. "Yes," he said, solemnly: "I reckon it is." "What about him?" Richard asked, still pointing the gun at the man. "It ain't no 'him', anymore, Richard," God-Bespoke said, steadying himself: "He's one of them, now."
12 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
Richard just looked at Brother Joy, unbelieving. Joy didn't look anything like any other Spectre he'd ever seen. Where were the deformities? How could he have come back from the Labyrinth looking no different than when he'd gone in...? "I see you've done well for yourself," Joy said, unfolding his hands: "It must be nice to have new friends." "Shut up," Richard said, aiming the gun: "Just keep away." "Is that any way to talk to an old friend?" "Shoot him, Richard," Mattias said, raising a hand as the knotted muscles under his face started to twitch and squirm. Behind the both of them, God-Bespoke was reciting the Lord's Prayer, hands clasped before his face. "Is that any way to treat an old friend?" Joy pushed, raising his own hands in supplication: "I just want to talk to you, face to face. Is that so terrible?" "You went down the Hell-Hole," Richard said: "You never came back." "It took a long while, Richard. But I did come back." "Damn you! Shoot it, Richard!" Mattias said, shielding his eyes: "Don't let it take hold of your mind!" Richard paused. Shoot him? But... why? "You weren't at the temple when I returned," the visitor went on, not seeming to care about the gun pointed at him: "No one else was. Where are they, Richard?" "They're gone," he said, cursing his inability to just pull the trigger. How could he be anything else but what they said he was? Why was he hesitating? "Gone?" "Yeah. Gone. I came back from the Labyrinth and they were all gone." "I bet you know where they are, too," God-Bespoke accused. "Actually... no," Joy said, and his eyes glowed slightly. Suddenly, Richard realized that, as they'd been talking, he'd been slowly edging towards the window - small footstep by small footstep - until the gun's barrel was just about outside... He jumped back at the last second, just before one of Brother Joy's "dogs" leaped up to try and yank the gun from his hands. The shock of seeing the thing leap so fast - just like a dog, Richard thought - threw him for a loop, and he wasn't sure what he needed to do, just then... "In the name of Jesus, get thee gone!" God-Bespoke shrieked, brandishing his whip and storming towards the window. Richard felt a wave of something coming from the Preacher - the same feeling he got after a good Whipping. A feeling of peace, and rightness with the world. Whatever that feeling was, the Spectres couldn't stand it. The "dogs" retreated right behind Joy, unable to be too close to GB, just then. Joy stood his ground, but only just, raising his hands slightly as if to ward the feeling off. And in that moment, as Joy stepped away from the window, Richard looked at the man he'd thought he'd known and saw a terrible, alien darkness to his eyes. It was the same darkness he'd seen in the eyes of every Spectre, only Joy had been hiding it, somehow. But no longer. Richard set his mind to the facts, sad as they were. It wasn't Brother Joy, anymore. He was lost. The best thing - the only thing - he could do was put him to rest. Richard's nerve came back to him, now that he knew what had to be done. He looked to see if Mattias was going to do something, but the old man had closed his fist and seemed to be concentrating on something. His face was bubbling, slightly, like soup heating on a stove, but there was no sign that he was ready for action.
13 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
So Richard sighted Brother Joy's face - dark eyes and all - down the barrel, and fired. The BANG! from the gun was louder than he'd expected, making the dogs yelp and scream. The gun jerked in his hands, and phantom smoke lurched up and away from the firing pan. Joy lurched back, holding his hands over what was left of his face. The dogs around him leaped about his back in fear and terror, and as he put out a hand to steady himself - or ward them off - Richard got a good look at what he'd done. The shot had bored a hole right through Joy's head. His nose was a ragged hole, and the rest of his features had collapsed around it. Oddly enough, Joy didn't so much as whimper: it was as if he was completely insensate to pain, not to mention having his face turned into a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces missing. An old song floated through Richard's head, making the moment seem that more surreal and sickening. But he fought off the need to feel angry or sad, and he knelt down quickly to reload the weapon. One shot hadn't done it, maybe two would...? He was about halfway through getting what he needed together when Mattias ended the whole matter. The old man had been awful quiet, just standing there with his face bubbling and boiling. And then he opened his eyes, unclenched his fist, pointed his finger at the figure outside the window... and snarled. There was a sound like a man being violently sick, and then a nastier, wetter noise. It almost sounded like a water balloon bursting, only whatever was in the balloon was a heck of a lot thicker. From his spot on the floor, Richard saw a torrent of smoking, black slop spatter the outside of the house. Richard blinked and stood up to look, not quite sure what to expect. The dogs had run off, yelping and snarling as they went. And where they'd been a moment before there was a smoking pair of shoes. No - not shoes. Feet. A bubbling pair of feet that had, only seconds before, belonged to Brother Joy. Mattias had literally blown him apart, right down to the ankles. "Oh my god..." Richard said, looking at the old man. Mattias just stared at Richard, not very proud of what he'd done, apparently. Or was he just tired...? No. He was angry. Very angry. "I told you to just shoot him!" the old man roared: "I told you! Why didn't you do it!?!?" "I'm sorry," Richard said: "I've never seen a Spectre... a Spectre like that before. I didn't know they could... well..." "If I tell you to do something-" the old man began, but God-Bespoke cut him off, holding out a hand. "He didn't know, Mattias," he said: "And that was his friend out there... what was left of him, anyhow. What would you have done, if'n you were him?" Mattias looked like he was going to make God-Bespoke explode, too. But then he calmed down - very, very quickly, Richard thought - and nodded. "You're right," he said, not quite looking Richard in the eyes: "I am sorry, Richard. I lost my temper. Please forgive me." "No harm done," Richard replied, smiling a little: "I'm not sure if I even could have shot him. Did you see the way he was making me move forward?" "They got a lot of tricks," GB said: "And that's one of a worst, right there. Taking someone you knew and turning them into one of them." "Dopplegangers, I think they're called," The old man said, gently taking the gun from Richard. "I always called them Doubles," GB admitted, watching a Hell-hole form outside the window to suck what was left of Brother Joy back down to the Labyrinth: "Easier to shout out when they're on you, I reckon." "I saw the darkness in his eyes," Richard said: "Are they all like that?"
14 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Well hey," GB said with a smile: "Looks like you done learned something, for a change. That is indeed how you tell them." Richard smiled, not knowing whether to be proud or insulted but not really caring. They'd faced down the Storm, once more, and survived. What was a little jibe amongst friends? "Oh, that aches," Mattias said, heading to the chair: "I have not done that in a long, long time." "Making him explode like that?" Richard asked. "That'll have fed your Shadow, Mattias," God-Bespoke said: "Maybe I oughta see to you, too?" "No, I think I'll be fine," the old man said: "See to Richard. The thing was controlling him. He might have strengthened his Shadow in the bargain." "They can do that?" Richard asked. "That they can," GB said, putting his whip in his other hand: "Best see what we can do for you, huh?" Time - and Richard's acceptance of the ritual - had done nothing to make it hurt any less. The first stroke of God-Bespoke's whip still felt like fire on Richard's back: fire quickly followed by a sudden, wet and cool feeling, and then a slow, hot itch that got worse and worse with each passing second. And then, just when it couldn't possibly get any worse, God-Bespoke whip cracked another line of fire. And another. And another. And another. And another. And - it has been said that you never know what the enemy's going to do, Richard," grandma is saying. It is after church and they are having ice cream downtown, just across the block. He is still in his Sunday best and he is trying so hard not to get ice cream on his tie. Who is the enemy, grandma? "The Devil," she says: "The Devil is all around us, watching. He's just waiting for a chance to catch you when you're down, or when you're not so sure of yourself, and then... He Gets You!" (Dropped spoon. Pale, scared ten year old boy) What can I do? "You have to trust in Jesus Christ," she says, opening the Good Book up and showing him a picture. It is Jesus on the cross, bleeding from many holes. "Jesus is the Lord, and he can stop the Devil right in his tracks. But you have to trust in Jesus, and keep his laws, or else he won't help you at all. "And then you'll burn in hell, with the Devil, for ever and ever." I don't wanna go to hell... "Then you deny the Devil his place in your heart, young man," she goes on: "You listen to yourself, now, when you're scared of him, 'cause that's the holy word of God warning you against the Devil. And then, when you grow up, and you feel temptation coming around, you remember what it's like to be scared and feeling what'll happen to you if you don't obey God. "And then you'll have beaten the Devil." (Smiling boy who loves Lord Jesus)
15 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
"Now you eat your ice cream, Richard," she says, slamming the book shut and looking at him over his glasses: "And then we're going back to your mother's. It - goes without saying that most of you young men are here for the wrong reasons," the coach is saying to them, striding back and forth in the locker room like a proud, fat rooster on top of a shitheap. It is the first true meeting of that year's track team, held in a dingy, poorly-lit basement that smells like foot-rot. There are thirty boys in here, and Richard can tell the new ones from the old ones easily. The old ones are sitting at attention, and the new ones - of which he is one - are all wondering why this man is acting like this. Coaches are supposed to be demanding, but this...? "This is... not... a game," the couch announces, his fat rumbling beneath his ludicrously-tight sweatsuit: "This is... not... a sport. This is... not... the sort of thing you can bank on either." "Well, then what is it?" one of the other Freshmen asks. Richard sighs silently and tries not to look, somehow knowing what is coming next. And he is right: in less than a half a second, Coach is right in that poor boy's face, breathing down his nose. Just then, at that moment, the coach looks like "Smokey" from the old "Smokey and the Bandit" films. "You listen to me... you little piece of spit," coach rumbles, poking a finger into the tip of the kid's nose: "Cause I'm gonna spell it out for you... really damn clear. This is about pride!" "Pride...?" the kid asks. "PRIDE!" the coach barks: "This is what we do here. Our football team... they can't score a goal. Our soccer team... they're all faggots. Our baseball team... don't even get me started! "The only team this University has that means anything... and has ever meant anything... is the track team," he goes on, leaning up from the kid's face and looking everyone in the eye, one after the other: "Year after year... we're the only team who wins. We're the only ones who bring in the medals. We're the only ones who make the alumni proud. "Pride, gentlemen!" And then he grabs the kid's nose so hard that it starts to bleed. "Ten laps around the track... as fast as you can... Berkowitz," the coach sneers: "That's for interrupting me. "And as for the rest of you..." he snorts as the kid cradles his face and runs for the door: "You just remember... I will hound you all into the grave. I will drag your asses through hell. I will spit in what's left of your skulls... after I crack them open and shit in them... but one thing I will... not... do... is let you fail yourselves. "Because if you fail yourselves... then you fail me... and if you fail me... you've failed the school. "And I'd rather you killed me than do that." For a long moment, his eyes are fixed on Richard's. Is that contempt in those eyes, or steel? Richard is never sure - what is going on, here. It's dark and it's night and someone is screaming. There is a face before him, skin pulled tight across a skull. The mouth is open in a terrible, horrible scream. The eyes are shut. This is the one who's screaming There is a knife here. A hand is holding it up, a moment from dropping it down. The hilt is close to the ceiling. She's still screaming. There is a bed in a small, dark room. Someone is asleep in it, under covers. The moon shines in through a window. The scream is still going on. There is a door closing. A man's hand is on the doorknob, pulling it closed. The scream is not muffled by this.
16 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
There is a stairway that ends in an upstairs hallway. A man is walking down it, backwards. The scream is not lessened by distance. There is another doorway, downstairs this time. A man is pulling it shut. The scream is still as loud as it was upstairs. There is a window, by a chair. A man is looking outside at the moonlit landscape. For a moment, Richard thinks he can see the face. And then the scream stops. And he-
- had a lot of it in you," God-Bespoke said, putting a hand on Richard's shoulder: "Sorry about that." "It's okay..." Richard panted, staring at the wall he had his hands on: "Gotta do... what you gotta do... huh?" "I reckon," the man said, coiling his whip back up: "I'd put some of myself into you, but I'm spent. That fight done took it outta me." "It's okay..." Richard said, getting up: "I didn't do too much... maybe I can do it on my own?" "Maybe," GB said: "You know, it's too bad you ain't got none of your Fetters around here. Save us all a lot of doing." Richard looked at the man: "Why?" GB just stared at him: "You mean you never went to sleep before?" "What, you mean like this?" Richard asked: "While I've been dead?" "Yeah. Didn't you know you could?" "Well, I've closed my eyes and tried to sleep, before, but my Shadow always got jiggy with me. How do you do it?" GB looked at him and laughed, shaking his head: "Those people you hung out with... I cannot believe they didn't never tell you how to go to sleep." "Well, okay, they didn't," Richard said, crossing his arms and looking at GB: "They didn't tell me a lot of things. You gonna laugh at them or help me out?" The man looked at Richard for a moment, and then looked at the wall he was resting against. Some spark came into his eyes, then - a flicker of mischievousness that Richard hadn't seen in a long time. "I reckon..." he said: "You wanna try something out?" "What?" "Just stay up against that wall, Richard," he said: "Don't move nowhere. Just lean up there." "What, like this?" "Just like that... no need to do nothing. But I want you to imagine something." "Okay." "I want you to think about... like, when you're gonna go through a door? You make yourself go through it, right?" "Yeah. Every damn day." "Well, I want you to think about going into that wall, behind you," GB went on, the spark getting more pronounced: "'Cept I
17 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM
Ex Libris Nocturnis
don't want you to think about going through it. I just want you to go into it." Richard looked at him like he was on the moon, but something about what he was saying... it seemed to make a certain kind of sense. "And then what?" He asked, leaning back and getting ready to try. "Well, if'n you get in there, and you feel like you shouldn't be in there, then you come on back out," God-Bespoke said, grinning: "But if'n you go in there, and you don't feel like comin' back out... then you just stay in there and try to go to sleep." Richard nodded, the idea making more and more sense all the time. He seemed to remember Mattias breaching the idea, once, but it was a long time ago. It was odd to think that this house should be one of his special things, but God-Bespoke seemed pretty sure of himself. That in mind, he made himself go fuzzy around the edges, and slid backwards into the wall. God-Bespoke stood there for a full minute, watching and waiting with a grin on his face. Two minutes went by. Then three. Four. Five. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, chuckling: "He really was one of us, after all." But then his smile fell, and he realized something he should not have forgotten. He stammered, and looked around him, swallowing as he did. "Oh Lord..." the man whimpered: "Oh no... Lord help me, what have I done?" All Content and Art is copyright 1998-2004 Katherine Burress and Christopher Simmons unless otherwise Specified. Applicable information, books and products are 1997 White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved, any reproduced artwork or text are for review purposes only.
18 of 18
7/24/2012 8:25 PM

Ghost Story - The Devil's Riddle

Enviado por

Dados do documento

Descrição original:

Direitos autorais

Formatos disponíveis

Compartilhar este documento

Compartilhar ou incorporar documento

Opções de compartilhamento

Você considera este documento útil?

Este conteúdo é inapropriado?

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Ghost Story - The Devil's Riddle

Enviado por

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Ex Libris Nocturnis

The Devil's Riddle

The Devil's Riddle

Devil's Riddle Part III: (Winter) Cold Truths

Devil's Riddle Part 4

Você também pode gostar

Ghost Story - The Devil&#39;s Riddle

Enviado por

Dados do documento

Descrição original:

Direitos autorais

Formatos disponíveis

Compartilhar este documento

Compartilhar ou incorporar documento

Opções de compartilhamento

Você considera este documento útil?

Este conteúdo é inapropriado?

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Ghost Story - The Devil&#39;s Riddle

Enviado por

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Ex Libris Nocturnis

The Devil's Riddle

The Devil's Riddle

Devil's Riddle Part III: (Winter) Cold Truths

Devil's Riddle Part 4

Você também pode gostar

Ghost Story - The Devil's Riddle

Ghost Story - The Devil's Riddle