Trigger warning (probably unnecessary)- mild gore
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I dreamt a dream in sightless slumber
One becomes two in lightless rooms
Anger weighs the chest of plunder
Laid to rest in lightless tombs
Envy leads the greatest of us
Down darkened paths and twisting roads
Broken beauty we can’t perceive
So we must rely on taste of others
Tasting of and tasted on
Only then we know belief
Room to room wall to wall
Two trek on, pace to pace
Separated by time and ink and blood
Destined once to meet in place
Fables tell of legend rage
Race is run on broken legs
Blade cuts ties we never knew
Blade will connect them twice a new
I am once again perturbed. I know not why I am tormented in this way, forever cursed with unwavering interest in many mundane hobbies and forever cursed to mediocrity. My newest poem, I thought to be my magnum opus, has placed second in the recent publishing competition held by the esteemed Unhindered Voice. I thought by chronicling my constant woes and thoughts in this journal I may yet save myself from the brink of madness however pressing and enrapturing it may seem at this moment.
Rutherford Masque, as he goes by in his published works, has beaten me at every corner I turn. As I read the paper, shipped to every reputable artist in the nation, I saw his name in the headline yet again.
“Wall to Floor; the Broken Beauty” by Rutherford Masque Wins Competition and Full Publication of his Next Novel Completely Free
I let my eyes linger a moment on this before I ripped the page off and tore it into a million pieces. I didn’t even stop to consider why his poem beat mine. I sighed. My study was a mess due to my own incompetence now. Why must it be this way? Why must those with the most passion be left in the wake of those who do not share the same fire yet were gifted from birth with a more natural talent. I’m tired of swimming, kicking and flailing about, trying to keep up with someone on a canoe.
At every miserable moment in my life that man has been a hindrance. My one purpose and passion is ceaselessly fruitless with him around. Without rest he stands as the lone impediment to my success. I am filled with rage at the mere thought of his existence. A raven's caw broke me from my anger and I looked toward the window.
“Remove him”
The voice is impossibly smooth, and each word fell upon me like a satin waterfall, rich as velvet. I look around. No one is with me, I made sure of that when I bought this cottage. The nearest home is nearly thirty miles away, and the nearest general store, I’d wager, is closer to fifty, both at the bottom of the mountain. Suddenly hearing a noise is to be expected when surrounded by wilderness but a voice, and words?
Surely I must have misinterpreted the wind or birdsong through my mental haze. My heart beat in the cage of my chest thoroughly convinced I did not mishear despite my brain's protests.
Upon slipping into mania and thoroughly rendering my study into a disheveled heap of torn manuscripts and flipped desks, I still found myself totally and utterly alone. Yet the voice still reverberated in my ears, no, in my skull, for plugging my ears did nothing to cease the words now dripping into my conscious mind.
“Find him
Seize his work
Seize his name
Destroy him
Take from him everything and you will finally have everything you’ve ever wanted”
Every syllable is a deep, velvety whisper, beautiful and alluring while simultaneously horrifying. I can’t help but be drawn in. After all, since I’m alone, these must be my own ideas that I have had locked in my subconscious for some time.
My mind steadies, the beginnings of an idea forming. No one has ever seen Rutherford Masque, at least not in a way that connects the man to the name. His writings are all done under the name alone, which can be assumed to be a pseudonym. I can become what I’ve always wanted to be, I can become Rutherford Masque. Opening his debut novel for the first time since I bought it twelve years ago, I searched for any info on the man but found nothing. I tore through my bookcase looking through his entire body of work. Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Is he lost to me? Am I forever condemned to live in his shadow? I searched the paper, front to back, hoping they would give away some crucial information. As I flipped the top page one last time a letter fell to the floor, sealed and heavy. I opened it, my hand shaking.
It was a letter from the villain himself, trying to free himself from his guilt over destroying my life’s goals. He wrote about how much he loved my work and thought I deserved to win with such a false sincerity I nearly believed him. Then at the end he left an address for return letters. There it was, 465 Perdition Hill. That’s only a few days’ carriage ride south, down the mountain on a foothill. I began to pack for an extended stay.
As soon as I was sure I had all of the essentials packed in the carriage, I threw my lantern down at my door, allowing the cabin to catch. I watched the flames awhile, allowing the dawn sun to break the skyline, and once all that was left of my old life was embers I set off on my grim purpose.
The manor, bulwarked by a ten foot wrought iron fence topped with four inch railheads rendering it unscalable, was an intimidating sight atop the end of Perdition Hill. The carriage drew to the end of the dead end road, up to the gate. Rain fell heavily on the roof of the carriage, and the clop of the horses slowly turned into splashes as the vision of the tall black gate rose from the blur of the rain. The left leaf lay slightly open, wide enough for a man to slip through.
My breath quickened as I climbed out of the cabin and into the rain. Sudden thunder cracking hurries my movements as I pull on the leaf trying to open it enough to fit the carriage through. Once through the entrance I latched the gate, ensuring my horse, and the man I’m after, do not escape. I rode up to the courtyard and found the coach house, dropping the carriage and putting my horse in the stable. I found it strange that a manor this large would not have staff, especially with the lord of the manor being who he is. However, knowing the mind of a writer of our caliber, I supposed that he loves his isolation as much as I.
Walking to the large oaken door, I noticed the windows were boarded. Maybe he likes his privacy even more than myself. The door knocker was the head of a raven, with the loop held in its beak. A shaky hand was all I could muster as I reached for the loop.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
There is no answer aside from an unkindness of ravens suddenly and shrilly setting off the upper balcony. Calming myself from the fright the birds gave me, I turned back to the door to find it standing open. Dread filled every fiber of my being as I stared at the portal into what I was sure would be my final destination. Yet that voice in the back of my head, that rich and inviting voice, reminded me that I was the predator here. I was not to be afraid because I was the fear. These parlor tricks and poor attempts to dissuade me from fulfilling my sanguine purpose were in vain.
Easing into the foyer, I saw two staircases which led to the upper floor. A stack of mail lay piled on the floor just beyond the door, implying Masque hadn’t cared to check his letter slot in quite awhile. A door to the left led to the parlor, a door to the right led to the great room and under the stairs I saw my goal.
The kitchen was well stocked with pots and pans, as well as food stores. I searched through the racks for the perfect tool with which to complete my gruesome task.
The knife was sleek, the handle an ivory antler, with gold rivets. The blade was nearly six inches long broad at the hilt and tapering to a slim point. Beautiful and elegant and soon to be stained red.
I crept up the stairs, tool in hand. The main door atop the balcony was open leading into the study. My prey sat in his large chair, hunched over a work table. From the back I could see no movement. I assumed he fell asleep after a fit of passion as he worked on his newest draft.
I had to cross the vast distance between us without rousing him lest he foil me yet again.
Tap. One step closer to absolution.
Creak. Barely audible in the silent ambience of the study.
Rustle. A slight draft flowed through the room, slightly shifting his hair as he rested his head on his desk.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, inched my way to my goal.
When I finally got close enough, I hesitated. The rage and hopeless determination that drove me to this point subsided for a moment as I got a glimpse of the man’s face under his mess of dark brown hair. Rutherford Masque had a light spattering of stubble. His brown hair was overgrown and unkempt, and it appeared as though he had been cutting it himself for some time. The color was strong but there are a few gray hairs making themselves known. Other than the stubble and style of the hair, it was as if I were staring into a mirror, from his flattish nose to his downturned eyes. His mouth was the exact shape of mine, and he even bore the scar on his left lip that I got from an accident with a broken wine bottle.
“Do not let him distract you from your goal”
Yes you’re right, I thought. I put my hand lightly on his back so as to not wake him then I plunged the knife into his back up to my hand. He let out a breath as the knife went in, holding his voice to keep me from the satisfaction of hearing him protest his fate. I removed the blade and he let out another breath. Then I returned it to the man again and again, throwing blood across the study. I gored the man until my arm grew heavy from the motion, and the new piercings ceased to relieve Masque from any more of his ichor. I looked into my own face that he was wearing as his eyes grew slack, blood slowly bubbling from his mouth. The deed was finally done, and I had finally removed my last roadblock to my destiny.
The cleanup was grueling. The man was sturdily built, and not easy to drag down the stairs. The whole time he wore a smile, so coy in fact was his smile, I dared not look upon his face. I found sheets to wrap him in and lay him gently on the couch in the foyer, glad that the windows had already been covered. The blood was not easily removed from the floor and shelves. As I cleaned his study my eyes fell upon his grand collection of books. That smile once again passed in the forefront of thought, bidding me pause. Front and center in his collection I discovered numerous volumes of my own writings. He was studying his enemy in order to better thwart me no doubt. Perhaps that is where his eternal badge of joy appeared, the knowledge he had broken his rival's mind so heavily as to commit the unforgivable sin of murder. I will get the last laugh, however, I thought as I finally began to clean his desk. His unfinished manuscript lay closed, showing only a blank title page. I opened it to the first page and upon seeing writing I fell into a rage and ripped it to shreds.
Seeing the shreds on the floor after my episode caused me great distress. I gathered the remains in my hands, trying to see if I could piece the manuscript back together but it was useless. So I took them to the hearth in the foyer, built a fire, and threw in what was undoubtedly the man’s next great work. I watched the flames hungrily swallow the words, however, as they caught I swear I caught a glimpse of one of my own manuscript titles. I wiped my eyes and when I looked back on the hearth the flame had cleansed the room of my apprehension.
I returned to his collection, trying to see what made the man tick, what inspired him. His tastes ranged from esoteric poetry collections about devils and black magic to scientific journals about the breakthroughs in plastic surgery. The thing that stood out the most was that he didn’t keep any of his own works. Was this some twisted form of arrogance, or was something else at play here. My mind didn’t linger on it too long.
I began to make myself at home, bringing in my personal belongings. The bedroom was melancholically empty, and the bed lay in disarray. The lone dresser was overturned, the drawers empty. I set things right, as they should be, and arranged it in a more pleasing manner.
Moving to the study, I set out my tools on the work desk readying the space for its responsibility of ushering me to the glory I yearn for. The air in the study is oppressive as if some sinister shadow hung over it. I planned on taking the night to make acquaintance with the house and would begin my work tomorrow.
I found myself unnaturally famished, so I left the study to prepare a meal. When I looked over the banister, I swallowed my breath. The man had moved. I swore before I came up the stairs he had been there, laying on the couch exactly where I had left him, however, my eyes now rested upon an empty couch.
Where could he be? I saw the last moments of his life. I swear it on my own bones. And yet he had moved nonetheless. I frantically stumbled down the stairs, tripping over my own feet.
I heard a noise behind me in the study, almost imperceptible, but in my heightened paranoia I was sure I had heard it. I turned slowly and began to approach the door. Imagining the horrors that lay behind it made me stop before the door. There could be no way for the man to have moved himself so I thought I should be on the lookout for an intruder. The irony of that was not lost on me, though it didn’t change the fact that dead people do not move themselves. I slowly opened the door, so slowly that each inch took countless moments. As soon as I could fit my head into the crack I carefully peeked into the room. Nothing at first but as I scanned the room a raven’s call echoed beside my head causing me to slip and fall into the room.
There, on the floor in front of me, lay the body, unwrapped and still smiling as if he had just been told a twisted joke.
I slipped trying to get back to my feet, and slid myself backwards, away from this nightmare until I felt the banister pressing against my back.
“Are you not the hunter? Do you let yourself so easily become incapacitated with fear?”
The voice was louder now, angry at me for the immense fear I felt. I grow angry at myself. The man was dead. I scrambled to my feet and walked over and kicked him, as if to make myself believe it. He gave no signs of protest.
“Look at you, nothing more than a mewling pup at the mere sight of your own creation.”
This voice had shifted, no longer a velvety whisper in the depths of my mind. The rictus grin painted on the man’s face had changed almost indiscernibly as his head lolled towards my thunderous heartbeat.
“Was it you the whole time? Why must you torment me so? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
My cries echoed in the chamber and yet I received no response from the corpse. I stood staring at it for a while, unable to convince myself that anything that happened was real. Had I imagined wrapping the sheet around him? I decided to leave the corpse as it was, afraid touching it would bring this whole event into reality.
I hurriedly left the study and closed the door, erasing the grinning beast from my mind. Finding my appetite gone I decided rest and recovery would be my best course of action. The bedroom seemed to stretch before me as if it was a mile from the door to the bed. My head ached in the attempt to comprehend the new layout. I pierced the threshold, and in no less than five steps was at the bedside. When I turned to look at the door it was no longer so far, as if it had moved with me at every step, uncomfortably close to the door of the bed. The house was draining me of my mental energies and faculties. I would let it win no longer, and, with that thought replaying in my head, went to bed.
When I awoke, I found the bedroom as I expected. The weird goings on had ceased upon the resting of my mind. I tiptoed through the room to the door, and slowly creaked it open. The stair landing lay empty. The door to the study lay open which gave me pause, but when my sight pierced the portal I saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Seeing the empty study put me at ease, but to wash away any fear that still lingered I leaned over the banister. The corpse lay wrapped in a white, stained blood red sheet. I watched it breathlessly, waiting for any kind of movement or hint that it might not be as it seems. My ears perked at every noise, every creak and every pop. The rain had not slacked in the night, but the corpse did not stir.
My first order of business was to search the house for anyone who may have slipped in during the night. Upon finding the great room and the parlor empty, I set about finding food for the morning.
Having filled my stomach with a light breakfast of toasted bread and cheese, I set about getting to work in the study. When I passed by the couch, something about the corpse set my nerves on edge. I knew I would be unable to work with it in the house with me. Dragging it outside was no small task, and the mud further slowed my progress. The back yard was rather spacious, and there was a small shed in the back corner of the fenced in yard. I looked inside, finding the door unlocked, and found a shovel,a pick, and an axe. I found a suitable spot and began to dig.
The rain aided the digging, and a hole was made rather quickly. After a few hours, and the mud was up to my chest, I decided it was deep enough. I drug the corpse, which was stiffening up, into the hole and began to fill it back in. When the first shovel of mud hit the sheet a screech filled the air. I covered my ears, sure the terrible sound would kill me otherwise. It did not lessen for some time so I ripped a little piece of cloth from my shirt and stuffed it in my ears. This made the screeching bearable enough to continue working so I did. Every shovel I threw in made the screeching more quiet, and when the hole was finally full, the screeching had gone completely. I put the shovel and pick back in the shed and turned to go back in the house. A raven perched on the high ridge watching me as I trekked towards the back door but it flew away as I drew near.
With my morning ordeal completed and the afternoon upon me, I decided I could finally begin working on my debut novel as Rutherford Masque.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
No sooner than I picked my pen up off the page had that velvety voice, dripping with malice, seeped back into my brain. I turned in my chair, positioning myself to flee while I scanned the room. Seeing nothing did not ease the growing fear I felt, and I rose slowly from the chair.
“You thought you’d be done with me that easily. Where would you be without me, still rotting in the gutter somewhere like you were as a child?”
A figure lurched into view through the doorway, the soft light in the study not revealing any of his features. He stepped unnaturally towards me leaving wet footprints in his wake with a wet slapping sound that could only be from bare feet. As he closed the distance I could see his clothes were ragged, and blood was constantly pouring down him. I backed to the desk until I was sitting, cowering in the large chair. He stopped a few feet away, keeping his head and face in the obscurity of the shadow. After what seemed the longest pause in my life he leaned over revealing his face.
Masque’s face seemed rotten, as if he had been dead far longer than I knew the truth to be. His skin, my skin, was blue and green and seemed to be paper thin. His wounds were full of blood and puss and seemed to leak impossibly large amounts of his blood. The smile still clung to his face, unmoving even when he spoke.
“Your plan will never work, you are still you, so you can never be me.”
His words distracted me enough that I didn’t notice his hand until it touched my shoulder. The touch sent a jolt through my body forcing it into motion. I sprung from the chair, brushing the hand that had a death grip on me off, knowing it would leave a bruise. I felt like I was running in quick sand, and before I crossed the study’s threshold I chanced a look over my shoulder. The room was empty. I didn’t have long to linger on my confusion as I slipped in a puddle of blood and fell over the banister. The fall was grueling and slow, my brain still processing the recent events and I saw the body wrapped in a sheet laying on the couch in the foyer. Then my vision went black.
I woke up in bed, my body extremely sore. I couldn’t recall how I got back to the bedroom, and the thought that the corpse had played a role in that chilled me. My head had a dull ache and I found myself struggling to focus my vision. The door was swimming in the wall, the outline shifting and swirling. The bed moved when I moved, and I found my sense of balance was nearly gone.
The walk to the landing outside the bedroom was painstaking, and placing one foot in front of the other took my complete attention. Upon reaching the landing I was short of breath, and leaned on the banister to catch my breath. The corpse was still on the couch wrapped in the bloodstained sheet.
I decided that I was too far invested to not continue my work so I hobbled to the study, and began to write.
The raven in the window knows my name. It calls for me and me alone. It knows my heart of hearts and my hidden deeds. It can see my innermost soul through the veil of blood. I must catch it and eat its still beating heart in order to hide my shame. It knows my shame. It knows my name. It has teeth with which to gnaw my bones after I am gone. I am trapped in this cage of bone and blood, being ushered ever closer to the well of knowledge at the center and paradoxically further away from knowing the truth. One is how it started and two is how it went. Two is what was severed, and one is how it ends. Ebbs and flows of blood are shown raven knows the measure. Raven call echoes and becomes the call to action, I heed its call as I always have. The raven in the window knows my name. It knows my name, it knows my name, it knows, it knows. It watches.
I awoke some time later having fallen asleep at the desk. What I had written was nonsense that didn’t fit into the manuscript I had been working on. Maybe I was still suffering the effects of the fall and knew not what I was writing. Still I am uneasy as I leave the study. The blood that stained the floor yesterday is gone, no trace or stain on the floor as it had never plagued the landing.
My mouth was a desert longing for evening rain, my throat burned as if I swallowed glass. I hurried as quickly as my shaking legs would carry me down the stairs, in search of water. I found myself scooping handfuls from the faucet into my mouth as if I was some sort of animal at a watering hole. My thirst quenched, I left the kitchen and stopped at the couch. A raven sat upon the chest of the corpse which was now bare of all coverings. The sinister grin of the corpse was spread unnaturally upon the bird's face, and I took it as ill omen. I tried to shoo the monster away and with great effort it finally flew away.
I followed the beast's path to the broken window with which it entered and saw a host of ravens sitting and watching me. The air began to feel heavy, as if some figure were standing above me and applying a steady pressure down on my shoulders. The wind forcing itself into the break carried with it the sound of hideous whispers.
“Two become one, two into one, two become one”
The voices could not have been uttered by human mouths, and the phrases repeated did not make any sense in my shattering mind. The shadows behind the ravens lengthened and grew darker as the tempo of the raving whispers increased. When the noise had reached a fever pitch the shadow behind the birds took the form of a giant man with the head of a raven.
I turned to run, stopping immediately when my eyes came to rest on the corpse standing a mere few inches from my face. It had walked up behind me soundlessly while I was preoccupied ogling at the horrifying figure in the window. The richter grin stretched for what seemed like miles, filling my vision with horror and guilt. I ran instead towards the kitchen, slamming the door behind me as if it would be of any aid in keeping the haunting specters out. The loud slam ended the ceaseless whispers, and all was calm. I sat, my back against the door, relishing the peace the closed door afforded me.
The peace did not last long. As soon as I had calmed my breathing I got up to search for something to block the door more permanently. No more than five steps away from the door the silence was broken by a deafening slam. The force from the hit made me fall forwards, barely missing the kitchen island with my head. A second slam followed shortly thereafter, and after a slight pause, a third. The wooden door was bulging with each hit, and the fourth and fifth nearly freed it from its hinges. The sixth and final hit flung the door from the frame, nearly knocking it onto me.
All I could see behind the door was the mass of ravens breaking through and into the kitchen. They swarmed me, blocking out everything except for them. Claws and feathers scraped and grazed me as they flew past, leaving shallow cuts in their wake. As the last bird flew by I saw the corpse standing in the doorway, not moving. All sound stopped, the last squawks faded and I lay locked in my macabre staring contest. It felt as if hours passed before it fell forward into the room. It lay on its front through the doorway as if to let me know I had no safe haven in the house.
I slowly rose, inching toward the back door, almost instinctually knowing that I would not be allowed to flee. As I backed against the kitchen island, I caught the pantry door lazily swinging open in the corner of my eye. I turned to look at it.
What once was the pantry was no longer there, but instead was a narrow, darkened staircase. I moved toward the staircase attempting to look into the darkness below. I dared not enter, until I saw, stepping over the corpse, a figure swathed in a flowing cloak of shadow, with the outline of a raven’s beak protruding from its face. With the new arrival, I quietly fled down the staircase hoping beyond hope that the entity in the kitchen hadn’t heard me slipping away.
I couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs through the darkness but I still descended as quickly as I could without making noise. I walked down the stairs as they curved around to the left in a slow spiral, feeling as if I was walking to my grave. The descent was impossibly long, and the pace I kept did not help me reach the bottom faster. When I felt I was clear I slowed even further hoping to catch my breath. If only the reprieve could last.
Finally I saw a glimpse of what looked like fire light flickering a few hundred feet ahead and down the stairs. Just as I felt a bit of relief, I heard dragging from above me on the staircase. I launched into a sprint hoping to reach the bottom with time to hide. The stairs ended in a stone opening, with a torch on the stair side of the opening. I took the torch from the wall and swung it into the room hoping to light the oppressive darkness. It landed on the floor and skidded in a circle to the middle of the room. The room was empty in the center but with the light available I couldn’t see the walls or ceiling. I crossed the threshold of the chamber walking slowly towards the torch. The firelight danced in the center of the room casting sinister shadows on the ground nearly 60 feet out in any direction. The further I progressed toward the flickering flames the quieter the ambience in the room became. As I reached out for it the room erupted in screams.
Horrible grinding screams flooded my brain, as the room was washed over in a brilliant, pustulous green light. Though I could finally see the edges of the room, I abhorred the sight that awaited me at the edge of sanity and light. Hundreds of corpses lined the walls each on its own altar, and as the screaming and pulsating green light reached a crescendo, they all sat up suddenly. The noise stopped, save for the sound of dragging and squelching coming from the stairs at the other end of the room.
In the eerie silence, only interrupted by the beast and the corpse on the stairs, I watched as each and every corpse on the pedestals slowly turned and looked at me. They were all at varying stages of decomposition and seemed to be prepared the same way. Their eyes and mouths were stitched shut, though I’m sure they could see me through some form of sinister sorcery, and each one was a twisted mockery of my own face. Each body, in turn, pointed to the far wall which was now illuminated in the sickly pale green which encompassed the entire room. An empty altar, beautifully pristine, lay bare with a small table of surgical and embalming tools beside it.
“Such an easy target. Obsession begets obstruction, and blinds you to the dangers that surround you, child.”
The silence was broken by the voice. As the shadow beast's beak slowly broke the threshold of the entryway. It hunched down to come through the door, its long mercurial arm dragging the body of Rutherford Masque, who still wore his rictus grin. As the beast towered over me the voice became stern.
“To the altar, now.”
My limbs began to move as if the words breathed life into them, and the fear I felt when looking upon the swirling black mass that is the best stopped me from objecting.
“You two were perfect for each other, both obsessed with becoming the other, both incapable of recognizing the obsession in the other's work. Two obsessions strong enough to murder for. Two will soon become one.”
The bare altar lay before me and a hand rested on my shoulder. It was Masque. His body then climbed itself onto the altar, and lay still awaiting the horror that was to come. I followed suit, after seeing the beast was expecting me to, and lay shoulder to shoulder with the corpse. Masque looked at me, his face a picture of macabre pleasure. I knew what was to come, even though I didn’t understand the eldritch machinations at work. When the saw first tore through my flesh on my shoulder beside the corpse, the pain was unbearable. The room erupted in devilish howls of pain and joy, as the corpses in the room began a morbid celebration. The victory chants began as the shadowed raven continued his grisly work. The last words I heard before my transformation were the echoing chorus of the dead singing, “two become one, two into one, two become one.”