Trollheart

Hmm. It's not quite over yet, though it nearly is. I'll post the final part tomorrow.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

Trollheart

VI: Eyes to see

I'm looking at the black photograph again. I no longer fear it. It does not want to suck me down into its depths any more, I know that now. It is happy to see me. The fact that I am ascribing feelings to a photograph does not strike me as odd. In fact, nothing strikes me as odd now. I am at peace, finally one with my brothers and sisters. I am no longer an enemy, or a confused outsider. I run my thumb along the edge of the black square and feel a pleasant, if slightly painful buzz. The words still march down the face of the paper in rows. They are always the same three words, repeated line after line and column after column and page after page, but they no longer frighten me, or repulse me.

I know now.

I know.

“Any word yet, Benny?”

The newsagent pauses in the middle of taking a big bite out of a cheese sandwich, shrugs and smiles. “Not yet, Rob. But don't you worry,” he says, seeing my look of slight disappointment. “He is coming. You can bet your life on it.”

I nod, smile, take my pack of gum (I haven't touched a cigarette for so long now it seems like I never smoked) and bid him a good day, exiting the shop. Outside, the March sun is blasting down as powerfully as if it were the height of June. There's a pleasant cool breeze in the air, a breeze that gently caresses the branches of the trees and sets them swaying like graceful dancers. I pop a stick of gum in my mouth and begin to chew, my newspaper tucked under my arm. Fiona Hutchinson goes by on her bike, waves.

“He is coming!” she trills as she sails by, and I stifle a yawn myself, imitating her. I feel so tired these last few days.

“He is coming.” I return her salute and continue on down the road. I pass a few other people I know, a few I don't recognise, and am pleased to note that young Harry Mills, who had been struck down so cruelly by leukemia at only age fifteen last summer, is up and about and walking the streets. He looks quite well for a dead boy, but then, what is death to Him? And who can stay in their grave when He is coming? Everyone wants to be part of this; it's almost a carnival atmosphere. The day is surely drawing near.

He is coming.

Speaking of carnivals, I now take regular trips down the hill road to where the fairground still stands, broken-down and alone. But it doesn’t seem sad to me anymore. It’s more like it’s waiting, as we all are, waiting for Him to come. There’s a crackle of excitement about The Devil’s Playground now, a healthy glow, which I originally took - when I was sick - to be dark and evil. Of course it isn’t. How could anything connected with Him be evil? I see now no hazy otherness, as I did when I was sick, when I was wrong, before I knew. I don't see it but I know somehow it's there. The cops wave to me, their faces smiling. They all know me, and I've been visiting this place so often now I'm almost a fixture. They joke you can set your watch by me. I wave back.

He is coming.

On the way back up the hill I meet Marian Farrell. Part of her head is missing, but that's only to be expected when your husband puts the barrel of a .38 snub nose against your temple and pulls the trigger while you sleep. She's arm-in-arm with him, Peter looking quite well; if you don't look too closely you can't even see the thin angry red line, almost faded now, running from one side of his neck to the other. Suicide is such a messy business. But Marian doesn't mind, nor does she hold a grudge against the man she shared her bed with for fifteen years, and who slew her in her sleep one hot August night, then cut his own throat. Bills were mounting up, and when you've lost your job and there's another little one on the way, well, what's a man to do?
Anyway, there's no point in bearing grudges. None of them will matter soon.

He is coming.

I think about what I like to call “the time before my eyes were opened” less and less now, but when I do I struggle with what actually happened. Did I really see my cigarette bleed? Did I nearly choke on smoke? Mister Bennnet: well, that was real enough. Nobody would deny that, with the dead rising and walking among us every day. Some stay around, some seem to hear the call of their graves and head back after a few days, to be replaced by others who have passed on. I think I saw my wife once, but it has been over nine years now and if it was her, well, let’s just say the grave has not spared her. Initially, I was disappointed, but then I thought what does it matter? What does anything matter?

He is coming.

The dead walk but they don’t speak. They don’t see, they don’t interact with us. I’m not sure they’re even aware they’re dead. They just shuffle up and down the streets, silently, like sentinels, or guards, awaiting His coming. We’ve got used to them now. People just step out of their way. You have to, as otherwise they’ll just walk right into you, and that is not a pleasant experience, I can tell you.

When I consider it now, I believe Mr. Bennnett led me to Saint Jeremy's, showed me the path and then, with that icy, dead, direct stare stripped away all the falsehoods and irrelevancies that had driven my life and informed my actions, and showed me how it really was. I should thank him for that, but when you've been crushed to a pulp, and lost your head - literally - well, let's just say it's harder for some corpses to leave the cold embrace of the soil.

The men in black remain at my house. How did I ever think it was my house? How arrogant: it's not my house. It's not their house. Like everything, it is His house. Everything we have belongs to Him, and there is nothing we would not do for Him. We know – we all know – that we will quite likely be required to give our lives for Him. We are happy to do it. We want to do it. We chafe, we champ at the bit to do it. We wish He was here now, so that we could offer Him our lives and hope that He would accept the paltry gift, but we console ourselves by reminding each other that the day is nearly here.

He is coming.

The men in my house knew, they knew as soon as I returned home that night, and they all took off their shades, and I was able to share in what they had known for so very long. Perhaps they were aching to show it to me, to reveal the truth, but could not. Or maybe they didn't care. Either way, as soon as they realised I was one of them now, they opened up to me and I wondered why I had ever feared them, hated them, wished they would go. I have even forgiven them for the destruction of my garden. After all, what does it matter? Soon, everything will be destroyed, to be built anew. All we have known, all we have clung to in our stupid blindness all our lives, all we have believed and all we have held dear and important will tumble down in the dust to the sound of echoing, mocking laughter. Much of it may be ours.

He is coming.

But my friends are never far these days. I've stopped listening to Springsteen – stopped listening to music entirely. What is the point now that I know what I know? Keith and I still meet up but we spend most of our time discussing how He is coming, and when He might be here. Once, soon after my eyes were opened, Keith suggested that we should go see Bruce in New York, but I pointed out the very real danger that we had to consider: what if, while we were away, He came? We both started trembling violently at the thought, the pure horror of missing the momentous day, and the subject of leaving was never brought up again.

I don't feel like a pariah anymore. I don't feel the eyes watching me, the paranoia, the fear. I smile and tell everyone I meet that He is coming. And He is. I can feel it. It's the thing we're all waiting for. It's what those cops down at the bottom of the hill are preparing for. It fills me with the darkest, coldest terror to think of it, but a wild, exultant anticipation too. I know that once He comes, everything will change. Things will never again be the same. I hear whispers more and more these days, a real air of expectation and excitement is building up in the streets, in the houses, in the pubs and in the schools. You can feel it in the factories, in the shops, on the street corners and in every car or truck that passes by on the road. Preparations have become more intense down at the abandoned carnival, and only yesterday a whole slew of new officers arrived.

Something is about to happen.

I find myself of late thinking again of cockroaches, and how they are likely to be the only survivors left on this world.

We are all cockroaches now.

He is coming.

I hope He gets here soon.

I anxiously await His arrival, as do we all.

Don’t you?

Of course you do.

How could you not?

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

rubber soul

I'll wait until Thursday to post mine then. it will give me time for one more going over.

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Oriphiel

Regardless of who He is, or what might happen when he comes, I think we can all agree that the main character is better off for having dropped Springsteen.

Anyway, twas a groovy story, TH.

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rubber soul

Ah-ha, so he is dead. I'm not a bible scholar, but I think I remember something about the dead rising from the graves at the second coming. Was this what you're going with, Trolls, or is it at least an influence?

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Trollheart

Thanks man. Means a lot, coming from you.
As I'm sure you know, a good writer never reveals his thought processes or explains the ending.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

rubber soul

I can buy that. Okay, I'll unveil my short story tomorrow morning. Brace yourselves.

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rubber soul

Wow, I almost forgot.

Okay, as threatened, er, promised...


My Friend The Monster


“Mommy, there’s something under the bed.”

“Oh, for Christ’s Sake, Timmy, go to sleep.”


Timmy Moore was a frail little kid of about eight. He was a sweet natured kid, but that wasn’t an advantage for him at school, where he was often teased and had to deal with the school bully, Billy Stevens, who always shook him down for his lunch money. He wasn’t Billy’s only victim, but Timmy seemed to be his favorite target. A few times, Timmy would come home with bruises on his arms, but his busy parents never seemed to pay much mind. You see, Timmy was an only child, but never received much attention from his parents. Timmy felt like the loneliest kid in the world.

In fact, the only company he seemed to have was a strange creature that kept making munching noises underneath his bed. Sometimes, Timmy would talk to him. The monster never wanted to hurt him like other monsters might. Of course, the monster was afraid of Timmy’s parents as all monsters fear adults. We knew this because every time Timmy’s mother went to check on Timmy to tell him to be quiet, the monster wouldn’t make a peep. “Mommy,” Timmy would plead, “there’s a monster under my bed and he’s eating something.”

“Nonsense, Timmy, you’re making up stories again. Now go to sleep; I have a meeting with a client tomorrow morning and I don’t want you to wake me up.” With that, she slammed the door.

Timmy was forlorn. “ Thanks, monster. You got me in trouble again.”

The monster didn’t reply. All he did was make his munching noises under the bed again.

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School, as usual, was a miserable experience for poor Timmy. Boys laughed at him because he was too skinny, and girls ignored him as if he had chicken pox. The teachers seemed nice enough, but they were nice to everybody. Even if they were nice, they never wanted to protect Timmy and others from the feared Billy Stevens, even the occasional victim who came to school with a black eye such as Timmy’s classmate, George, for example. Miss Underwood, Timmy’s teacher, thought George was being beaten by his father, and the father got in some trouble but, in reality, it was Billy who, by the way, was two years older. The teachers didn’t seem to care though. Billy’s Dad was the richest man in town and nobody was going to mess with his little Billy. So other dads would get the blame when their sons got banged up. Life wasn’t fair, and neither was school.

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Timmy came home to his other miserable existence. His father had his nose in the paper, as usual, and his mother once again lectured Timmy about whatever he was doing wrong this time. On this night, she demanded to know where the bruises on his arm came from.

“Billy Stevens punched me.”

“Billy Stevens, that adorable kid? Don’t give me that; you’ve been falling off the monkey bars again, haven’t you?” Of course, the Stevens could do no wrong; Harold Stevens was Mrs. Moore’s best client and she couldn’t risk losing his business lest she be fired.

Timmy retreated to bed with the annoying monster who kept making munching noises under his bed. He might not have been the best company, but at least he wouldn’t hurt Timmy like everyone else seemed to, especially Billy Stevens.

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It was Thursday and pizza day at school. Timmy was determined to keep away from Billy Stevens this time. He was tired of coming home from school starved to death. His babysitter, Mrs. Appletree, was a nice, grandmotherly sort of person, and she would feed him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but that really wasn’t fair to her.

Mrs. Appletree also knew about Billy, but said there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. After all, Mr. Stevens owned everything and everybody, and you didn’t want to cross him.

Timmy was at school though, and so far nothing happened.

But lunchtime did roll around, and Billy did find Timmy in line despite his best efforts to avoid the bully. “Hey, Pipsqueak,” Billy bellowed, “are you trying to avoid me?”

“Um, no, Billy. Just trying to get my pizza.”

“That’s going to be hard considering you don’t have any money.”

Timmy gulped. He knew what that meant. But something deep inside was telling him he was having enough. “N-not this time. I’m getting a pizza. You can’t do anything here; everyone will be watching.”

“Oh yeah? Well, watch, pipsqueak!” Billy lifted the frail boy by his shirt, and whacked him in the eye, sprawling Billy to the ground. “See, pipsqueak. All the teachers are looking the other way, just like Sergeant Schultz. They know my Dad will have them fired. So give me your lunch money, pipsqueak!”

Timmy reluctantly gave him the money, and the teachers didn’t do a thing.

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By the time Mrs. Moore picked Timmy up, Timmy’s eye had swollen up despite Mrs. Appletree’s best efforts to get the swelling down. “What happened at school, Timmy? Are we going to get a call from Social Services? I don’t need this at work.”

Timmy was thinking maybe she should get a call from Social Services at this point, but they were probably scared of Mr. Stevens too.

Even Timmy’s father was mortified with a feeling of helplessness. He knew Timmy was having problems at school, but what could he do? He couldn’t make waves if he wanted to keep the house in this gated community. Meanwhile, his mother sent Timmy to bed without supper. It was a good thing Mrs. Appletree gave him an extra peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Timmy lay in bed with the familiar munching sounds below him. This time, though, the sounds were not as happy as Timmy was hearing whines of concern. “Billy punched me in the eye and no one would do anything about it. Everyone is afraid of Billy’s father”. And with that, Timmy cried himself to sleep.

Once Timmy was asleep, a strange, large being emerged from underneath Timmy’s bed. He looked at Timmy’s swollen eye. The monster’s face turned angry as he went back underneath the bed.








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Billy Stevens was sleeping in his bedroom. A jar of money collected from his various victims, including Timmy, was visible on the nightstand.

He was awakened to a sound not unlike the munching sounds coming from Timmy’s bed. Unlike Timmy’s bed though, Billy’s bed was vibrating like something out of Poltergeist. “Who’s that?” Billy demanded in his bully voice. The vibrations continued. “I’m serious. You’d better come out or I’ll beat you to a pulp, kid!”

A large, hairy beast emerged from under Billy’s bed. This monster had long fangs and looked very angry. The monster’s mouth was salivating as if he wanted to eat something, maybe Billy. Nobody was going to beat this being into a pulp.

Billy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He let out a shriek that resembled a little girl’s. “W-who are y-y-you? D-don’t hurt me.” Billy became terrified, so terrified in fact, he began to wet the bed.

“I’m a friend of Timmy’s, the boy you’re bullying, and you’re not a very nice boy!” The monster’s voice sounded demonic and his demeanor was quite menacing. While a shaken Billy was still trying to rationalize what was happening, the monster was eyeing the jar of money. “Is this the money you’ve stolen from Timmy?”

“N-not all of it.”

“But some of it is, right, Billy?”

“Um, y-yeah… some.” Billy was shaking like Mexican Jumping Beans were inside him.

“And nobody will do anything about you because your father owns the town. Is that accurate, Billy?” The monster’s tongue was hanging out as if he was ravenous.

“Y-y-yes,” was all Billy could stammer.

A few seconds passed in what could be described as a nervous pause. The monster then gave an announcement. “Well, guess what? You’re going to return all the money you stole from Timmy, understand?”

“Y-y-yes. I promise. Don’t hurt me, Mr. Monster.”

“And with what’s left over, you’ll also return the money to all the other kids you’ve shaken down. Capeesh?”

“O-okay.”


The monster gave Billy another menacing look. “And do you know what will happen if you don’t?”

“Um, you will beat me up?”

“No, Billy Stevens, I won’t beat you up. I will eat you!” The monster took a Bobble-Head off the drawer and ate the doll, chewing it to smithereens in front of the terrified Billy’s eyes. “Do we understand each other, Billy Stevens?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll return the money.”

“And you’ll never bother Timmy again. Because if you do, you know what will happen.”

“You’ll eat me?”

“That’s right, just like this.” The monster took a bite out of Billy’s bedpost. “I’m leaving now, but don’t worry; I will be back! I have an appointment with your father too. He’s about to have a freak accident.” The monster crawled underneath the bully’s bed as Billy shook in terror.

Billy could hear the grunting and munching underneath his bed for a few minutes, then it stopped.

And Billy sobbed in his damaged bed and under his wet blankets.









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Timmy was asleep still as the grunting and munching sounds, absent for a short while, returned.

The monster emerged from under Timmy’s bed. You could see a sad smile through the protruded fangs. He gently stroked the sleeping boy’s head. “ Billy Stevens won’t bother you any more, my friend,” the monster said in a much more soothing voice. He then retreated under the bed and began making his comfortable munching noises again.

And Timmy had a smile on his face.

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Oriphiel

Not dark enough. The monster should have gobbled that little shit up. You can never go too dark.

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|---Deafbox Industries---|
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rubber soul

What can I say? I'm not really a dark writer, but I'll try to get darker for my sequel, The Monster eats the little S*** up.

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