Damned Fiction

by David Kempf

  “I really thought you were out, Chris.”

  “No, nothing gets me to fall asleep. I’m a lifetime insomniac.”

  His friend nodded.

  “I’m not superstitious like you so I don’t dream about the fires of Hell…”

  “Maybe Hell doesn’t have any fire,” said Christopher.

  “Funny,” said the monk.

  The two men enjoyed each other’s company and friendship. They had radical disagreements about the nature of life and the nature of Christ. The two monks believed in social justice very strongly. They had much in common.

  “I don’t want to go to sleep.”

  “Chris, I know that.”

  “I want to watch movies.”

  “Chris, we should praying or something. You’re something else.”

  “I know that.”

  “Okay, what movie do you want to watch tonight or rather this morning?”

  “Shadow of Doubt,” Christopher answered.

  “A fine choice.”

  “You know I think that somewhere between your point of view and mine is the truth.”

  “Oh, I agree, the truth is usually stranded somewhere in the middle.”

  “Christopher, you know that’s true. The truth is stranded somewhere in the middle of time itself.”

  The two friends shared an enthusiasm for helping the poor and down trodden that bonded them closely. They raised far more questions than the provided answers for one another. The other brother reminded Christopher that he worried too much. Life was short and not to be taken too seriously. Help others while you are still alive and can. The real message of Jesus Christ was pure love. It was love that Christopher and his friend provided. Perhaps it was easier for his companion who was born into a very wealthy family.

  Dreams and nightmares came to Christopher Wisdom every night. The two monks watched old movies and shared books. Among them was the one Christopher wrote, a bestseller featuring a thinly disguised Henry David Wells character. The readers ate it up like a gourmet buffet. He was a great writer who quit after one book. Christopher made a choice that made readers of dark fiction hate him for. That was okay. Christopher had great wisdom. He followed his conscience even when it was a pain in the ass. He was grateful for his friend. Nobody likes to be alone. The damage from his brief flirtation with fame was catastrophic. That was not good. Nobody wants to be alone. Not God. Not Satan. Nobody.

  “Movies, huh, Chris….”

  “Yes.”

  “They saved my life. Movies are a distraction at worst and at best an art form that offers hope.”

  “Chris, why the hell don’t you just write at night instead of tormenting me?”

  “A good question….”

  “Well?” the monk asked.

  The two friends shared a mutual laugh. They enjoyed each other’s company. And why not, who wants to be alone?

  Nobody wants to be alone.

  Even God and Satan must get lonely sometimes…

  Christopher’s friend sometimes wondered if they would cast him out if he was not rich. He could afford to be eccentric. They never kicked certain pop singers out of the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Mormons. Therefore, the Catholics would not kick out a monk from a wealthy family. The man had money.

  “Movies are great entertainment, Chris.”

  “We sure love them,” said Christopher Wisdom.

  “Your terrible nightmares and my awful real life experiences don’t mean we’re out of our minds.”

  “No.”

  “We’re sane,” said the monk.

  “I sure hope that this is the case.”

  They were always honest and clear with another. Chaos and creation were the natural order of the day here. These were not traditional monks of the order. There was much love here. Much love for one another and not so much for the outside world.

  “We’ve had the best debates, Chris.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “No.”

  Fear and love have always been humanity’s two greatest emotions. Now that it was time to chose, Christopher chose love over fear and hate. He was a good man. He had guts and integrity. Christopher had great wisdom. He chose a life of sacrifice instead of fame and fortune. Christopher was the exact opposite of Henry David Wells.

  “If you met the real Christ, you would honor his memory.”

  “I serve him now,” Christopher said.

  “You serve the myth, not the man.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “You’ve made some really fantastic claims.”

  “Do you believe them? Christopher’s friend asked.

  “No but I believe that you believe them.”

  The other monk frowned. He did not look like he was in the mood for popcorn and watching the insomniac late show.

  “Sorry,” Christopher Wisdom said.

  “That’s okay. I know on some level you think that your novel is a true story.”

  Christopher laughed.

  “Well, don’t you, Chris?”

  “No.”

  “Come on…”

  “Okay, there must be some reason for these nightmares. Maybe.”

  “These weird dreams are sort of a warning.”

  “How so?”

  “They come at the infamous time attributed to the demonic, that’s when I wake up. They deal with Satanic forces telling me to back off. They warn me to leave Wells alone and to give up saving his soul.”

  “I don’t believe in souls but that sounds like fine advice.”

  Christopher rolled his eyes.

  “Well, Jesus man the guy is a hopeless narcissist.”

  “So was I,” Christopher said.

  “Well, now you’re a humble monk who won’t talk about writing a great dark fiction novel.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know if you become a total recluse and never write again, you could be hurting yourself.”

  “What do you mean?” Christopher asked the monk.

  “That’s how legends are born. The artists who only write one American masterpiece and disappear are talked about for decades.”

  “Do you mean even after I’m dead?” asked Christopher Wisdom.

  “Especially after you’re dead. Reading books doesn’t stop because your heart stops beating, Chris!”

  “True,” said Christopher.

  “Trust me, my great grandfather Harold read every book under the sun. The ones he read the most were written by dead people!”

  “I can still scare people, even beyond the grave…”

  The two unusual monks both broke out into hysterical laughter. Even the best of friends should know better than to make loud noises in the middle of the night. This is especially at a monastery….

  Christopher and his late night companion didn’t care at all. They would shout and scream and make their fellow monks wonder about their sanity. The two men were by far the most interesting thing going on at Saint Robert’s.

  “Chris, are you going to go back to sleep or what?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “I’m such a hypochondriac, I’m ashamed…”

  “I thought writers had no shame.”

  Christopher grimaced.

  “You know, monks shouldn’t have this much fun,” Christopher said.

  “It doesn’t matter how much noise we make or how we constantly offend the other monks, Chris. My contributions fund this place.”

  “Now who’s shameless?” Christopher asked.

  Both brothers laughed.

  “Perhaps another movie will rest your spirits, Chris.”

  “What would that be?” Christopher asked.

  “Shock Treatment starring Jessica Harper, I know you love it.”

  “I love Jessica.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “And we’re monks!”

  “Yes!”

  “We’re monks with good taste. Jessica rocks!”

&nb
sp; “Truly one of the most underrated actresses of all time,” Christopher sighed.

  “I’m free.”

  “What, Christopher?”

  “I mean with you I’m free to be me.”

  The other monk laughed.

  “Heaven helps the man who fights for his dream.”

  “Yes.”

  They both laughed again. A sudden knock on the other side of the door meant business. The two friends were making too much noise again.

  “Sorry, we’ll keep it down,” Christopher said to the other side of the door.

  The knocks ceased.

  “Glad we never took a vow of silence.”

  “Chris, that wouldn’t work out very well for us.”

  “No.”

  “We do like to talk, especially late at night,” said Christopher’s friend.

  “A movie would wake up the other brothers…”

  “Who cares, Chris?”

  They both laughed again. Christopher Wisdom half expected a second knock on the door. It didn’t come.

  “I don’t want to go back to sleep, “Christopher said.

  “The dreams again, is that why?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are they telling you?” asked the monk.

  “Not to fight against the monsters, to leave Wells alone.”

  “You hate the man and he helped you write a bestseller.”

  “True,” said Christopher.

  “Why?”

  “I think he’s evil.”

  “The womanizing you mean?”

  “Everything about him is selfish and narcissistic.”

  It was this inner guilt and turmoil that bothered Christopher’s conscience. He did not want to end up like Wells. He felt damned around him. Christopher was haunted by bad dreams. He believed, knew in fact that on some level the horror novel that he had written was true. Christopher Wisdom wanted to dig a little deeper. The threats of the flames of Hell in his dreams were not what motivated him to act. He wanted to be deeply selfless and spiritual. In other words, he wanted to be the opposite of Dr. Henry David Wells.

  “Christopher, he was your mentor.”

  “Yes but never a role model.”

  The other monk nodded.

  “He still haunts my dreams.”

  “Apparently he still does!”

  “I’m supposed to be doing something about this. In my dreams I am forbidden to save him…”

  “Let him save himself.”

  “Amen.”

  The other monk wasn’t sure if Christopher was going to fall fast asleep or not. He knew his friend was tired and they were having a great conversation.

  “Christopher, the man has obsessions with Faust that borderline on mental illness….”

  Christopher Wisdom smiled almost politely.

  “He does, yes.”

  “Chris, he’s crazy…”

  His friend, the wealthy monk smiled at Chris almost to indicate he might also be crazy.

  “These dreams are telling me something, they want me to be afraid.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps God wants me to help Wells or at least to stop him…”

  “Okay,” said Chris’s friend.

  “He’s up to no good.”

  “You said he was always up to no good when you were at Donnis.”

  “I don’t acting like a jackass, I mean doing something sinister…”

  “Pure evil then, is that it Chris?”

  “Precisely,” Christopher answered.

  “So you dreams are telling you that Wells’s entire existence is an active crime scene?”

  “Exactly….”

  “What are you afraid of if you don’t bother with Wells anymore?”

  “That something bad will happen…”

  “You mean to Wells?”

  “No, I mean to the entire world,” said Christopher Wisdom.

  “What scares you?”

  “Well, the Jinn.”

  “That’s why you wrote your book?”

  “No.”

  “Why then?” asked Christopher’s friend.

  “I wrote the book about the Jinn because I liked the topic. I just liked the idea. I mean I loved horror books and I still do.”

  “I see.”

  “Something bad will happen to the world, I think. I mean in my night terrors only Wells can stop him.”

  “Christopher, who do you mean?”

  “Our oldest fear…”

  “You mean?”

  “Satan,” said Christopher Wisdom, nodding.

  Christopher’s companion thought that people who stressed Jesus as a religious figure instead of as a philosopher were ignorant. He thought that those who preyed on the superstitious and ignorant made a profit from fear of the unknown. This fear of death, fear of the unknown, terror sermons of fire and brimstone did no justice to the great humanitarian known as Christ.

  Superstition and terror were the tools of the same despots Jesus despised. There seemed to be countless denominations and even religions that sought obedience through terror. Christopher’s friend believed that it was time for this kind of faith to give up the ghost. The reason he belonged to the Catholic Church was that he wanted to bring change from within.

  There was another reason, too. It often made him feel foolish. He was comfortable with the ritual. Moreover, he believed he was serving true faith by self-sacrifice. No small boast given he came from wealth and already claimed to travel through time and meet Christ himself. He merely wanted the medieval mindset to become a memory once and for all. He wanted humanity to evolve.

  “Satan, eh?”

  “Look,” said Christopher. “Look, you could want to hear me out about this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I know it’s not as important as the Jessica Harper movie but…”

  “Okay, Chris, I get it…”

  His friend, the radical monk who came from family wealth, knew in good time the truth would set Christopher free. It always did. Christopher was no fool, he knew this. He was enough of a realist to know Christopher was no fan of burning books or people for that matter. He was grateful that his friend never saw the actual Inquisition like he did. Christopher merely made terrifying things up with imagination; he never travelled through time to see the real devils that were the human race.

  “What should I do?” Christopher asked.

  “You must do what you feel is right.”

  “Thanks, Obi Wan.”

  The monk laughed.

  “The dreams are trying to tell me something,” said Christopher.

  “Tell me more,” said the other monk.

  “Well, in the dreams or nightmares rather I am seriously in danger. I go deep into the woods and he’s there…”

  “Satan?”

  “Yes…”

  “What does he do, Christopher?”

  “He appears in his most hideous guise or form. Satan has a laugh of pure mocking evil in my dreams. Devilish and charming are not the right way to describe him. He looks like a red horned monster with a damned green tail like a dinosaur. Lucifer tries to look into my eyes to hypnotize me but it doesn’t work. Then he speaks to me…”

  “You’re stronger than I thought the evil one says.”

  The other monk was riveted with Christopher’s dream story.

  “I am strong in my faith I reply to him.”

  Christopher’s friend was all ears.

  “No, in your writing powers….”

  There was a pause. Christopher had his friend’s full attention.

  “Then he walks or perhaps rather slithers away like the fiendish creature he is. I can still here his laughter. Then, still deep in those woods, far from being out of the woods yet, another voice…”

  “Help me, Christopher! I don’t want to be damned…”

  “Dr. Wells?”

  “Then I feel the cold hands of Satan strangle me and tell me to stay away from him or I will be damned as well….”

 
; The other monk was briefly speechless.

  “Are you really going to help Henry David Wells?”

  “Yes,” said Christopher. “His flawed character aside, he was my friend.”

  “He’s a wretch beyond saving…”

  “No,” Christopher said. “I must help David.”

  “David?”

  “You know, Dr. Wells…”

  “That’s odd. Why did you call him by his middle name?”

  “I don’t know.” Christopher felt like he was either writing a first draft or in the middle of some macabre dream. There was something very familiar about calling Wells David.

  “I don’t know why I called him David…”

  “I see.” His friend smiled at him. “Perhaps then you were merely exhausted, which you frequently are, my friend.”

  “Yes, exhausted but from doing God’s work rather than writing fiction.”

  “Sure,” said Christopher Wisdom’s friend. “You know I do get the essence of the message. Good or bad, Wells is your friend. He is undeniably a charming and extraordinary man.”

  “And a great influence on my life…”

  “Christopher, you’re a monk now, not a bestselling author.”

  “Like I said a great influence on my life…”

  Christopher’s friend laughed. He laughed so hard in fact, the two chums half expected another knock on the door. When they played movies in the middle of the night, half the monks would complain, the other half would stay and watch the film. A few even made popcorn.

  “Don’t spend too much time with Wells.”

  “If I knew the meaning of my dreams, it would only be one visit.”

  Christopher’s friend had an idea. He knew there was a lesson in there somewhere. The monk would get to the bottom of things even if he had to pay his own visit to Wells and choke him. There was a reason for everything, he believed, although he was not religious in the traditional sense.

  “Okay, I guess I can approve of that…”

  “Don’t you mean indulge me, A.?”

  “Sure, I do.”

  Christopher’s friend A. had a suspicious look on his saintly face. The man was very sincere and a true friend to Christopher. He had some bizarre ways about him, even for a monk.

  “What are you thinking?” Christopher asked.

  “Well, Chris, I have this gift…”