Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (30 page)

Samuel
cried, ready to follow her, ready to do anything to escape the fate perched on
the threshold of his humanity.

Your
final moments, those inaccessible to you since you arrived here. Those moments
will enlighten you, provide answers to questions you have not asked. They will
also explain your presence here, and once you have that knowledge, you will
know what you must do.

“What
if I don’t?” he asked.

All
you can do is trust in what I have to share.

Samuel
felt Mara’s essence dissipate. The energy in his body shifted, and he felt his
mind snap back into the physical realm. The blackness of the Reversion
retreated until the fuzzy hole of a dream reality filled the middle, like
viewing it through a telescope. The blackness surrounding the edges of his
vision reminded Samuel that this was something for him to witness, but that the
Reversion still held him in its clutches. The objects swam through his vision
until they began to settle and form within the frame. A burning knowledge began
in his stomach, and the pain blossomed outward as the scene materialized. When
the objects stopped and the lens on the vision focused, Samuel cried. He
remembered the scene, he remembered the cast, and even though the pain tore
through his psyche, he also remembered his lines. Samuel was not sure he could
manage to sit through the clip until he felt the inner strength of Mara,
speaking to him from beyond the physical.

You
must. And from your suffering will come your salvation.

***

Samuel slid
the triskele from underneath the thin mattress that smelled of piss and
disinfectant. He smiled and held the item in his hand, pleased to have been
able to smuggle the talisman into his cell without hiding it within one of his
body’s orifices.

The cinder-block
wall stared at him from all angles, disguising up from down and inside from
out. The stainless-steel sink sat next to the basin that functioned as a
toilet. Both fixtures faced the bars of the open cell and anyone that happened to
be walking the corridor of his ward. A black marker sat in the corner of the
room, while a simple calendar hung from the wall above it. The air inside the
prison hung as if it too was sentenced to a life of pure, dead boredom.

“I’m cold,”
Samuel yelled.

He shuffled
to the front of the cell, placing a hand on each bar and shoving his unshaven
face through. Samuel managed to cast an eye down the corridor and saw nobody. He
turned his head at the other end of the hallway. It was empty, too.

“I need a
fucking blanket!”

The sound of
scraping metal preceded the methodical tapping of boots on the polished floor.

“‘Bout time.”

Samuel
stepped back and waited as the guard approached with a thin blanket folded down
to the size of a postcard. He looked at Samuel and sniffed, turning his nose up
at the stench.

“Flush the
damn toilet, you animal.”

The guard
tossed the blanket through the bars. It landed at Samuel’s feet. He bent down
and picked up the linen. Samuel listened as the boots clicked their way back to
the front desk, sealed off with the massive, steel door shrieking back into
place.

Samuel
unfolded the sheet masquerading as a blanket and did the mental calculations in
his head. He looked up at the heating duct burrowing through the cinder-block
walls and hoped the sheet was long enough. He took the thin, felt slippers from
his feet and knotted the end of the sheet around both until the ball of cloth
outweighed the rest of the fabric. He looked up at the three-inch gap between
the ductwork and the ceiling, and then visually measured the ball in his hand.

He walked
toward the sink and splashed his face with water. The pungent stench of
chlorine invaded his mouth, and Samuel remembered the inmates telling him to
never drink the water from the sink inside the cell. Samuel laughed at that
advice and its absurdity in his current situation. He looked at the calendar
and the mangled, wrinkled photo tucked under the corner. It would not matter
for Samuel. He would never see his family again.

He
punched the wall and felt the skin on his knuckles pull back until the warm
blood flowed over them. Samuel punched the cinder block again until the bones
in his hand succumbed to the power of the cement.

The lights
in the corridor buzzed. Samuel looked up to see the overhead fluorescent bulbs
wink and extinguish as the electricity retreated from the wires. Several
wire-encased sconces flickered to life where they were mounted between cells. The
curfew buzzer sounded, followed by a sighing symphony of incarcerated souls. Samuel
did not feel tired, but then again, he had lost track of day and night long
ago. He slept when the lights went out and woke when they came back to life.

Samuel
waited for his eyes to adjust, staring at the battered photograph. He kissed
two fingers on his right hand and touched them to Kim’s face, one from another
time and place. Samuel would give anything to be standing in that frame, his
hand on her back as they smiled at the optimistic future awaiting them. He sat
on the edge of the bunk and put his face in his hands.

There could be
an appeal.

He swore at
himself as soon as the thought appeared. His attorney had taken him through
those permutations, and an appeal was as likely as the guard opening the door
and setting him free.

Then stop
stalling and get to it, you fucking coward.

Samuel stood
and nodded his head, shaking the last bit of doubt from it. He took the end of
the sheet containing the slippers and balled it in his right hand. Samuel
stepped back and lobbed the sheet toward the duct. The first two tries bounced
off the wall and fell back to him. The third toss landed on top before sliding
across it and out the other side. Samuel stopped, hoping the guards would not
have heard it strike the duct.

It’ll
never hold you.

He cursed
the voice trying to keep him from ending the pain once and for all.

“Got steel
straps tied into the block to reinforce the duct. It’ll hold.”

He winced at
the sound of his voice. It sounded foreign to his ears.

Samuel
pulled the loose end until the knot held between the top of the heating duct
and the wall. He clutched the sheet with both hands and pulled his feet off the
floor. Samuel dangled a few inches in the air, neither the sheet nor the duct
giving any indication that they would not be able to finish the job.

He climbed
on the bunk and stood on the edge of it. Samuel took the loose end and tied it
around his neck several times, taking all of the slack from the fabric. He
reached up and tied a knot behind his head. Sweat poured from his skin, causing
a shiver in the cold chill of the cell. Samuel’s mouth went dry, and his palms
became moist. He slid the triskele out of the waistband of his underwear and
held it in his right hand. Samuel did not pray. He did not ask forgiveness from
the all-powerful forces of the universe. If the talisman did not serve him as
he crossed over, nothing would.

His bare
toes extended over the edge of the bunk that sat two feet from the floor. Samuel
looked up again to verify that the knot held at the top before reaching around
to check that his noose held firm. He took shallow, rapid breaths, trying to
exhale the last remnants of hesitation.

Samuel
closed his eyes and thought of the suicide forest he had seen on television a
long time ago. He imagined proud Japanese men trudging through the forest and
hanging themselves to avoid the shame of the modern world, swinging together at
the base of the sacred mountain and sparing their families the pain. He could
almost feel the hovering trees, along with the unnatural solitude of the
haunted forest.

When
Samuel stepped off the bed, his last sensation was the distant aroma of moldy
bark.

Chapter 17

Samuel
pushed the twisted sheet from his shoulder and let the makeshift noose coil on
the ground like a dead snake. He stepped out of the rope and looked up at the
decaying branch overhead. Samuel shook his head, his eyes darting about the
empty forest as his heart raced in his chest.

He
drew a breath, exhaling slowly and wincing at the pain in his throat as his
lungs tried to pull in more oxygen. He smiled from the joy of being alive until
the memory of his prison cell wiped it from his face. Like a leaf at the mercy
of the wind, the image of the bars floated from Samuel’s reach. Worry rushed
back in to fill his mind as he struggled to find a connection, a reason for
being here.

He
stepped over the jagged rocks and closed his eyes. Silence. It could have been
midsummer. It could have been the dead of winter. He could no longer tell, and
even if he could, Samuel struggled to remember what those labels meant. The
wind was still, nothing but a whisper. The creek in the distance murmured like
the whispers at a funeral procession. The insects, the animals, the creatures
of the wood fell silent. Again, Samuel fought to recall hearing any sound. A
leather string holding an amulet lay on the ground at his feet, and Samuel
picked it up. The charm was silver, three triple spirals connected and curling in
on each other. He slid the leather string over his head until the amulet lay on
his chest.

He
walked over branches sprawled on the ground and onto a rough path that wound
itself further into the forest. The sun hung at an odd angle, tossing a bland
shaft of light ahead with most of the rays never reaching the ground. Samuel
looked to the right and saw the tattered, yellow tape dangling from the trunks
of ancient oaks.

What
is this?

Profane
and yet sacred, the final resting place of those who could go through with it.
He reached out and tore a shred of tape from the tree.

Samuel
looked up into the canopy of branches, which hovered overhead like a worried
mother. As far as he could see, ropes and nooses hung empty and cold. Humps and
forms lay beneath some.

He
continued down the path, knocking aside a shoe, a sport coat, a backpack.
Eventually he stopped and bent down, the aching in his neck causing him to
wince. The backpack was made of nylon, the zipper long gone and its teeth
forever in a black grin. He reached into it, his fingers brushing against a few
leaves that rustled inside. Nothing. He turned it over to reveal three
characters embroidered on the front: BCD. He rubbed his head and stared at them
until he could recognize them as letters of the alphabet, and a thin smile
spread over his lips. He was not sure if those letters mattered anymore, and he
could not recall why they ever would have.

Samuel
threw the only remaining strap over one shoulder and shuffled farther down the
path. The creek moved closer with each step, and he was happy to hear its
meanderings. The natural noise brought a brief sense of normalcy, a memory from
childhood, long summer days in the valley where the creek cut a ragged line
through the forest. Some days he would spend hours in solitude, overturning
rocks in a search for salamanders. On other days, he would throw stones across
the bank with his brothers in a friendly competition that would end when his
mother’s voice echoed through the trees, calling them home for the evening
meal.

He
saw more items strewn across the path and kicked a pair of shoes to the side.
So many shoes. He wondered why the shoes remained and the bodies did not.

The
path curved as it approached the stream, turning right into a grove of high
pines, their needles covering the ground. Samuel drew a deep breath through his
nose, catching the faintest odor of pine, and that made him smile. He savored
the distant aroma for as long as he could. It did not last.

He
sat on the ground next to an abandoned, blue shopping bag and reached inside,
pulled out the contents, and arranged them in a circle over the pine needles.
He remembered the names for most of them. Lighter. Pen. Nickel. A few he could
not recognize, but his brain assured him he would. Samuel picked up the lighter
with his right hand, pinched between a thumb and finger. Muscle memory snapped
into place as his thumb struck down on the flint. The lighter sparked, and
Samuel smiled. He could almost taste the burnt, woody smoke of a hand-rolled
cigarette. He could almost feel the airy buzz with each inhalation of the
tobacco. He struck the lighter again and again, but each time it failed to
ignite, and each time it reminded him of the temporary satisfaction delivered
by the nicotine. Another item returned to his expanding repertoire of old words
becoming new again as he opened a supple, leather wallet.

Samuel
removed the paper sticking out from its fold. As with the pine needles, he
caught a faint whiff of the earthy, organic scent of the rawhide.