Tales Of The Horror Inducing Kind
There, in the deep seclusion of his magnificent study, sat Sir Vincent DeGalle Valentine, pen poised and thoughts flowing. He had, for so very long, been weeding through the mass of entries that were positioned round and about his desk in the form of manilla paper stacks. But the dread and drudgery work would soon give way to utter excitement, for the time had come. As he sat there, he reflected on what would be hailed as an uncontested success...
When I had first made it official that I was to be accepting true-to-life accounts of events that have left individuals with a certain tinge of the psychological, I was completely unprepared for the volume of responses that was to come. Even as I write the preludes to some of the pieces that I have looked over and accepted, there is still a large number of which that haven't been as much as touched, which I attribute to the silliness of some submissions. It was very distressing to be presented with--at some junctures--stories that were clearly not aiming to be considered for publication: authors (dare I call them so?) who had no real interest in the contest or its rewards. To say that I was shocked by these occurrences would be--of course-- incorrect, as I was expecting it to a degree, but not to the degree of which I encountered. This encounter has left me with a reluctance to relive even a shard of what was the contest, and it may be some time before I embark on a similar endeavor.
Disappointments aside, there have been some stories that I've come across that were absolute jewels, and--with a little editing on my part--they will forever shine in the pages of this anthology. Let us now begin with this remarkably disturbing psychological piece, one that Daniel Marrow of Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, coins as "The Centipedes."
The Centipedes
Oh, the horror! Every waking moment of my existence is pitted against them. How I so despise them! To me, they possess nary a virtuous quality. Nary a virtuous quality indeed! Some may say that I am mad because of my obsession with these creatures, but if you were to see them as I see them then you too--like me--would hardly see yourself as mad. Should a man be considered mad because of justified aversion? Should a man be considered mad because he is the target of a group of hundred-legged monstrosities? Hardly! No, my friend, I am not mad. Far from it. As I stated earlier, I am simply the target. There may be more, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of targets, but I only know of my own woe. Perhaps it would be best now to explain my most extraordinary predicament. Yes, that would be a very wise step to take. I shall let you decide for yourself who's mad and who's not mad. What follows is a very detailed account of my encounters with them, the centipedes.
Well then, how shall I begin? It is possible to describe how I first came to a state of repulsion with the centipedes. All throughout my early childhood I possessed a certain fascination with creepy crawlers. I can remember very vividly how I used to bury ants in holes in the concrete with spittle and dirt, thus forming mud. And then, when the concoction dried up, I'd dig the creature out of the dirt and let it be on its way. The removal of rocks and observation of active bugs was another pastime that I frequently indulged in. It pleased me to see the intermingling of the different species of bugs, so I'd find as many as I could and place them in a jar and watch, watch as they moved about. I enjoyed watching the tiny ants rebuild their soil paradise after I'd disrupt it. I also enjoyed watching the ants communicate with their little antennas. As you can see, as a child, I had erected a very significant pastime with bugs.
What you may or may not have noticed, though, was the complete absence of me hurting these tiny creatures. As a child, never would I ever think to injure or maim these creatures. I was in complete harmony with them, and they with me. But that all would change with my first viewing with a centipede. That first encounter is intensely burned in my psyche. I remember every little detail, every inlet, every dimly lit corner. I was around twelve years old at the time. I was watching one of my favorite television shows, Scooby-Doo, Where Are You, when--quite suddenly--my attention was captured by a singular creature scaling up the wall and heading away from the television in the living room. What it was I could not tell, I had never seen one before. I was suddenly torn by two emotions: curiosity and intense aversion. The thing was so much bigger than any of the other bugs I'd played around with. The thought had come to pick the creature up and stroke it in my hand, but I was hesitant, and for good reason. I kept asking myself why did it have to be so big? I struggled with curiosity and aversion for a good while, as the creature stood motionless on the wall, laughing at my trepidation, mocking me. After a time, an urge to kill the creature began to supplant all of my other feelings and I quickly ran into my room where my shoe was and ended its life right then and there. It was the first time that I had ever slaughtered an insect, but I didn't care. I was glad to see the thing dead and gone.
That day, that singular moment, would change my view of creepy crawlers forever. I no longer cared about the harmony that existed between me and them. All I cared about was seeing battles and great struggles between the varied species of insects. For instance, after that fateful day, I was wont to see ants struggle for their lives in spider's webs. I was wont to see grasshoppers and big ants engage in combat in glass jars. I was wont to see any and all displays of physical combat between the myriad of different species that existed in my backyard. Peaceful observation could not appease me anymore, only war between small creatures. But this was not the full extent to which I was newly afflicted. In the home, I began to see more and more of the creature that I soon discovered was called a centipede, and I began to come up with diabolical ways to end their lives.
Once, I captured a centipede in a glass jar, closed and tightened the lid, placed some flammable liquid in one of those holes in the concrete of my backyard, watched as I placed the centipede inside of it, and lit a match. I watched in glee as the centipede ran out of the now burning liquid and crumpled up and died because of the fire. Another time, I put on some latex gloves, picked up a centipede and tore it in half. Another time, I busied myself by pulling out the legs of the creature, one by one, then two by two, and then again three by three. Yes, my entire outlook on bugs had changed. I was completely reborn and all of this was thanks to that fateful encounter with my first centipede.
Well, as it so happens, I began to grow up at around the age of fifteen. Torturing bugs no longer pleased me. Other, much more positive things, began to take my interest. I became immaculately interested in watching sports on the television. Specifically, it was football and basketball that grabbed my attention. After church on Sundays I'd come home with great merriment to watch Sunday's games and I'd stay up incredibly late on Monday nights to watch Monday Night Football. And, as a teenager, I had the incredible fortune of watching my hometown Detroit Pistons win two championships back to back. Yes, those were my golden years. My cruel actions perpetrated against the many bugs in my backyard and the centipedes in my house began to sink into the deep recesses of my mind.
I graduated from high school in the 1991-92 school year. It was an exciting time to be sure. I was not what you'd call an introverted lad, I was very much an extrovert and had made many a friend throughout my high school years. I might even go so far as to say that I was quite popular. This was evidenced in the riotous celebration when my name was called to receive my diploma and I walked across the stage. Next on my doorstep was college. I had maintained, throughout my high school years, a 3.0 average, and I was determined to repeat if not exceed those numbers in my college years. My major was journalism. I had discovered a penchant for writing around the tenth grade and decided to explore the possibilities of such an undertaking. I worked for the school paper throughout my four years of chasing my bachelor's, and after I received that recognition I went on to capture my masters.
Finding employment after college proved easy enough. I found a job as a full-time journalist at the Detroit News. Mostly I would write about topics affecting the social conditions of the city, such as a racial injustice here, or a mayor's foul up there. However, there were many other times when I'd write about criminal activity and the like. I lived with my parents for a while after graduation until I found a very nice home in a suburb of Detroit that set me back $350,000. In terms of establishing relationships with the opposite sex, there was a few women at my place of employ that caught my eye, but dating women was something that I had set aside for the time being. I wanted to get situated in my new home, to have the freedom to decorate it as I choose without a woman to interfere. It was true, things were going quite well for me. And then something inexplicable happened...
I had experienced a very vivid dream. I was alone in my newly purchased home, watching a little television, when it suddenly turned off. I tried to turn it back on but my endeavors proved fruitless. The thought came that perhaps there was a power outage so I stood to turn on a light and it worked. The thought came that perhaps the plug had been placed carelessly inside of the socket, so I checked and it was firmly inserted. I tried turning on the television again but it was to no avail. I was completely baffled. Thus I sat there in my recliner, wondering what might've went wrong. Then, quite suddenly, the television switched back on and I saw myself torturing bugs from my childhood. It was a rather queer occurrence to say the least. I was utterly awestruck as I watched attentively to every minor detail of the actions that I had committed against the insect kingdom. Then, my attention was directed towards a centipede that walked up and along the wall from behind the television. My eyes were transfixed, I couldn't move them. From my spot on the recliner I could tell that its antenna were moving about wildly. Suddenly, the television turned back to what I was watching previously and I awoke in a cold sweat.
What had just transpired? I knew not what it was. And so I sat there in my bed, unable to come to terms with what I had just experienced. After a time, I decided that it was just something resurfacing from my childhood years and that I really didn't have to worry about it. But worry I did. I remember that day at the office. No matter how long I tried to forget about that dream it just kept resurfacing. The details were fresh in my mind. The bugs that I tortured, that centipede on the wall and its antennas, all continued to tug at me as if I had committed some extreme crime that was beyond pardon. When I got home that night I was too afraid to sleep, so I stayed up and watched television. Then it happened. I saw a centipede crawling along the wall behind the television. Immediately I went to my room where my shoe was, but as I drew closer to the creature I discovered that I couldn't follow through with my planned action. Every time I'd hold the shoe up to strike I'd feel queasy and intensely disturbed. Finally, after a time, I decided to leave the creature be and get some rest, but rest is not what I received upon the closing of my eyes.
I had the dream again. But this time something different happened. I watched as I tore a centipede in half in the backyard of my childhood home and then I noticed a myriad of bugs converging on my spot. They all seemed intent and determined on one singular purpose: to frighten me. I ran to the front of the house, but they followed. I ran around the block, but I noticed that bugs were coming from other peoples houses. I saw a bike on the front lawn of someone else's house and picked it up and began to ride. My purpose was to escape the bugs that were converging against me, but then another horror happened. A centipede was on my hand! Oh, even today I can still feel every single one of those legs as it climbed up my arm. I tried getting off the bike but I couldn't. I tried to swat it away with my other arm but something was holding me back. The centipede climbed up my shoulder and then its antennas began to move in an extreme manner. Suddenly, I rode into a parked car and went flying into the air, and at that moment I awoke, again in cold sweat.
This being the third incident that I experienced as an adult I began to take serious consideration to see a shrink, and so I did. I scheduled an appointment with one Daniel Marrow who resided in Bloomfield Hills, another suburb of Detroit, Michigan. His office was easy to find, and
so there I was in the waiting room, hand in hand, head bowed low, waiting to speak with Dr. Marrow. There were others situated in the room, but I cared very little at the time for polite conversation. A man dressed well enough came into the waiting room and called my name.
"Jonathan Friar?" he called.
"Yes, that's me." I said with incredible anticipation.
"I'm Doctor Daniel Marrow. It's good to meet you," he said, placing his hand in mine. "Well, let me show you to my office."
Doctor Marrow led me down a corridor or two and I found myself in a quaint office befuddled with medical dictionaries and the like, books about the human brain, plants sprinkled here and there, and a ceiling fan that spun around and around. He sat at his desk and I sat across from him. I wondered how he'd respond to my proclamations. He turned on a tape recorder, placed his hands as a support for his chin, looked at me for a short while, and then finally spoke.
"So--Jonathan--what's exactly is it that's bothering you?"
"Well," began I, "I've been experiencing these vivid dreams."
"Ah, dreams you say? I see. Tell me about them."
"Well, I've only had two, but I was compelled enough to come see you because of them. It all starts with me watching television. Then, quite suddenly, the television turns off. I try several techniques to restore power but nothing works. Then the television turns back on and I--I see myself as a child--torturing insects."
Doctor Marrow nodded his head. I was quite wary about continuing. I didn't want the man to think that I'd gone mad.
"I see," said Doctor Marrow. "Please, continue."
"Well, in one dream I continue to watch my actions as a child, and then my attention is turned towards a centipede scaling the wall behind my television. At this point I am transfixed on this creature, unable to budge in the slightest. Its antennas begin to move wildly and then I wake up in a cold sweat. In the other, more recent dream, I tear a centipede in half and then insects throughout my backyard converge on me. I head for the front yard but they continue to follow. Finally, I find a bike on someone's lawn around the block and begin to ride in an effort to get away from the bugs. But then something horrible happens. I find that a centipede is crawling along my hand!"
Doctor Marrow paid attention to the rest of the circumstances of my dream. After I finished, he remained quiet for a time. I eagerly anticipated his diagnosis. I had never experienced anything quite like this before. My hands had produced sweat, I was altogether uneasy after sharing my dreams. It was almost the way I felt when I couldn't kill the centipede in my house. I tried to hide my uneasiness from the doctor, but I think he could tell that I was unnerved quite easily. Finally, after a protracted wait, he spoke.
"I see. So these dreams you've been having, they are as a result of actions that you took during your childhood years, and now they've resurfaced. Hmm--interesting--I think what's really going is that you were traumatized as a child by these actions and that your subconscious is bringing all of that trauma back to the forefront of your mind."
"You mean to say," said I, with a glimmer of hope, "that all those things I did as a child is coming back because of childhood trauma?"
"Exactly," said Doctor Marrow as he folded his legs. "Torturing insects as a kid has left an indelible impression on you. You were young then, just about anything of that caliber would have. What you have to do now is face your fear. Buy insects as pets. Feed them. Take care of them. Then you'll be free from your dreams."
The solution seemed probable enough. I was greatly relieved to hear anything closely resembling a remedy to this newfound problem that I had acquired.
"In the meantime," said Doctor Marrow, "I'll prescribe some medicine for you to take that will help to calm your mind."
After I received my subscription, Doctor Marrow led me to the exit of the facility and I left. I was to return in a month's time for a reevaluation. I cannot explain to you the great relief that coursed through my bones as a result of Doctor Marrow's diagnosis. He led me to believe that I was only experiencing childhood trauma and that facing that trauma would cure me of my symptoms. So I did as he recommended. I brought a pet tarantula and took care of it liberally. I fed the ants that lived along the crevices of my house with bread. Anything and everything that I could think of I did. And I watched as I didn't have any disturbing dreams that first night. I watched as I didn't have any disturbing dreams that second night, nor third, fourth, or fifth. I was cured, or so I perceived.. Then, one night, out of the blue, I dreamt that a giant centipede picked me up from my bed and dropped me in a giant's spider's web. I was incredulous. The spider came closer, and closer. It injected me with its venom and spun me in a web. It then placed me in a corner of its web, and I awoke screaming like a mad man in cold sweat. I had mistakenly forgotten to take my medication for the day so I decided to take it, hoping that it would clam my mind. It did its job, and I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night.
I lived, for the most part, normally throughout the remainder of the month. I made sure that I took my medicine every night and I was able to rest because of it. But, while watching television, I did notice a centipede here and there. By this time, I had long since given up trying to kill them, as I wasn't able to. All I'd do was simply observe them as they crawled and crept along the wall, stopping midway through, and moving their antennas, sometimes wildly, sometimes peacefully, until finally moving along.
When I finally returned to Doctor Marrow's office, I told him the tale of the giant centipede dropping me in the spider's web. He listened attentively to every minute detail. I also told him that I had forgotten to take my medicine, and that when I did take it, I was able to sleep with little to no disturbance. He vocalized his opinion on the matter and reminded me that I must take my medicine every night if I am to be cured of this illness, my spilled over childhood trauma into my adult years.
I continue to see the doctor every month. The dreams have subsided greatly, thanks to the medication, but I still find that I am not able to harm the centipedes that crawl along the walls of my home. And so they stand there, laughing at me, mocking me. Oh, the horrors that I have seen! I can't find rest in any avenue. At work I think about them, at home I see them, and yet if I only had the gumption to get rid of them, I would, but I don't. They just stand there on the wall, greatly upsetting me. It's as if they know the crimes that I've committed against their kind, and they've come back to execute justice. But I must win through! One day I will be able to rise up against them, to strike them down. But until that day comes I must endure, I must endure the antics of the centipedes. Oh God, have mercy upon my poor soul!
Sir Vincent DeGalle Valentine was putting the finishing touches on the conclusion to the first story in his newly announced anthology when suddenly he was disturbed by a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning. He glanced out of the window that sat behind him and caught sight of droplets of rain pitter pattering on the concrete. It startled him immensely, the thunder, as he was intensely focused on sharing his thoughts about Daniel Marrow's "The Centipedes" with his readership...
As you can see, I have selected only the most disturbing and psychologically moving pieces. I knew from when I first began reading Daniel Marrow's "The Centipedes" that it had to be in my newly announced fan anthology. It possess everything that falls under the guidelines of my criteria for publishing short stories by my intensely devoted fan base. Perhaps now it would be best to share with my readership some of the details concerning the case of Jonathan Friar that the psychiatrist and writer, Daniel Marrow, shared with me. Included with the story, Doctor Marrow wrote about how he discovered about my anthology competition and wondered if Jonathan Friar's case could be put into print. He then asked Friar to write down a chronological history that revealed the root to his problem, which Doctor Marrow then used to form the short story "The Centipedes." Marrow claims that it took him only two days time to start and finish the story and he hopes that it proves to be a bright and lasting addition to my fan anthology. I don't think he has to worry too much about that. It is my belief that "The Centipedes" will be a long cherished addition to this anthology.
Well, let us continue. The next story comes to us from Dublin, Ireland, by a man who goes by the name of Kent Rezner, the title of his story being "Those Omnipresent Eyes."
Those Omnipresent Eyes
I can't recall when it started happening. I only know that I am tormented by them, those eyes. Usually they'd only appear to me after I'd indulged in the desires of my flesh: smoking, drinking, an assortment of promiscuous sexual behaviors, but the frequency of their visits has been increasing as of late (even to the extent of showing up before I infuse in my activities).
Once, I had engaged in a staring contest with the eyes. I sit propped in my comfy, charcoal-inspired recliner, gazing upward and sipping on a sparkling glass of Chardonnay, of which its source had ran empty. The eyes, staring toward me. Never blinking and always looking. Transfixed. There's only so much of this one can take. It was during that time that I decided to speak to the eyes for the very first time.
"Must you torment me so? Haven't I suffered enough?"
A muffled response. Something along the lines of I torn at me and sobering up. Whatever that meant.
"What's that now? Come again? I don't quite understand you."
The eyes grimaced, which is very strange indeed, considering they were just eyes.
"You speak nonsense! You need mouth. Return to me then. As for now, begone!"
Still the eyes muffled on. I vowed to retract from the staring game and decided to retire that night. I stood and stumbled clumsily, then headed toward my chamber. And that is how my days were to be carried out, confrontations with the eyes.
There was another time worth mentioning. After meeting a woman at a bar, and talking, and laughing, and drinking, and lusting, and sharing a few cigarettes, she followed me back to my apartment, and upon entering we immediately succumbed one to another: kissing, licking, embracing, sucking on face and nibbling on ear, any and all that tickled our fancies. I lie there, in bed, with her beside me, unable to sleep because of the eyes. They stared toward me from the ceiling and I returned the favor by staring back at them, although rather timidly. Despite all this, I was determined not to submit to the will of the eyes. In fact, my abominable activities were to be taken to another extreme with the manipulation of Irene.
Irene was new to me in every sense of the word. It was her first time at the firm, and she was to be assigned a few cubicles down past me. I had never once beheld or come across such unfathomable beauty. I was especially drawn to her hair, which was wonderfully long and as soot, and the light from the fixtures of the room refracted off of it, producing a most eye-pleasing effect.
She was of the pure type, as I could tell, and if I wanted to get along with her I'd have to play nice. So I did, and it was many things that won her over. She'd drop a pen and I'd pick it up while smiling from ear to ear. Lunch breaks would come and I'd pay for her meals. "Oh please, allow me," I would say. "Oh, I couldn't possibly impose," she would say. "There would be no imposition, I assure you," I'd say. Concerning work she'd remark, "Ben, am I doing this right? What do you think? Oh OK, so it's easier to do it this way?" Much respect was given unto me from my male counterparts as well, whom were flabbergasted at how I was able to work my wizardry. Me and my conniving ways indeed.
All was going smoothly, but I knew that I could not request of her, doing so I felt would mar all that I had worked for. So I bided my time and waited for her to ask of me: and so she did, and I accepting, feeling all together good, considering how I'd managed myself over the last few weeks. She sauntered away from me and I noticed a pair of eyes engraved in her back, much different from those just floating around. I called back to her promptly.
"Irene, I...I've just had an epiphany. If my recollection serves me true, I have a prior engagement to attend to that evening."
Her face, it drooped upon hearing the news.
"Oh...OK. Well umm....what about Saturday night then?"
I spotted another pair of eyes, which casually strolled right past her, staring directly at me.
"NO!"
My commotion caused the heads of my coworkers to pop out of their cubicles.
"I mean...I've come down with something. And I certainly wouldn't want to put you in any danger of contracting it."
I made an attempt at a cough, which was flimsy and didn't come off too well.
"I do apologize for this. Perhaps some other time then."
Irene thought on this for a moment and nodded rather dumbfounded.
"...OK. I...hope you feel better."
Irene strolled away with those eyes still there and I couldn't bear to watch. But...I couldn't help but to wonder if they had gotten to her as they had me.
The days, they came and went, as days often do, and my condition worsened. I had developed a most bothersome twitch that plagued me from time to time; I was always dosing off during work hours, and because of the oversleep I found myself skipping appointments with soap and water, so as not to be any later for work. As a result, my personal hygiene was suffering; my hair often remained a mess, buttons were almost always in the wrong slots and my tie awkwardly thrown together, stains from yester-week abided about my outer garments, I hadn't shaved in quite some time and the small strands on my cheeks were becoming more akin to underdeveloped whiskers than a poorly done shave. Many times I contemplated the sadness of it all. But hope did present itself unto me.
I had uncovered that the eyes held no interest in me when I wasn't dwelling on or practicing the things they disliked. Upon discovering this, I decided that the Chardonnay and cigarettes had to go. Their destinations? The trash receptacle. The sex would be no more. None for me, thank you. I was a changed man. But it did come at a price. At work, I all but had to keep to myself, so as not to be infected by the wiles of my male cohorts. And as far as the women were concerned, I couldn't possibly bring myself to look upon them, for fear that the eyes might make an unexpected return.
To my credit, I was even able to avert confrontations with the astonishingly beautiful Irene. She would peer over her cubicle from time to time, seeing if she could not spot me, but I was far more cunning than she knew. I had spoken with a male colleague beforehand and managed to exchange cubicles with him. When she was to speak with him about my whereabouts, I simply advised him to inform her I had been relocated. She looked about wailfully, and I shared her pain. Perhaps after I'd overpowered my demons, she and I would embark on a few tastefully done engagements, and I would ask her to be my wife soon thereafter.
On one of my days off the phone rang, and I was about to answer when I was hindered by a pair of eyes hovering over the receiver, prohibiting me from any further action. Well, I certainly wasn't going to disobey them, so I refrained from answering and allowed its ring to fill the apartment. This was the first time I had seen the eyes in awhile, and it dawned on me that perhaps they were protecting me from some outside force or influence.
Yes, I was beginning to feel free again, but alas, it would only last for a season...
A most horrid time I can recall started at work while I was stationed at my newfound cubicle. A very nondescript cubicle it was: its outer region bathed in baby blue, like all the others, and innards devoid of anything that would tempt me in the least, and definitely free of anything that might provoke those loathsome eyes from returning. Just the thought of them sent chills down my spine.
Well, it was during this time that the provocative wonder herself, the quintessential beauty, Irene, impeded toward me. How had she found me? I made myself busy and pretended not to notice her, knowing all too well what her presence could do to me.
"Ben? Is it really you? Martin told me you had been relocated, but I didn't know it was just to another cubicle," said Irene ecstatically.
Her sweet, angelic voice oscillated through the air to my ear lobes, beckoning after me, but I certainly wasn't going to look up toward her. No no.
"Ben," she reiterated, "is everything alright? I've been trying to contact you, but you haven't been answering your phone."
"I'll be fine," said I, still not acknowledging her in a visual sense. "I just need to be left alone for awhile."
"I don't know what's going on, but...you've been acting weird. Is there something you want to tell me?
An episode of twitching began, but I sat silent, acting as if all was well and remaining entrenched in my paper work.
"You're not on any drugs, are you," said Irene with a hint of uncertainty. "If so, that's OK. We can get you some help."
My nervous twitching increased and I turned my head toward the aisle. I was showing progress these past few days. I couldn't possibly look upon her, not now, nor here, or anywhere. To embrace her would be akin to inviting the eyes over for a weekend or two.
"Please talk with me. I want to help you. I...care for you."
With that, she placed her hand on my shoulder and I jerked back with surprising vigor. She looked at me in utter dismay, and it was then that I beheld a pair of eyes, staring at me in one of the room's corners, mounted on the wall like a surveillance camera. I shrieked and scurried off to the exit, ruffling papers and disturbing coworkers.
I walked briskly along the city streets, passing many an on comer, and reflecting on what had happened. I hadn't spotted the eyes. My guess was that they were still at the firm. But how would I explain my behavior to Irene, or to my other coworkers? I began to fear the worst, that I was to be terminated, let go, released, and that I'd never see Irene again. Never be immersed by such beauty...again. Such thoughts formed throughout my psyche.
The negativity was getting the better of me, so I tried focusing on something else. Nature perhaps. The sun glared down toward me, sort of like the eyes, and its warmth gave me a strange security; cumulus clouds marched above me, which shared the color of the cone of the eye; and a firm, cool breeze pushed against me, which caused small grains of earth to fly in my eyes. Yes, the tranquility of nature had subdued me, and I closed my eyes to become one with it all, and when I opened them...when I opened them, I saw eyes. Lots of them. They were everywhere, swarming about like little, white-winged butterflies with dots on their backs and trailing after on comers. I swivelled about to see if I could spot my parasitic little friend.
Nothing.
I repeated my actions and still the same. I endeavored once more and this time I came pupil to pupil with a big, bulging pair of eyes, much bigger than those I had come accustomed to. This was all just too much for me, and I ran away in horror.
"Why? Why?! Why, why, why, why, why, why, why?!" I kept asking myself.
People watched as I careened past them, and some even got in their little quips at my expense, but I cared not. I was concerned of only one thing: ridding myself of those eyes.
I entered my apartment, panting and out of breath, and immediately secured the locks on the door. With my back against the door, I slid to the floor and placed my face in my hands, reflecting on the day that was. My employment was most definitely over. I'd have to scrimmage for a new job in the morning, and Irene's enrapturing beauty I was to behold no more. I neglected to think about it all, but I couldn't help but to. These were the issues at hand, and I had to face them. I pondered awhile and decided I'd take an early retirement for the day. I removed my face from my hands and was taken aghast. The eyes, here, they dwelled here, here and everywhere! There were eyes populating the monitor of the television, eyes camped around and about the windows and the curtains, there were even eyes engraved in the door of which I was resting! I leaped to my feet and looked about in horror. And it was then that I finally decided that this could go on no longer, it would be either me or the eyes.
I hastened toward my eye-cluttered closet, fumbled around in it a bit, extracted a baseball bat, and bashed at the first pair of eyes I saw. It dispelled. The joy was immense, and I could hardly restrain myself. I had found a way to defeat them!
"Did you see that, you bothersome little devils," said I to the eyes. "I will win yet!"
The eyes, they blinked collectively. This was the only time they'd ever done so, and it occurred to me that they were frightened.
I went through the apartment in a tirade, sparing no eye in sight. The eyes clustered along the glass table were to be shattered by the impact of my swing. Eyes riddled along the walls evaporated as I made contact, leaving numerous cracks and indentations in the walls. The eyes engraved in the television monitor looked up scarcely at me as I pulled back to strike, sending them into oblivion. There was a succession of beats against the door, people informing me to cease that racket, but I couldn't do so, as there were still eyes left to be dealt with.
And when the last eye had vanished from sight, I stood amongst the rubble as the victor. Panting. Loud beats emanated from the door and I proceeded to answer. It was the men in blue.
"Is there something I can help you with officers?"
They were very apprehensive toward me, the officers were. They entered the apartment, looking to and fro, questioning me. I told them about the eyes, and how they had tormented me so, and how I had endeavored to rid myself of them. They requested that I come along with them, but I declined, stating that the eyes were no more. They insisted, and I resisted still, with my baseball bat. They then resorted to force of their own, brandishing batons, and I, still resisting, was escorted to their squad car.
And so here I am. I don't open my eyes that much anymore. I don't want to, because if I do I'll see them, and since they took my baseball bat away I can't get rid of them. But on occasion, I do have to open them, to eat. The nice men in white bring me a variety of veggie’s and meats and I just sit here in this corner, eating, watching the eyes trot about behind them. If only they knew as I knew.
Sir Vincent DeGalle Valentine was busying himself with writing the conclusion to Kent Rezner's "Those Omnipresent Eyes", while sipping on a glass of Sherry, when--rather unexpectedly--he heard a light tapping on the door to his study. Who could it be? He had already sent Martha the maid home so that he could have complete silence as he sorted through those stories that would be in his fan focused anthology. He suddenly realized that she might've been returning for some unspecified purpose. She did--after all--possess a copy of the master key to the mansion. He let loose a sigh and gingerly strolled to the door, but when he arrived no one was there to greet him. Strange, he thought. Perhaps it's just my imagination playing tricks on me. He headed back toward his desk and he could see that it was raining with intensity. He repositioned himself in his chair and began writing.
Ah yes, that was a rather brilliant piece. I must remind myself to send a letter of congratulations to Mr. Rezner, as I was completely absorbed by the predicament of Ben with those eyes...
He let out a chuckle. He was very pleased with the way the anthology was shaping up...
But don't get me wrong. That's not to say that Daniel Marrow's piece wasn't as comparably good as Kent Rezner's. Both had their strong points, and--you may have noticed (which I'm sure you did)--both focused on the inward struggle, which, as you know being my fans, is a topic that I love to explore. But fret not, my loyal readership. For those of you who had a special place for "The Centipedes" know that I'll also be sending a letter of congratulations to Daniel Marrow as well. In fact, I'll be sending a letter of congratulations to all authors whom I accept to participate in this anthology.
Perhaps now it would be best to share with you how this story came to be. Just as Daniel Marrow gave me information concerning the origin of his tale, so too did Kent Rezner share with me how his story was birthed. The protagonist, Ben, is a patient at an asylum in Dublin, Ireland. Kent Rezner is one of the administrators of the facility and he asked for specific information from Ben in order to pen this tale. I, for one, think he did an incredible job writing it.
Now, let us continue. Our next story comes to us from the states by an author who goes by the name of Adrian Belfast and is entitled "The Rivals."
The Rivals
Adrian Belfast sat transfixed in front of his computer working on his latest creation. Adrian was an aspiring writer. He had been writing now for a little over five years time, and the progress that he had made was evident. He went from writing nothing more than pointless drivel to some really compelling pieces of literature, at least he'd say so. He was especially drawn to the fantasy and horror genres. The piece that he was working on at this moment actually happened to be horror in nature. To say that Adrian was a driven lad would perhaps be a bit of an understatement. He relished the opportunity to share his works with others, which is why he joined an online writer's community.
Just about everything about Writers Of Tomorrow.com resonated with the college student; from the private email accounts to the way reviews were handled. Even when getting spammed, Adrian would look the other way as if it wasn't that big a deal. As long as he was improving his craft, nothing else really mattered.
Then something happened. It was a regular day, just like any other day. Adrian was surfing his newfound writers community for some good fiction to read when he chanced upon the work of a fellow named Lucas Slaughter. Upon reading Lucas' bio, Adrian discovered that Lucas attended the same university as he did and was also interested in reading and writing horror fiction. Adrian's interest was piqued. Upon further inspection of his bio, Adrian noticed that Lucas was one year his senior. Well let's see how good this cat really is, thought Adrian to himself. And so Adrian busied himself reading over the work of Lucas Slaughter's, and to his utter and complete astonishment, the cat--as he so eloquently put it--turned out to be quite the writer.
His stories, thought Adrian to himself as he continued to read through a work of Lucas', they are so full of the inexplicable and unexplainable. Raw emotion fills every corner, every crevice. The man is a poet if there ever was one. How could he possibly get this good being the age that he is now? It was a mystery to the young Adrian Belfast. It would take years to develop this kind of talent, thought Adrian to himself. Where did it come from? Indeed. It seemed to Adrian that Lucas had matured well for someone his age. I must meet him, he thought to himself. So Adrian busied himself with writing a review for one of Lucas' horror stories. He praised it wholeheartedly, saying that it was some of the best--if not the best--unpublished fiction he had ever had the chance to read.
But while one side of Adrian could not help but to heap praise upon praise on the works of Lucas Slaughter, another side was seething. It's unfair, thought Adrian to himself, as he pounded the desk with his fist. How can he be so good, at such a young age? Then the thought came that perhaps the problem lies not with Lucas, but with himself. Maybe it's not him, thought Adrian to himself. Maybe it's me. Perhaps Adrian Belfast doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as Lucas Slaughter, he thought. Now the young Adrian drifted into a long and lasting depression. His face fell into his hands all while the computer screen still shined with the works of Lucas Slaughter.
Adrian fell asleep at his desk. He was glad to put such a devastating night--in the intermediate years of his aspirations to be a writer--behind him. Adrian had discovered that Lucas was on the journalism team at the university and was set on meeting him after he finished going to all of his classes. Adrian had three classes to attend, Speech 101, Math 113, and English 150. All through those classes, however, his focus was intensely on meeting Lucas. He could care less what was going on in class when there was someone out there--and so close, mind you--who commanded the English language like Lucas did. Finding the journalism room was easy enough. Adrian had walked past it a number of times in his tenure at the university. When he got there, a number of individuals were huddled around in a circle discussing issues relevant to the newspaper, such as politics, rate increases in tuition, and things of that nature. A lone young male stood from his seat to question Adrian.
"Can I help you?" said the unknown young man.
Adrian was at first at a loss how to form what he wanted to say. He then summoned up enough courage and spoke.
"I'm hoping that you can. I'm looking for a Lucas Slaughter," said Adrian with a bit of uncertainty.
"That's me," said the young man. "I'm Lucas Slaughter."
Adrian's first impressions of Lucas were that he was an incredibly good looking young male, with nary a blemish on his white cheeks. I guess that's something else he's beaten up on me with, thought Adrian to himself. He was quite disgusted with his perceived impotency.
"Could I talk to you for uh--oh I don't know--a few minutes?"
Lucas looked around at his group for approval. No one seemed to object.
"Yeah sure," said Lucas. "I'll be right out."
Adrian waited in the hallway for Lucas to arrive. He had not practiced in his head what he wanted to say. The thought had come earlier on that perhaps spontaneity would be best in this situation and Adrian had succumbed to it. Lucas came out of the classroom in a short while. He had his backpack strapped along his shoulders.
"So--you wanted to see me?"
"Yes," began Adrian. "I did. My name's Adrian, Adrian Belfast. Look--I know that like--we're total strangers and all, but I just had this incredible desire to want to get to know you."
Here the expression on Lucas' face was one of bewilderment. He had no idea what Adrian was trying to say. Adrian saw this and sought to correct it.
"Perhaps it would be best if I started here then: I'm a writer, and last night I saw some of your writings on the Internet. Now--"
"--Ah, so that's where I recognized your name from," said Lucas with a sigh of relief. "You're Adrian Belfast, the guy who sent a review to my short story last night."
"Yes," said Adrian.
"Well, put her there!" said Lucas as he reached for Adrian's hand. Adrian was a little put-off by this but shook his hand anyway.
"Hey, look here, that was some awful nice things you said about my story. I was especially moved when you said, 'In my opinion, this should be in print.'"
"Yes, well--it was a really great story."
"So," began Lucas as he elbowed Adrian in his rib cage, "you got any plans for later on tonight?"
"Tonight?" began Adrian. Adrian hadn't anticipated this. He only wanted to get to know Lucas a little, possibly get him to look over some of his writings to offer a suggestion here or an evaluation there. Adrian was silent for a short while. Acting impulsively, he thought, might prove to be the way to go. It's always a good idea to keep your enemies relatively within reaching distance, he thought.
"Nothing," said Adrian Belfast. "What did you have in mind?"
Adrian was online again. He was currently looking over even more of Lucas' works. One story, in particular, caught his interest. It was about a young man who walked unseen to the human eye, but not by science, mind you. It was through social conditions. Incredible, thought Adrian to himself. If I could only manage to secure a fraction of the talent of this here gentlemen I'd be set for life. Adrian, though, didn't have too much time to read through stories on the Internet. He had to meet Lucas at the journalism room at 7:00. Lucas--it seems--was putting on a recital at the edge of town and he wanted Adrian to partake of his glory. What an egotistical son-of-a--that won't help matters much, thought Adrian to himself.
It was 6:45. Adrian had to get ready. Lucas had inquired if Adrian had a shirt and tie, and of course a nice pair of pants. Adrian did--in fact--have quite a few of them. He put on his favorite ensemble and headed out of the door of the dorm. There was a few mischievous youngsters in the hallway, one young man chasing another here, another young man spanking another young man with a towel there. Adrian made it to the journalism class with time to spare. Lucas was waiting for him.
"I see you made it," said Lucas.
"Yup," said Adrian. "I sure did."
"You ready to go? It never hurts to be early."
"Sure," began Adrian. "We can leave now if you wish."
Lucas led Adrian to a brand new--at least it looked brand new to him--baby blue Porsche.
"Wow," said Adrian. "This is your car?"
"Yeah," said Lucas, grinning from ear to ear. "You like it?"
"'Like it?'" began Adrian. "I've always wanted to drive in one of these babies."
"Well, tonight you'll get your chance," was Lucas' reply.
To say that Lucas pulled out of the parking lot speedily would be an understatement. He commanded that baby blue Porsche with such speed that Adrian was concerned for his safety. He quickly buckled his safety belt, something he never did upon entering a vehicle. But--as they sped along--Adrian began to notice the rather pecuiliar way Lucas was able to handle the vehicle, even at such inflated speeds. This too--like many other things--piqued Adrian's interest.
"Aren't," began Adrian, "aren't you worried you might get pulled over?"
"Taking this route?" was Lucas' reply. "Trust me, the cops don't waste their time cruising down these streets."
And so Adrian Belfast and Lucas Slaughter made their way to a posh recital hall at the edge of town. There was quite a good number of people there. Lucas--it turned out--was not the only person who would be performing at this recital. There were two other individuals. An acquaintance of Lucas' mentioned this to the pair as they mingled, something Lucas was so inclined to do. He was also quite instrumental in getting Adrian to open up to some of the guests. One lady, in particular (a Mrs Parker) talked endlessly with Adrian and Lucas (though predominately Lucas) over a variety of things pertaining to the arts.
The time eventually came for the performances. Adrian was quite excited. He had--in his younger years--studied some piano, but he had long since given it up, on account of how difficult it was to learn the instrument with any kind of adeptness. The first two performers were quite good, Adrian decided. The first performer played a few pieces of Chopin for the audience, while the second performer played some Beethoven. Both selected Etudes. Adrian had heard the songs before, and had even attempted to play them. He clapped his hands at the conclusion of each of their respective performances. Then it was Lucas' turn. He came out from behind the stage, looking oh so confident, or at least that is what Adrian perceived. He took his seat and immediately began playing Prokofiev's Piano Sonata #1. Adrian was quite familiar with it. He had tried to master it many times. But this fact was far from his mind at the moment, for Lucas' playing was breathtaking. It was an incredible performance. Lucas showcased another amazing talent. Adrian was again torn by two emotions: one was wonder and the other was disgust. He must've been playing since he was three years old, Adrian thought.
At the conclusion of the piece everyone erupted into riotous celebration. Lucas' next piece was Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C Sharp Minor. It was his concluding piece, and an apt one at that. He performed it well enough, but what really stood out for Adrian was the fact that Lucas was playing the piece exactly as Rachmaninoff himself played it, right down to pitch, tone, and anything else you wanted to throw in there. Adrian was able to decipher this because he remembered listening to Rachmaninoff's recording over and over again in his younger years. This is amazing, thought Adrian. Everyone gave Lucas a standing ovation at the conclusion of his performance. Adrian made his way to the entrance of the recital hall, awaiting Lucas' return. He then noticed he and Mrs. Parker heading toward him arm in arm. The trio continued their conversation about the arts from earlier. Finally, it was revealed--through Mrs Parker--that Lucas had been adept at playing the piano for only a good three years time.
"--Three years?" broke in Adrian. Mrs Parker turned and looked toward Adrian, in a startled manner really.
"Why yes, my young Adrian. But he's quite the virtuoso, isn't he?"
He's been playing the piano for just three years, thought Adrian. He was aghast. Lucas was busy smiling to himself and chatting it up with Mrs Parker to pay too much attention to the expression on Adrian's face. After a time, when the crowd began to thin out, Lucas mentioned to Mrs. Parker that it was time for him to retire.
"Well, we really ought to be going, Mrs. Parker," said Lucas to the old woman.
"It was really nice meeting you," said Adrian.
"You too, sweety," was Mrs. Parker's reply. The duo left the recital hall.
There wasn't too much of anything of importance being discussed in the ride back to the university. However, Lucas did mention how grand it was to play in front of everybody and the like. Adrian mostly stared out of the window, replying with "uh huh's" to just about everything that Lucas would say. However, it just so happens that after a short while, a thought came to Adrian and he had to air to his newfound buddy and rival.
"Lucas?"
"Yes, Adrian?"
"Umm--how long have you been writing?"
"Huh? Oh, a little over three years."
"Three years?"
"No. A little over three years. Why do you ask?"
"Uh huh," was Adrian's reply as he placed his face in his hand.
The two got back to the university speedily, on account of Lucas' incredible proficiency for driving at such extreme speeds. Lucas mentioned how they had to hang out again, and said that he knew a club on the westside of town that would be perfect.
"You wouldn't happen to have any plans for tomorrow, would you, my newfound buddy and pal?" said Lucas as he patted Adrian on the shoulder.
"No, I'm free tomorrow too," said Adrian, trying to smile, but not quite being able to. A lie, he guessed, would probably be detected.
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, at the same time." And with that, Lucas left, throwing his keys into the air and catching them again.
Adrian entered his dorm. He immediately began fumbling under his bed for his diary. He had a lot on his mind and he was determined to express it using the written word. What he wanted to say came out smooth and fast, with hardly a misstep.
I met someone new today. I met a young man whose named Lucas Slaughter. He is--my rival--in every sense of the word. I must best him! It's true, I will admit that he is currently on another level than I. It's as if his progress as it relates to all things considered delicate and time consuming--in the simplest sense--is extreme. But my dear friend Lucas has plenty to fear. I will concede that his talent is extreme, but I can be just as--if not more--talented than he. This I am most sure of.
I made a decision late in the evening. I'm going to take up piano again. I was formerly engaged with the instrument for many years until I decided to give it up, but Lucas' playing has reawakened that desire. I want to beat him at his own game. I will defeat him. This is the pledge I make to myself.
Adrian placed his diary back under his bed, yawned, and fell asleep with the quickness. The next morning came, and--as it so turns out--Adrian didn't have any classes to go to that day. So he mostly filled out the day on the Internet reading more of Lucas' stories. He was currently engaging in a plan of attack. He'd read through a story and write down those things that stood out the most, such as characterization, plot, setting, and so forth. He'd also pull up one of his stories on the computer and compare the differences between the two styles. Presently he shook his head in despair. A head to head comparison between the two authors revealed much in the way of just how much more developed Lucas was to Adrian. Adrian also planned to ask Lucas for some pointers on how to succeed at writing. He'll be assisting me in his own demise, thought Adrian to himself as he chuckled.
Night fell quickly and Adrian had to pull himself off of the computer in order to get dressed for the night's festivities. He quickly took a five minute shower and then put on his favorite sports wear, a basketball jersey and some matching shorts. He exited his dorm and made his way to the journalism class. Lucas was waiting for him.
"Ah, my good buddy and pal Adrian," said Lucas as he slapped Adrian's hand for five. "You ready to party?"
"You know it," was Adrian's reply.
The two made their way to the baby blue Porsche and just like that they were on their way to another night of thrills. Adrian remembered from Lucas' antics yesterday that it would be best to buckle his safety belt. Lucas--he noticed--was carefree in terms of his safety. Wouldn't it be something if he flew through the windshield, he thought. I bet that would get his attention, the irresponsible son-of-a--. He caught himself. With the way Lucas was driving, it didn't take him long to make it to the club. The club, as it has been mentioned, was on the west side of town. There was quite a lot of people there. However, Lucas didn't have too much trouble finding a parking space.
"Get ready to meet some of the prettiest girls you've ever seen," said Lucas.
"Right," said Adrian. Perhaps now wouldn't be a good time to inform his newfound buddy and rival that he'd never been on a date before. He sighed to himself, low enough that Lucas couldn't hear it but loud enough that he could. The pair entered the club. There was a great intermingling of people inside of the club. There was some dancing, some sitting at the bar ordering drinks, and some sitting at the many tables. Lucas led the way to a section of the club that wasn't completely populated with individuals. The two took a seat.
"I'll go fetch us some drinks," said Lucas.
"Umm--ok," said Adrian. Now would perhaps be a good time to tell him that he'd never really been keen to drinking alcohol, but he held his tongue. Adrian took in the scenery. He noticed early on that there really was quite a lot of good looking women in the club. A good many of them, though, seemed to already be talking to men. Adrian did catch sight of a table of all females who seemed to be chatting amongst themselves and paying no attention to anyone else. I wonder if their lesbians, Adrian thought to himself. Just then Lucas came back with two beers in his hand.
"Here ya go, buddy," said Lucas.
"Thanks," was Adrian's reply. He sipped the drink and produced a disgusted look. Lucas, however, was too busy checking out all the women to notice. Adrian thought that this would be a good time to ask Lucas about any suggestions he might have for improving his craft.
"I was thinking, Lucas, about my writing. What kind of suggestions would you have for a budding writer like myself?"
"Well, what kind of stories are you interested in writing?" said Lucas as he drank some of his beer.
"Like you I'm also interested in the horror genre," said Adrian.
"Ah yes, the much maligned horror genre. You know, the critics don't look so favorably on us horror writers, save for the works of Stephen King and Edgar Allen Poe."
"Yeah," said Adrian. "It's like that with the fantasy genre too. Tolkien doesn't get the respect that he deserves."
"Well, I don't know too much about the fantasy genre," said Lucas. Finally something that he's not well-versed in, thought Adrian. What a relief. "But if you're looking for advice you've come to the right place. The first thing you've gotta keep in mind is that you have to read and read exhaustively. I was reading horror stories way before I started writing them," said Lucas.
"Uh huh," said Adrian. "I read from time to time."
"See, that's your problem. You read from time to time. I read everyday. Everyday I'm discovering some new magic by an author, and not just horror authors mind you." Adrian made mental notes of everything that Lucas said. If only he knew the quagmire that he was getting himself into he'd retract all of his statements, thought Adrian to himself. Inwardly he was mocking Lucas. He had even managed to put on a small smile. Finally Lucas finished giving advice and his beer as well.
"So," began Lucas, "you spot anybody that you're interested in?" Adrian wasn't prepared for this. He just sat there dumbfounded for a second before Lucas pressed the matter even further.
"Come on, man. There has to be somebody who's number you'd like to get."
"Well," began Adrian, "those girls sitting at that table over there seem attractive enough."
"Aww yeah," said Lucas. "They're hot. Let's go see if we can get those digits."
The duo headed for the table populated with the women whom Adrian wondered if they were lesbians. There was three of them. All though--seemingly--were taut toward Lucas and none were interested in Adrian. At least at first.
"Hiya, ladies!" said Lucas. They replied in kind. "My name's Lucas. What's yours?"
"I'm Donna," said one.
"My name's Crystal," said another.
"And I am Edith," said the last.
"You ladies having a good time?" said Lucas.
"Oh yes," said Crystal. "This is one of our favorite spots around town."
"Let me introduce you to my pal and buddy here. This is Adrian." Adrian waved hello to the trio. They responded in kind.
"It's nice to meet you," said Adrian.
"The feelings mutual," said Donna. Lucas then took over the show. He asked the ladies what school they went to and all of them said they went to Summit University, a school that was located in a suburb of the city. He then went on talking about how he was on the journalism team, and how he had a baby blue Porsche, and how he played piano, just about anything that he could think of that would attract them he spoke it. They were quite interested in what he had to say. Adrian, on the other hand, was quite disgusted, with himself and with Lucas. Just who does this guy think he is, he thought. He then rolled his eyes when Lucas mentioned that he was an aspiring writer. What a load of crap, thought Adrian.
"You know, ladies," said Adrian, "I'm an aspiring writer too."
"Really?" said Donna. "You two are like two peas in a pod."
"Yeah," began Lucas. "Adrian's great. He's a great guy to be around with." Too bad I can't say the same for this glory hog, thought Adrian. Finally, the moment of truth came: would Lucas be able to get their numbers?
"Ok ladies, I think it's about time we headed on out of here, I've got class in the morning. But I'd love to get back in contact with either of you. How about we exchange numbers?"
"Well," began Edith, "I already have a boyfriend, but I'm sure Donna and Crystal wouldn't mind."
And so thus it was that Donna exchanged numbers with Lucas and Adrian exchanged numbers with Crystal.
"I'll definitely give you a call," said Lucas. Donna smiled. The two waved good-bye and left the club.
"Well," said Lucas, "that went rather well wouldn't you say?"
"Yup," said Adrian.
"See? There wasn't anything to be afraid of. You were a little timid, weren't you?" said Lucas.
"How--how did you know that?" said Adrian who was a little soft-spoken.
"Oh, I could read you like a book, my dearest pal and buddy," said Lucas with a smile. "But don't worry, you did well." That's only because I wasn't allowed to talk, you knuckle head. The trip back home seemed a little unusual to Adrian, because Lucas appeared to have something on his mind. To put it plainly, he wasn't his normal cocky and brash self. I wonder what's bothering him, thought Adrian. The two made it back to the university unharmed, despite Lucas' antics. When the car finally settled to a stop, Adrian thanked Lucas for another eventful night. He also said that this need not be the last time they hang out together.
"We definitely have to do this again," said Adrian as he opened the car door.
"Adrian," began Lucas, "sit down for a second." He was dead serious and that disturbed Adrian.
"Why?" said Adrian.
"I just wanna--you know--talk for a little while, about something important."
"--Ok," said Adrian. "What about?"
"Listen, Adrian, there's something I have to tell you--"
"Ok--" said Adrian. "I'm listening." Oh great, here we go, thought Adrian to himself. I wonder what this could be. Is he bisexual, thought Adrian. Oh my God I sure hope he isn't about to come on to me!
"It's something I've never told any other human being before--" said Lucas.
"--Ok," said Adrian. Oh great, here it comes, thought Adrian. Lucas seemed at a loss for words. Clearly this was something big, otherwise he'd be able to just come right out and say it.
"Go ahead," said Adrian, cringing.
"Adrian I'm--I'm not like you."
"--Ok," said Adrian, trying not to show his discomfort.
"Adrian I'm--I'm not human." Adrian just looked at Lucas for a short while. Not human, he thought. Give me a break.
"Nice one," he said. "You had me thinking that you were bisexual and all, but I have to give you props on the joke. It was classic." Adrian then began to open the car door again but Lucas beckoned to him once more.
"Adrian, I'm serious," he said. Adrian sat back down.
"--Ok," said Adrian. "You can't be serious, right? How can you not be human. You look like a human. You act like a human. How can you not be a human?" Lucas was looking lowly towards the ground.
"Me looking and acting like a human has come from many years of me perfecting the art of a chamaeleon," said Lucas.
"--Ok," said Adrian. "Prove it then. Prove to me that you're an--an alien." He could hardly believe what he was saying. Of course Lucas was a human. Lucas looked up at Adrian and for the first time Adrian saw a humbled spirit in him.
"Fine," said Lucas. "I'll prove it." Lucas quickly looked around to see if anybody was watching him, he then closed his eyes and spoke these words very loudly.
"Hung ching gon nee larl vo wacun!"
Adrian was beyond startled. What kind of language was that? Could it have been spoken in an alien tongue? Adrian wasn't too inclined to believe it.
"I," began Adrian, I--I need more proof."
"Fine," said Lucas. "You want more proof. Here's your proof." Adrian now found himself staring at a big headed and large eyed creature. He could scarcely suppress a scream.
"Shh, quiet!" said Lucas, as he changed back. "I don't want anyone else to know!"
"Why are you telling me all this!? Why me!?"
"Because--I've always wanted to be able to share with someone who I really am, and I haven't been able to do that--that is, up until now."
Suddenly, it began to make sense to Adrian. The reason Lucas excelled so well at what he did was because he's been around so long to perfect it.
"So," began Adrian, "that's why you're so good at--at writing, and music, because you're an--alien?" Lucas nodded.
"How old are you?"
"Very."
"Ok then," said Adrian, who was feeling a little more comfortable around him, "how long have you been on this planet?"
"Hmm," began Lucas as he stroked his chin, "about seventy-five years."
"Gee," said Adrian, "you're old."
"Yup," said Lucas. "But now you have to promise me something. Promise me that you'll never tell anybody about this. Do you promise?"
"I promise," said Adrian. He didn't even need to think about. Who would believe him anyway?
"Well," began Lucas, "this has certainly been an interesting night. How about we go bowling tomorrow? My treat."
"Sh--sure," said Adrian. "Why not."
"Good," said Lucas. "I'll see you tomorrow at the same time."
Adrian was alone in his dorm looking at the stories of Lucas again. But now he was looking at them with a newfound perspective. So the reason he writes this well is because he's been doing it for so long, thought Adrian. But that's not fair. He's cheating. He shouldn't be allowed to cheat. No one should. I can't cheat, why should he be allowed to? His mind was working in overdrive. Clearly he's going to be published one day. And what about me? Certainly I'm good enough to be published, right? But how would the public perceive my writings in comparison to Lucas'? My work would be inferior. I can't have that. I won't have that!
But what could I possibly do? It's not like I can stop him--or can I? No one would be the wiser. I've only known him for a few days. How many people would be the prime suspect in the murder of someone they've only known for a few days? I mean, thought Adrian to himself, the guy proved that he's not human. What if he's checking us out? I might be defending the earth from a possible invasion. The odds were heavily in his favor. Someone like him shouldn't be allowed to live--someone so gifted. I must do this.
Thus, Adrian went to his closet and pulled out a knife that he had received from boyscouts camp one summer long ago. He headed straight for the dorm administrator's office.
"Hello," said the female administrator. "How can I help you?"
"Hello," said Adrian. "I'm looking for Lucas Slaughter's dorm number. Do you think that you could maybe help me with that?"
"I can," said the administrator. "It will only take a second." In truth it took about thirty seconds. The administrator had to type in the name Lucas Slaughter and the information had to be processed. Finally she told him to go to dorm number 314.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
There were students in the hallways. Adrian wasn't concerned about anyone catching a glimpse of him committing murder, but he did stop to think about something unforeseen: what if he has some one in there with him? Finally, he came up with the idea that he'd just came to Lucas' dorm to ask him to speak in that alien tongue again, because he was so fond of it the first time, which was a lie. When Adrian made it to Lucas' dorm he discovered that the door was unlocked. Typical, he thought. Well, I bet he didn't foresee this doom, thought Adrian to himself.
He opened the door, incredibly slowly. No one was down the hall on either side. Lucas was lying there, in bed. Adrian walked inside. He then locked the door. He made his way to Lucas' bed.
"Good-bye, you egotistical son-of-a--" He took the knife and slit Lucas' throat right then and there. Lucas convulsed, but his eyes remained closed. Red blood oozed from the wound. His blood is red, Adrian thought. Maybe it's just because he's in chamealeon form. Lucas stopped convulsing. He checked his pulse. Lucas was most definitely dead. He smiled to himself, wiped off the knife on his bed sheets, and hurriedly made his way out of the dorm.
"The case regarding young Lucas Slaughter," said the reporter, "is still pending as police have yet to name a suspect in the murder." In other news...
What I did I did for the safety of the human race, thought Adrian. And, for my own profit. I couldn't possibly let him best me. Adrian thought himself completely justified, that is, up until a thought came to his mind that he didn't foresee. But wait a minute, what have I done, thought Adrian to himself. What was I thinking? God help us. I may have started an interstellar war!
Sir Vincent DeGalle Valentine was putting the finishing touches on his conclusion to Adrian Belfast's "The Rivals." By now it had stopped raining to the degree of which it was earlier, though the rain was still coming down somewhat...
Ah, there's nothing like a good murder story to get my blood pumping, and one that contained such a twist as "The Rivals" deserves even greater recognition. I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed this story. It had its moments, such as the hilarious sections where Adrian--the protagonist--would remark inwardly concerning a characteristic of Lucas'. Yes, "The Rivals" could be likened as a pearl set amongst a host of clam shells, the clam shells not being the stories in this anthology, but other stories that are similar in nature to this one. Perhaps now it would be best to share with the reader some of the added information that was sent along with the story.
Just like with the stories "The Centipedes" and "Those Omnipresent Eyes", Adrian Belfast sent to me how this story originated. Would you believe that Adrian claims that these events were inspired by reality? The only difference is that the name of the protagonist and author is not the real name of the person who committed these acts. Yet still, if these circumstances were real, then why would the killer write a story about them and send them to a potentially widespread audience? Perhaps the thought never entered his mind, or perhaps he made it all up...
A cold wind blew Valentine's study window open and rain began to situate itself throughout the room. He quickly made himself busy closing it...
Now where was I? Oh yes! It is my belief that Adrian Belfast's "The Rivals" will be a treasure among all those who purchase this anthology. I hope that it resonates with you just as well as it has resonated with me. Now, on to our next story.
Suddenly, Valentine was caught off guard by a knock being made on the door to his study. Strange, he thought. Just like last time. He hastily made his way toward the door.
"Martha, is that you?" said Valentine. He opened the door and was taken aghast. There, behind the door, stood a man, a giant centipede, and a big, bulging pair of eyes.
"Who told you we wanted to be immortalized in your anthology?" said the man. Valentine backed away from them. He was in despair and couldn't find the words to say. They rose up against him and Sir Vincent DeGalle Valentine was never heard from again.