Damned Fiction

by David Kempf

  “Lord, save me,” he whispered in quiet terror.

  The mystery was now over. He knew what it looked like but didn’t have a clue what the hell it was.

  “What do you want of me?” he asked the monster.

  The creature pointed to the surreal and eerie sky. Suddenly, words formed in above him, words in the darkest blood-colored red.

  FOR MY FLESH IS TRUE FOOD AND MY BLOOD IS TRUE DRINK

  “John 6:53-55,” Book said instinctively. With all the criticisms and accusations of him being a hypocrite, his colleagues could never accuse him of not knowing scripture. He had the Good Book memorized and he wasn’t stupid. He was aware of how ironic his name was. Book loved the King James Bible.

  The little fiend showed him the offering plate once again. Book was disgusted to see it was literally filled with foul smelling flesh and blood of some type. Again with the rotten fish? No. It was something else. The creature shoved whatever it was down Book’s throat. He tried to fight swallowing the revolting mess but swallow it he did. He briefly thought about how his denomination fought rigorously for the idea that communion was merely symbolic and only Catholics and Episcopalians took that part of scripture literally.

  Then suddenly he was glad that he devoured it. He felt, well, more like a real Christian after digesting what was in the offering plate. And what was in the offering plate, looked and smelled like garbage. He looked to the skies once again and saw the words had vanished.

  “Look.”

  Once again words were beginning to form in the sky.

  GO AND SELL ALL YOUR POSSESSIONS AND GIVE MONEY TO THE POOR AND YOU WILL HAVE TREASURE IN HEAVEN

  “Come on, buddy. I didn’t bring anything for this journey.”

  The thing looked at him in a scolding manner.

  “Mark 10:21,” Book said.

  “Come, follow me,” it said.

  The monster’s voice was so enchanting; he had no choice, almost no free will. It grabbed his hand and walked on the dessert sand in a forward direction. Book wasn’t sure how long they walked when they finally stopped. It was so hard to measure time in this place where reality was a surreal dream. A mirror rose from the sand, about the size one would see in a dressing room.

  “Oh, I see. It’s time for a lesson in vanity. Right?”

  The creature nodded.

  “You little creep,” Book whispered.

  The monster shook his head in disapproval and then pointed again to the body-sized mirror and the red-eyed man reflected in it.

  “It’s show time, I got it.”

  And the show must go on. Among the disturbing images Book saw in the mirror were him passing the offering plate without putting a dime in it, not buying Girl scout cookies, ignoring the school’s bullies who went to his church, being absurdly anal about tardiness, being chronically jealous of more successful church members, and being uncharitable and ungrateful.

  He turned from the mirror defiantly.

  The creature pointed towards the reflections of his life as if to say you must finish watching this.

  “This just isn’t fair/” Book whined. “I’m a servant and we all know God shows favor to those who live righteously. They have money, respect and…”

  The thing shook its ugly head once more.

  “I’ve dedicated my life to Christian service. I should have had more to show for it.” Book sighed and looked again to the mirror. It was him on the first day of class. He was telling his students that all of human events could be summed up like this:

  HISTORY

  HIS-STORY

  “It’s like I told you, you miserable demon, I’m a servant of God.”

  The filthy little beast looked at him and Book was now aware of two things. One, that he felt shame over his gigantic ego, he always thought God should have acknowledged what a magnificent Christian he was. Two, he was beginning to change. He could almost sense what the creature was feeling by gazing at it with his new eyes.

  “Well, little devil, let’s get on with this, I’m ready to go wherever the journey takes us.”

  The creature smirked at him and grabbed his hand, they continued to walk through the red desert.

  “Oh God, another verse is about to come alive in the sky.”

  TRULY I TELL YOU, UNLESS YOU CHANGE AND BECOME LIKE LITTLE CHILDREN, YOU WILL NEVER ENTER THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

  “Matthew 18:3,” he said. Book realized that he always felt like a little emperor when he had the captive audience of kids forced to take his class. Now he felt down below his neck and realized the emperor had new clothes. He was dressed in his pajamas just like when he was a child. Then he suddenly realized that he was the size of a child. The monster pulled out a small mirror out of nowhere like some sleight of hand trick from a dark magician.

  “My God,” Book said. He was now the size of the creature, dressed in his old nighttime clothes and looking at the reflection of two evil red eyes, his own eyes staring back at him from the little magic mirror.

  “Please stop, please turn me back into the man I once was.”

  The creature let out something like a giggle.

  It grabbed Book by his now small hand and then pointed him in the right direction, so to speak. “There is more writing in the sky,” Book said with child-like wonder.

  IF ANYONE COMES TO ME AND DOES NOT HATE HIS FATHER AND MOTHER, WIFE AND CHILDREN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS-YES, EVEN THEIR OWN LIFE-SUCH A PERSON CANNOT BE MY DISCIPLE

  “Luke, chapter 14, I think. Hey, my love of God made my love of my family seem like sheer hate.

  The monster giggled again.

  “Oh, here’s another damned mirror to show me the error of my ways. You know I should have saved Tiny Tim and put more coal in the fire at Christmas. I hope this doesn’t end with me staring at the writing on my own tombstone.”

  All of the love Book had for his parents and sister and his pastor and his fellow teachers who were real Christians was displayed before him. Rapid memories zoomed by in the magic mirror. Book quickly realized that he did love many people as much as he loved God. Then the creature looked into his similarly deep red eyes. It became so clear, so fast. The opposite of love is not hate. It’s indifference.

  “Please, don’t.” All of the memories, the pain and the sorrow, the love and the hate of all the people he knew on earth were beginning to vanish.

  The monster looked at him as if to say forget them, they were never important at all.

  Book suddenly forgot about his family and friends, he couldn’t even remember Logan and Leeds with whom he had begun this dark journey.

  He felt no shame or panic over this. Now was the time to solve this riddle, to put the pieces of the mad puzzle together. Book couldn’t do this if he were to fall in the trap of obsessing over the details. The people in his past were all but forgotten. For a brief moment he remembered his brother Tom’s terrible church music and then it all just went away.

  He remembered this hideous test always took place on Halloween. This was the holiday when the veil of the living and the dead was blurred, the pagan second coming of sorts.

  The day after was All Saints Day, this is when the churches in error would speak of the blessed dead, those allegedly in heaven.

  “I think I understand now,” Book said. It wasn’t about a terrible, silly teacher he was or about the nonsense he filled young minds with. This was not a test that decided if any woman would find him attractive, none did. Anyway, he had now forgotten about all of this.

  The creature squeezed his hand and pointed upwards towards the writing in the sky:

  IF YOUR RIGHT EYE CAUSES YOU TO SIN, TEAR IT OUT AND THROW IT AWAY. FOR IT IS BETTER THAT YOU LOSE ONE OF YOUR MEMBERS THAN THAT THE WHOLE BODY BE THROWN INTO HELL. AND IF YOUR RIGHT HAND CAUSES YOU TO SIN, CUT IT OFF AND THROW IT AWAY. FOR IT IS BETTER THAT YOU LOSE ONE OF YOUR MEMBERS THAN THAT YOUR WHOLE BODY GO INTO HELL

  “God, please don’t cut anything off me.”

  The thing giggled once again.

&n
bsp; “Stop making fun of me, damn you!”

  The creature placed a thought in his head.

  “Oh, so this verse is just symbolic. Very funny.

  Matthew something or other, isn’t it?”

  The monster looked at him as if he were a confused.

  “Dear Lord, please let this not be a test. Let it be a nightmare and please, I beg you, let me wake up now.”

  The creature looked at him as if he were just now dealing with his new reality. The man had become a parody of himself.

  “Don’t look now.”

  “Now you finally speak, you filthy beast.”

  “Behold all things become anew.” The thing handed him yet another small mirror in which to see his own reflection.

  Book laughed with the full noise of madness. He was all gone now. What he saw in the mirror showed him that much. He was now one of these things in totality. He was naked again but not cold. An animal’s hair, most likely monkey or gorilla replaced the pajamas. He felt his face. There was no human flesh on it. It was a skeletal face. Book was now about three feet tall like the creatures.

  “So this is it. I have to sell all my material goods, hate my family and become a little child. A flesh and blood-eating little child. I don’t know if you are from another planet or some dark fairy tale. You are here to mock me.”

  “Come this way,” the thing said, grabbing his little three-fingered skeleton hand.

  The monsters walked along the red sand and suddenly a human sized door of blue energy appeared in front of them.

  “What now?” Book asked.

  He felt the creature’s hand drop and gazed upon his now dead body lying in the desert sand. Book would be taking this journey all alone.

  Book accepted his fate. He went to the mysterious door and peeked inside. There sat three monks, one young and two old, dressed in their holy yet humble garb, hoods and all. They were arguing with each other about why they had to be stuck, locked in the monastery every Halloween every year without end and without reason. Book stuck his head in a little farther. He would have quite the daunting task to do here. He pitied the three men because they had not yet seen the light.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Book whispered.

  Dear David,

  What a delightful, thought-provoking, sacrilegious and subversive little story you have written. I liked it. The only problem I have with it is that it does discuss church dogma a little too much. It could backfire on us and give people a healthy interest in spiritual things. I don’t want that. I only want people interested in me. From one narcissist to another, you can surely understand that. Well, with all of those denominations, how can anyone in their right mind believe there is a crystal clear Christian message?

  Hell, what do I know? I’ve always given the human race way too much credit. What can you really expect from them? They have reptilian brains and consciousness is only an unexpected side effect of the evolutionary process. They wouldn’t know reality if it poked them in the ass with a red pitchfork. I mean no offense to you and I am aware you are currently human. I also know you want my help to try to change that. Please keep up the good work.

  Yours Truly,

  The Man Behind the Curtain

  7

  The Devil’s hour tormented the monk with terrible nightmares. The nightmares came to Saint Robert’s, one of the oldest monasteries in Pennsylvania and not far from Donnis University. The hour of the fallen one seemed to be about three o’clock in the morning. The most deaths occurred then. So apparently did the worst nightmares for one particular brother of this order.

  His name was Christopher Wisdom.

  “Are you okay, Chris?” asked a fellow monk.

  “I think so,” Christopher answered.

  “You’ve got problems, pal. Perhaps you should see a shrink.”

  Christopher smiled at him.

  “Never sell your soul to write a bestseller.”

  “What?” Christopher asked.

  “That’s what you say, in your sleep…”

  “Oh.”

  The two monks had become good friends due to the unusual circumstances of their calling. The stories the two young men had told one another confirmed this. One claimed to have traveled through time. The other brother said he was tormented by dreams that he had dealt with evil spirits called the Jinn. Apparently, he could not prove this because he wished them into oblivion. They, however, still haunted him in his dreams, particularly during the so-called Devil’s hour.

  “You’re one to talk, you walk around all day long with a neck brace and there is not one damn thing wrong with your neck!”

  “Touché,” said Christopher’s friend.

  “You know, you can call me crazy but I’m not the one who claimed to have actually met Jesus Christ.”

  “Keep your voice down, Chris.”

  “Sorry.”

  The two monks did occasionally doubt each other’s stories but most of the time the way they told them was terrifyingly believable.

  “You’ve never been to the turning point of time and space.”

  “You really never did drugs?” Christopher asked.

  “No.”

  “I was under the distinct impression that one did not get to meet the Lord until after death.”

  “Funny…”

  “No, that’s the point of faith.”

  “True but what I experienced took place somewhere between the real and the unreal.”

  Christopher’s friend smiled at him. They were fortunate to be roommates in one of the most upscale monasteries around. These men lived well. The county where they resided was wealth and thus every parish took a lion’s share at the Sunday offering plate.

  The two men did try their best to live Christian lives.

  “You are not what I consider to be a traditional Christian,” said Christopher.

  “You never met the real guy.”

  “This is an iniquitous arrangement, I can’t remember my amazing experiences but you can apparently.”

  “Christopher, you said that you wished them all away…”

  The supernatural was a way of life for these two friends. It was not merely because they joined the order but rather their obsession with trying to make sense out of life and their attempts to know the unknown.

  It created a real bond between them.

  “Tell me again about the time you met Jesus.”

  “Christopher, it’s late.”

  “Sure is, buddy but that’s a hell of a story.”

  “The last year has been one crazy roller coaster, I think we’re the two weirdest monks here and that’s really saying something.”

  “Well, sure, I mean this whole place is filled with misfits and weirdos.”

  “And men suffering from mental illness, it seems to me but at least they talk like ordinary monks. We sound like two regular guys having a beer.”

  Christopher laughed.

  “You know, Chris, I’ve discovered that you and I do have a lot in common. We face our fears together.”

  Christopher smiled at his fellow monk, his close companion on the road to knowing what could never be known.

  “Christopher.”

  “Okay.”

  Christopher removed his friend’s useless neck brace, the very height of hypochondria.

  “No one is going to cut your head off here,” Christopher said.

  “I know,” said his friend.

  “We’re the laughing stock of this place you know.”

  “You said it Chris.”

  “Devil may care attitude is what we got, brother…”

  Christopher’s shook his head at him.

  He rolled his eyes and smiled back at him.

  “Do you feel like you are finally selfless enough, Christopher.”

  “It’s hard to overcome the narcissism of original sin, especially if you’re a writer.”

  “Chris, it was a hell of a good book!”

  “Please don’t start with that.”


  “Sorry,” Christopher’s friend said.

  “Dark Fiction was a good book but I’ve moved on to more important things.”

  “I’ll bet that’s now what Dr. Wells thinks. He wants you to be a writer and his personal slave.”

  “He’s a terrible influence on me,” Christopher said.

  “Wells shot you straight to the top, at least for a little while.”

  “I reached the top of the tower and found it to be empty.”

  Christopher’s friend was very pleased to hear this. He came from a very wealthy family, one that could rival the Rockefellers. The empty materialism planted a seed, the need for a spiritual life.

  “Your stories were visions in my head.”

  “That’s right,” said Christopher. “I forgot that when you weren’t hanging out with our lord and savior, you were spending time with your dead great-grandfather.”

  “That’s right,” said the monk sincerely.

  “I’m sorry, my friend, I guess there was something about your grand tales that made me somewhat reluctant to believe you.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Still, I have half memories of the supernatural and you claimed that you hallucinated my stories in your head but can’t prove your own stories, the ones you claimed actually happened.”

  “Yes, that is quite true.”

  “You also claim that someday Christianity will be a philosophy of humanistic charity rather than a traditional faith of supernatural implications.”

  “You got me there, too, Brother Christopher.”

  “Are they revelations or hallucinations?” Christopher asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I guess we’ve spent far too much time together.”

  The two monks could heartily agree on that point. They were not quite outcasts but the others seemed to think there was something very odd about both of them.

  Christopher laughed.

  “You suffer the consequences of your own claims,” Christopher said.

  “Indeed, I do,” the monk answered.

  “Are they hallucinations or revelations?” Christopher asked.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  There was a brief moment where Christopher by force of sheer exhaustion appeared as though he had fallen asleep. He was prone to nightmares that made him wish not to return to sleep. The man was a monk and an insomniac but not necessarily in that order.