Emry Timinski sat in his study. Staring out the window the view meant nothing. It used to be pleasing, a garden reminiscent of Versailles. He thought about going to bed, though he doubted he’d sleep. He rarely did these days. His wife slept soundly, thanks to a burgeoning ether addiction. He downed the last drops from a bottle of bourbon – his own self-medication. Rising, he heard a floorboard creak.
Collapsing back into the chair Emry said, “I knew you’d be back.”
“Don’t send anymore after me,” the voice shook the very air.
“He’s dead then?” Emry asked, already suspecting the answer.
A thud. He glanced down. Morty’s head and spine lay by his feet.
“I can’t promise the others won’t keep coming for you.”
“Advise them otherwise.”
Emry nodded, “They might listen, but are we supposed to just sit back and take it?” He turned, the sorrow in him transforming into reckless rage, “We won’t –”
A spindly claw-like hand clapped over his mouth. He saw a black wooly form, its antlers scraping the ceiling. It lifted him off the ground.
Snarling it said, “Look into my eyes.”
Emry felt a razorblade skip through his brain.
Cillian spoke without moving his mouth, “You will suffer unto me.”
He tossed Emry aside like a ragdoll. The mob boss slammed into a bookcase. Then the sack went over his head, and when it came off, he felt free from sorrow for the briefest moment. Looking around, he saw nothing save for an empty study. Slowly, the grief returned and with it, the guilt from feeling happier without it. As such, Emry sat on the floor weeping. For in that instance, he realized this would never end.
Cillian, meanwhile, made his way through the woods on all fours. He delivered the bag of sorrow to the scarecrow.
Huffing on the sweet suffering therein, the scarecrow remarked, “Something on your mind?”
Cillian said, “This can’t last. They won’t feel grief forever.”
The scarecrow said, “I didn’t think so, but I have a plan for that.”
#
Elizabeth struck a match. In the tiny apartment the burning stick almost filled the room. She touched it to a candle. On the floorboards she already drew a red circle in chalk. Around it she wrote the words the old woman told her.
At the funeral, weeping over her little brother, Elizabeth felt her mind fracture. The weight of her agony crushed like a piston. She considered how much she endured over the course of her life – mother dying in childbirth, father shortly thereafter stabbed to death by a mugger; two brothers killed in gangster crossfire – her family seemed destined to die. Especially now that her youngest brother died, falling through the ice hauling a carload of booze.
She couldn’t stop saying things like, “They sucked him in. Flashing cash in his face and making it all sound so glamorous. Pretending lies are truth, that pig Sorisi got him killed.”
“Hush Lizzy,” a neighbor said, “Sorisi hears about this, even a rumor, you’ll be skinned alive.”
“Or worse,” someone said.
Elizabeth didn’t care. Let the bastards come, she thought. They already took so much from her, the rest of her life seemed minimal in comparison. However, while each bit of caution sounded like attempts to distance from her, one old woman took her hand.
Elizabeth couldn’t recall the old woman. She didn’t seem to be a neighbor, friend of the family, or anyone she knew. The old woman introduced herself as Lilith. A youthful spark glittered in her ancient eye, and something in the way she moved made her age seem immaterial.
Lilith said, “You’ve been wronged sweet thing, but you do not have to bear it with a smile. There are other ways.”
Taking Elizabeth aside, Lilith whispered instructions. She told her to procure a candle, red chalk, and then what to do.
So, Elizabeth lit the candle, placed it in the red circle, and recited the words she wrote. The language didn’t sound like anything Elizabeth ever heard. It struck her as alien, words humans are unlikely to produce. Still, the more she spoke the more the air gained a certain weight. Then the candle flame intensified. Dancing on the slender wick it climbed a foot high. The candle melted in a matter of seconds; the fire snuffed out by the bubbling puddle of wax.
Darkness filled the room. The little light from the street even vanished. Elizabeth felt a breeze and started to realize she no longer occupied the apartment.
Thunder sounded, and she saw red lightning in the distance. In the light of flashes, she saw black rocky field that went on for miles, and a figure marching toward her on all fours, a great antlered entity like some demonic giraffe. She heard the thump of its feet as it neared.
It’s eyes, like burning embers, gazed down upon her. She glanced up then down. This didn’t feel right.
A deep resonating voice said, “You have need of me.”
Hesitantly, Elizabeth nodded.
The voice said, “Don’t be afraid. My name is Cillian.”
Elizabeth said, “My brothers… died…”
“Unfairly, or you would not be here.”
She said, “I can’t hurt the ones who hurt me, the Sorisi gang. I need your help.”
“There is a price.”
“Lilith told me,” Elizabeth said, taking a deep breath, “I’ll pay it.”
She felt a spindly claw gently grasp her shoulder. She flinched, but it held her firm. A sack closed over her head. After a moment, afraid she might suffocate, that she’d made a terrible mistake, the sack came off.
Gasping Elizabeth felt such relief. Her sorrow was gone entirely. She smiled for the first time in weeks.
She said, “Is that it?”
“I’ll return when there’s more,” Cillian said.
“What about Sorisi?” Elizabeth asked.
She looked up. The eyes staring down bore into her. Her head filled with a tornado of nails.
Cillian’s voice growled inside her skull, “Constant pain disgrace; blood and screams – they suffer unto me.”
She did not look away. Then the darkness closed in on itself. Light spilled in through the window, the streetlamp piercing the shadows. Elizabeth felt a warmth spread inside her. The night would be filled with blood and screams. She knew it; knew to trust the distributor of pain, the harvester of sorrow. Everything would be alright.
Collapsing back into the chair Emry said, “I knew you’d be back.”
“Don’t send anymore after me,” the voice shook the very air.
“He’s dead then?” Emry asked, already suspecting the answer.
A thud. He glanced down. Morty’s head and spine lay by his feet.
“I can’t promise the others won’t keep coming for you.”
“Advise them otherwise.”
Emry nodded, “They might listen, but are we supposed to just sit back and take it?” He turned, the sorrow in him transforming into reckless rage, “We won’t –”
A spindly claw-like hand clapped over his mouth. He saw a black wooly form, its antlers scraping the ceiling. It lifted him off the ground.
Snarling it said, “Look into my eyes.”
Emry felt a razorblade skip through his brain.
Cillian spoke without moving his mouth, “You will suffer unto me.”
He tossed Emry aside like a ragdoll. The mob boss slammed into a bookcase. Then the sack went over his head, and when it came off, he felt free from sorrow for the briefest moment. Looking around, he saw nothing save for an empty study. Slowly, the grief returned and with it, the guilt from feeling happier without it. As such, Emry sat on the floor weeping. For in that instance, he realized this would never end.
Cillian, meanwhile, made his way through the woods on all fours. He delivered the bag of sorrow to the scarecrow.
Huffing on the sweet suffering therein, the scarecrow remarked, “Something on your mind?”
Cillian said, “This can’t last. They won’t feel grief forever.”
The scarecrow said, “I didn’t think so, but I have a plan for that.”
#
Elizabeth struck a match. In the tiny apartment the burning stick almost filled the room. She touched it to a candle. On the floorboards she already drew a red circle in chalk. Around it she wrote the words the old woman told her.
At the funeral, weeping over her little brother, Elizabeth felt her mind fracture. The weight of her agony crushed like a piston. She considered how much she endured over the course of her life – mother dying in childbirth, father shortly thereafter stabbed to death by a mugger; two brothers killed in gangster crossfire – her family seemed destined to die. Especially now that her youngest brother died, falling through the ice hauling a carload of booze.
She couldn’t stop saying things like, “They sucked him in. Flashing cash in his face and making it all sound so glamorous. Pretending lies are truth, that pig Sorisi got him killed.”
“Hush Lizzy,” a neighbor said, “Sorisi hears about this, even a rumor, you’ll be skinned alive.”
“Or worse,” someone said.
Elizabeth didn’t care. Let the bastards come, she thought. They already took so much from her, the rest of her life seemed minimal in comparison. However, while each bit of caution sounded like attempts to distance from her, one old woman took her hand.
Elizabeth couldn’t recall the old woman. She didn’t seem to be a neighbor, friend of the family, or anyone she knew. The old woman introduced herself as Lilith. A youthful spark glittered in her ancient eye, and something in the way she moved made her age seem immaterial.
Lilith said, “You’ve been wronged sweet thing, but you do not have to bear it with a smile. There are other ways.”
Taking Elizabeth aside, Lilith whispered instructions. She told her to procure a candle, red chalk, and then what to do.
So, Elizabeth lit the candle, placed it in the red circle, and recited the words she wrote. The language didn’t sound like anything Elizabeth ever heard. It struck her as alien, words humans are unlikely to produce. Still, the more she spoke the more the air gained a certain weight. Then the candle flame intensified. Dancing on the slender wick it climbed a foot high. The candle melted in a matter of seconds; the fire snuffed out by the bubbling puddle of wax.
Darkness filled the room. The little light from the street even vanished. Elizabeth felt a breeze and started to realize she no longer occupied the apartment.
Thunder sounded, and she saw red lightning in the distance. In the light of flashes, she saw black rocky field that went on for miles, and a figure marching toward her on all fours, a great antlered entity like some demonic giraffe. She heard the thump of its feet as it neared.
It’s eyes, like burning embers, gazed down upon her. She glanced up then down. This didn’t feel right.
A deep resonating voice said, “You have need of me.”
Hesitantly, Elizabeth nodded.
The voice said, “Don’t be afraid. My name is Cillian.”
Elizabeth said, “My brothers… died…”
“Unfairly, or you would not be here.”
She said, “I can’t hurt the ones who hurt me, the Sorisi gang. I need your help.”
“There is a price.”
“Lilith told me,” Elizabeth said, taking a deep breath, “I’ll pay it.”
She felt a spindly claw gently grasp her shoulder. She flinched, but it held her firm. A sack closed over her head. After a moment, afraid she might suffocate, that she’d made a terrible mistake, the sack came off.
Gasping Elizabeth felt such relief. Her sorrow was gone entirely. She smiled for the first time in weeks.
She said, “Is that it?”
“I’ll return when there’s more,” Cillian said.
“What about Sorisi?” Elizabeth asked.
She looked up. The eyes staring down bore into her. Her head filled with a tornado of nails.
Cillian’s voice growled inside her skull, “Constant pain disgrace; blood and screams – they suffer unto me.”
She did not look away. Then the darkness closed in on itself. Light spilled in through the window, the streetlamp piercing the shadows. Elizabeth felt a warmth spread inside her. The night would be filled with blood and screams. She knew it; knew to trust the distributor of pain, the harvester of sorrow. Everything would be alright.
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