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The Payment |
| Written by cherrie | |
| Thursday, 21 June 2007 | |
Shadows fluttered around. He knew that he was never alone. There was always someone or something out there staring at him. Perhaps there were more. Even when he was sipping a cup of tea, under the evening light, he could sense them around him. He was grateful however that he could not see them with his naked eyes. There were people who were born with the third eyesight which were perpetually active 24/7 and most of the cursed/gifted ones were either insane or dead. These people never lived long. Yeah, he had one friend – Jameson who could see beyond the ordinary matter. “Davey dude,” Jameson would address him and Jameson had always an aura of light-hearted humour around him, bringing joy to those he met. He remembered Jameson’s sunburned hair that would gleam under the morning light and the dimples that would light up his whole face each time he smiled. Jameson had dreams. He wanted to do much for the society, to bring love and hope to the orphans and let the unwanted elderly seek refuge under a roof. “You should see those poor things, Davey! See those bent backs, dirt-stained clothes, tear-stricken faces, can you imagine that they were once like you and I?” exclaimed Jameson each time he came across one of those street urchins. But poor Jameson, he never lived beyond his 21st birthday. Dave felt a cold chill across his back. The shadows seemed to dance about the light splattered across by those dim street lamps, in an eerie motion which reminded Dave of those fluttering shadows that disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. “Jamie, poor Jamie,” Dave found himself unconsciously muttering to himself. As hard as he tried, he could not push those fragments of detestable memories out of his consciousness. He kept seeing those frightful shadows in the backdoor of his mind, those shadows which tormented Jamie and drained the poor lad’s life slowly before cutting the Jamie’s thread in a single instant. In front, he saw a familiar silhouette. “George, what’s up man?” George was his ex-classmate. In those days, the latter was a rascal with a notorious reputation for indulging in wanton activities and well-known for the tattoo that spread across his forearm, down to his wrist, embodying a figure of a dark angel with spread-out wings and fiery eyes. George was dangerous-everyone knew that. To Dave’s surprise, he could sense that his old classmate with a devil for his nickname was in fact, shuddering. Face, as white as sheet, his eyes had lost its once daredevil luster, replaced by an emotion that Dave knew too well. Fear. “My life is pretty screwed,” George muttered as his burly hand reached out for the bottle of ketchup. At Fred’s Fried Food Joint, life never seemed to come to a stall. Cars zoomed past every now and then, the familiar rhythm of the operation of the fast food machine dispenser and the tired and grumpy voice of Fred who was used to the different types of customers- the friendly ones, the intimidating ones, the impatient ones and those with insidious intentions. “What’s wrong? I never seen you so ****** up before,” Dave replied with an expression of bewilderment as George pushed the whole burger into his mouth. That guy could really eat. In one burger-eating contest held in Dunways, he literally swallowed a few dozen hamburgers in less than an hr. George stopped for a while. Tension seemed to rise around both men and for a while, it was as if the air seemed to lurk a sense of hidden danger that was almost primal in nature. Then, his hands reached out to the depth of his pockets to hold out a silver cross pendant, beautifully engraved with Latin letters for Dave to scrutinize. “It reads, “The Light Beholds All Darkness.” That’s your family heirloom. So what’s wrong with it?” questioned Dave as he gazed at the pendant which had been a strange accessory which hardly befits a daredevil like George, yet the latter was known to value it as part of his family’s heritage. George gave a heavy sigh as he turned the pendant over and there were burnt marks on top, that gave a dirty stain on the otherwise perfect and ethereal beauty of the pendant. Dave felt a stab of discomfort almost instantly, and it did not come as a surprise. Some part of Dave knew something was seriously wrong. Nothing ever seemed right after the death of Jameson. Dave was simply waiting for his fears and his gut feelings to materialize. And now, the moment has come. “Dave, you seriously have to believe me. Something is hunting us down… maybe it’s not something.. it is many things. This pendant passed down by my parents, is a holy artifact, it has existed since the Roman times and known to been used for various holy rituals and baptisms. I treasure it pretty much throughout my life, not because I fear anything but because it’s that one thing which my dead parents passed down to me,” George whispered, his eyes burning bright and resembled those of a fanatic. Dave waited for him to continue. George gulped down a mouthful of water and then continued, “I was attacked yesterday. Something came after me while I was at home. The shadow off the wall seemed to take a life on its own and it grew and grew… like a monster that wants to devour me by enveloping over me… and it got me freaking scared... and I was not drinking alcohol if that’s what you are wondering. Something went wrong with that ritual, Dave. Jameson died, and it’s now my turn. If not for this pendant, I would be dead last night.” Suddenly, the lights flickered. “What the hell?!” Dave recognized the voice to be that of Big Fred’s. It was not the flickering lights that exuded a sound of shock from that big burly mean boss of the food joint but the fact that the numerals shown on the cash register seemed to have taken a life on its own and they were constantly changing as if someone was pressing crazily upon the input buttons. Dave closed his eyes and for a moment, he allowed the gift of his third eye to be released and what he saw probably took away a few years of his life. He saw shadows with fiery eyes and balls of energy swooping up and down around the whole joint. Worst of all, he saw a creature with crimson eyes, rotting flesh and grinning puffy lips, which protruded sharp, glistening canines. The creature was almost seven foot tall and there was a sinister red aura that warned of foreboding danger around it. The creature was hairless and its skin was a bluish-white, reminding Dave of a corpse. What are you going to do now, Dave? That’s not a spirit. That is a demon. Dave was stupefied for a moment. Then, he took out his own pentacle, drew a few inscriptions, which he had been taught by his teacher, and flung it at the creature. The impact was tremendous. The pentacle burst into fiery flames and a howl erupted from that damned thing. However, it failed to kill it. Nevertheless, it helped to burn a hole in that creature’s chest. “URGG… Watch out son, PAY US WHAT WE DESERVE or we’ll get ya someday..” growled the demon as it twisted in agony. Then, it disappeared and so did the shadows and those balls of strange phantoms. The lights turned back on, the cash register started to operate properly again, everything seemed to be perfectly normal, just the way it was as normalcy prevailed. “We are screwed… Dave if what you see is true.” George sighed as his head crumpled in self-pity. “Stop telling me the word, “screwed.” Whatever it is, we’ll find a way.” “Come on, do you think we look like exorcists? You are just an amateur magician and I am like... nothing. Oh man, I’m worse off than you,” exclaimed George as he suddenly registered the fact that he probably would die earlier than his friend. “There are people who can help us,” Dave replied. A sparkle of hope glittered in George’s eyes when he heard that. For sure, his friend was resourceful. The spell shop, if you could possible call it by that name, had none of that atmosphere one would expect to feel when you entered into it. There was none of that powerful synergy which could bind heaven and hell or those crystal balls that could tell your past, present and future. In fact, all you could see was just a house – with a very ordinary living hall with Hello Kitty dolls and crystal ornaments that twinkled as they sat on the living table. “You sure we are in the right place, Dave?” whispered George. “You sure are in the right place, George Smiths, born in 21st October 1979. Your mother was a dancer who retired when she married your dad, Johan Smiths and then, that was the decision she regretted the most in her life ever since. When she died, your dad simply drowned himself in his self-made misery, a habit that you appeared to adopt from him. A worthless heritage I would say,” replied a voice so sharp that it almost hurt Dave’s ear drums. George winced too. Dave shook his head. He knew Emily Winstra was probably annoyed. She was his mother’s friend and for the little affections she had for him, he expected that she would most likely demand some kind of payment for any services, which she might possibly offer. But he knew if there were someone who could help them, it would be Emily. She had a knack for knowing all those magical properties and possessed just the right tools for the right results. But it also happened that she did not have the right mood at this point in time. “You rascals should know better than to deal with that kind of demon,” chided Emily as she sipped her tea. “It’s not my fault… It was Jameson, he suggested it!” defended George, clearly wanting to shift all the responsibility to a dead man. Dave was slightly disgusted by George’s lack of duty, not only as a man but also to his own friend. Jameson had been a pal. All 3 of them were equally at fault. Jameson had wanted the money as much as George but for opposite reasons. Unlike George who wanted the money for his own philandering lifestyle, Jameson had wanted it to build homes, homes for the elderly and the children. For Dave, his fault lay in his passivity, his adherence to his friends’ twisted ideas. “Look, if this ritual could afford us the finances we need, we will be able to help many more people. It’s just different means towards the same end. As long as the end justify the means, everything will be fine.” Unfortunately, the ends never justified the means. Dave should have known that, being a practitioner of the magical arts. There was always a price to pay, especially those dark arts. The results would be much faster, much greater but so would be the price. Jameson paid with his life. The ritual had been conducted in Jameson’s attic. It was an old dusty place with hanging cobwebs, eight-legged creatures for company and a worn-out window which gaped like an open hole. When the wind howled, the whole attic seemed to shake, cast in a melancholic feel and tainted with a kind of slow, but deadly violence. It was based on an Inchon ritual which the moon goddess was prayed to, with a sacrifice of a few drops of blood and a body of some sort. For that, the three friends used the body of a dead rat which George had used a mousetrap and that poor creature’s life was ended by a brutal crush, which dashed its small puny life out of that soft skull. “It would be happy to know that it died for a greater cause,” Jameson had described. It was Dave who read the spell and what he read out was impossible to be registered by any form of modern language but the essence lay primarily in its call to the moon goddess who was believed to be able to grant any wish, granted by the sincerity of the callers and the worthiness of the sacrifice. After he read out, all three friends were disappointed. Nothing happened, nothing seemed to stir. Eventually, they left the attic. But according to Emily, the ritual probably went astray. Something might have come afterwards and that something demanded a price. “What for?” George had argued. There was no money or wealth of any sort that had arrived. Emily simply shook her head and replied most wistfully that the spirits were not fair by nature. “Fair play was never a word in their dictionaries, poor Georgie,” she had said with a haunting smile that played upon her wrinkled face. When both friends came out of Emily’s place, George was cursing under his breath. “That slimy old spinster, she acted as if nothing is happening. I hate that mocking smile of hers. For Jesus Christ’s sake, she would be wetting her pants if she’s in our shoes!” “It’s no business of hers in the first place,” replied Dave as his face felt the cold wind that blew across his hair. He heard the howling of the wind. “Oh well, we paid her to help us!” exclaimed George as his brows tightened with intense fury. Dave shrugged. Whether any of them liked it or not, the steps had to be carried out, according to Emily’s instructions. They had to go to the graveyard to pick up a ‘hand of the dead,’ to use it as part of the ritual which would appease those demons. They dug a chosen grave. Under the overwhelming darkness, they could not see the identity of the corpse. Maybe, it was better not to know. The soil seemed to be quite fresh. Possibly, the corpse had been buried for less than 3 days. Emily had instructed clearly that the hand must have been freshly buried. George squirmed as he plunged the shovel in and out. “Damn, I hope the body is truly dead and unmoving.” Dave remained expressionless but he said, “Let’s talk about other things. You are exciting your own imagination.” “Fine, let’s talk…. Let’s talk about your girlfriend, Dave. How is she?” George questioned, diverting from his own horrifying imagination. “She’s pregnant, 6 months old, the child.” “Really? That’s a miracle man! Congratulations! I thought the doctor said that…” “Yeah, it came to me as a shock. He’s a boy.” “I’m real happy for you, Dave, real happy.” “Thank you. I’m also very happy myself too,” Dave whispered as he saw the hand and with a sharp swish, the chopper cut through the wrist, exposing the bluish-white, rotting skin and the shiny white bone that protruded. The ritual that should appease the demons was held again in Jameson’s attic. After placing the given rotting artifact on the altar, Dave held the chopper and without a word, he simply dashed the chopper down his index finger on his left hand. Blood immediately spurted out, inviting a suppressed gasp from George whose face was a mask of terror. “What’s THAT FOR?” exclaimed the poor friend who was pale with shock. “A sacrifice to appease. That is my finger unless you want yours to be sacrificed instead,” said Dave quietly, as his face grew stiff from the sharp throbbing pain from the bloody broken stub. George’s heart felt as if it was down his throat. Internally, he felt grateful towards Dave; he would not prefer his finger to be chopped instead. Dave was really a good friend, he thought, feeling slightly guilty at the secret he had kept from Dave all along. After lilting the candles and reciting some language, which was totally alien to George, the ritual seemed to take a life on its own. The wind howled monstrously and both men could feel a terrible presence in the attic. Suddenly, an inhumane voice growled, “Where are the sacrifices?” “All are present here. The finger of hatred, the hand of betrayal, the life of the guilty one,” replied Dave with a calmness, which astounded George. It felt as if Dave and the presence had been acquaintances of the past. There was an evil chuckle. “And the appeasement will be made,” came the evil voice again. All of a sudden, George felt sharp, piercing pain across his chest as if someone had clawed its way through the skin, right through his chest-cage and into his heart. Blood gushed endlessly as a dying moan rasped from his throat and he tried fruitlessly to stop the bleeding with his trembling hands but alas, his hand turned red, so did his clothes and before long, blood flowed onto the wooden tiles. Those blood - so red, so shiny and so brilliantly beautiful, under the dim moonlight, which shadows danced across, free and wild. It reminded Dave the way that Jameson had died. Before his friend died in horror, the eyes questioned Dave to the cause of such a death. “Sacrifices had to be made. After all, George, you are an accomplice,” whispered Dave as laughter escaped him. George’s eyes widened as they looked at the rotting hand on the altar. How could he have been so careless, so blind? In the darkness and due to his own fear, he had been oblivious of that one single clue. There was a ring on that rotting hand that was encrypted, “M.J and D.” Mary Jane and Dave. Only one person would have possessed such a ring. That was Mary Jane, Dave’s girlfriend.
The truth dawned upon him. But it was too late. When George’s last grasp of life was broken, the presence was gone. It had retrieved what it had been promised. Copyright 2007 cherrie {moscomment} |
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