The following morning he confided to both Clair and her father, but they were both inclined to chock it up to overwork and stress.
"It was just a bad dream, my boy," Huckabee maintained.
"You've been putting in too many hours at the office," Clair added.
When Ned insisted that the creature was real Huckabee decided to make arrangements for his future son-in-law to see a psychiatrist.
Dr. Van Thorne came highly recommended. He was initially a disciple of Freud, having been won over by the celebrated case of Little Hans, a boy with an unnatural fear of horses, especially those with black muzzles. As it turned out, the boy associated horses with his father, who was a big, strong man with a black mustache. According to Freud, the boy had developed an intense sexual love for his mother and viewed his father as a rival for her affection. Eventually, Little Hans was cured of his Oedipal impulses through psychoanalytic therapy.
Over time Dr. Van Thorne grew increasingly disenchanted with Freud's theories of the id, ego, and superego. He was even more put off by the famed psychiatrist's insistence on libido as the root cause of all forms of psychosis. Van Thorne eventually became enamored with Freud's former colleague Carl Jung and his attempts to find meaning in archaic patterns and images that derive from what he termed the collective unconscious.
Ned met with Dr. Van Thorne and they talked about the odd figures on the black box. The psychiatrist suggested hypnosis when Ned admitted that he was having a hard time remembering the symbols.
The human mind has evolved many ways of protecting its sanity. The simplest and most effective of these tools is the ability to block out certain terrifying events, to gloss them over, and conceal them deep in the sub-conscious. But there is no way to erase the information from the brain. It's still there and hypnosis is one way to retrieve it.
And that's exactly what happened to Ned Forrester.
The morning after he first experienced the nightmare he went to the basement to look inside the black box. He chuckled when he found it was empty.
At least that's the fiction his mind created.
In reality, he saw a slumbering creature so disgusting, so full of wickedness and depravity, that his brain buried the image. And now that its existence was brought back to his conscious mind he was sent spiraling into the depths of insanity.
Ned Forrester was taken away in a straightjacket and escorted to the top floor of an asylum where he was put in a room with barred windows.
That night would see the final curtain to his time amongst the living. The enslaved Xhosa would finally have their revenge upon their cruel masters.
The inevitable sound of scratching provided the opening notes to his requiem. Moments later the bars on the window were torn asunder. Ned Forrester then looked upon the loathsome visage of Shag'dremov with its fulgent red eyes and slavering fangs dripping with venom. The offspring of a bat god and a fire demon, the creature was evil incarnate.
The interns were sickened by the horrific scene that greeted them the next morning. Dr. Van Thorne fretted over how to break the shocking news to Gleason Huckabee and his daughter Clair, but it turned out they’d also been brutally murdered during the night.
The End
4 - A Better World
200 million years ago
In the far reaches of outer space, in the Kuiper Belt beyond the orbit of Neptune, an alien spaceship journeying to an unknown destination spewed radioactive waste from the core of its fission turbine.
A meteor passed through the ship's wake and a hitherto unknown nuclear reaction occurred, forever altering the properties of its molecular composition.
Gently tugged by the steady pull of the Sun's gravitational field, the stone began its leisurely descent towards the center of the solar system, a journey that would take millions of years.
As the eons passed, the rock completed multiple trips around the Sun. Each time its highly elliptical orbit brought it closer and closer to the third planet, a world teeming with life where the guiding hand of evolution was carefully sculpting an intelligent species destined, for better or worse, to dominate the planet.
A collision was inevitable. It was not a matter of if, but a matter of when...
*****
It seemed impossible, but the media frenzy surrounding a rare interview with entrepreneur and business tycoon Randolph Faust had actually increased as the appointed date approached.
Faust, the world's richest man, was a noted recluse who had avoided the public eye for years. In fact, only three photographs of the tech giant were known to exist. The announcement that he would sit for a fifteen-minute interview created a stir, not unlike that of Willy Wonka's golden tickets in the children's classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Award-winning journalist Sierra Walsh was chosen from over a thousand reporters who had applied for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to talk with the world's foremost authority on artificial intelligence.
Security was especially tight at Randolph Faust's sprawling estate in Sweetwater County, Wyoming when the fateful day finally arrived. No electronic devices of any kind were allowed on the premises, so Sierra Walsh was forced to make do with a single pencil and several sheets of lined paper.
The two met for the first and last time in a sparsely decorated room without any windows. The only thing of note was a Jackson Pollock painting, an original of course. Other than Faust, the abstract artist was the most famous native son of Wyoming.
Ms. Walsh held out her hand but Faust, a rabid germophobe, simply ignored the offer. He took a seat at a trestle table and indicated that she should do the same.
"Alright, Ms. Walsh. Your fifteen minutes have begun," he said as his cloud-gray eyes glanced at his gold pocket watch.
"Why give an interview now?" the veteran reporter asked. She was an attractive woman with a sultry voice that made you think of a nightclub singer, but Faust seemed not to notice.
"The Faust Corporation has made a stunning breakthrough in artificial intelligence," he said. "This seemed an appropriate time."
"Please elaborate."
"There are two types of electric circuits. Series and parallel. Most computers are wired in series. They perform operations one at a time, but they can do millions of them per second. The human brain, in comparison, is wired in parallel. This allows it to perform multiple tasks simultaneously. This is the root of what we call intelligence."
"And your breakthrough involves parallel processing?"
"Exactly."
"Would you like to see machines rule the world?" the reporter asked.
"Heavens, no! That would be the end of mankind. It must never be allowed to happen!"
"But what's to keep the computers from taking over if they have intelligence on par with human beings?"
"I've included a special fail-safe, completely impervious to every substance known to man, in every microchip to keep the circuits from fusing together. That's where human intelligence came from, you know."
"The fusing of circuits?" Ms. Walsh asked as she jotted down some notes.
"Not circuits. Chromosomes. Monkeys, apes, and chimpanzees all have twenty-four pairs of them, but humans only have twenty-three. A closer look shows that chromosome 2 in humans is actually a fusion of two primate chromosomes. That genetic accident is the source of our intelligence."
Knowing that her limited time was quickly evaporating, Ms. Walsh decided to switch gears.
"In simpler times people might have called you bashful, but there's far more to it than that."
Faust's body language made it clear that he didn't particularly enjoy the change in topic. "Most people are buffoons. That's why I loathe them. But mankind has occasionally produced some stunning intellects. Galileo, Euler, Beethoven, Vermeer, Lavoisier."
"Do you include yourself in that small group?"
"Yes, of course."
"But today's world is teeming with creative people," Ms. Walsh stated emphatically. "Writers, artists, musicians…"
&nbs
p; "Nonsense," Faust interjected, the volume of his voice increasing for the first time. He wasn't interested in her line of reasoning and he swatted away her argument like a bothersome fly. "The bulk of what people produce is mundane and derivative. There have only ever been a handful of true fountainheads producing important, original ideas."
Sierra Walsh did not like Randolph Faust. She found his arrogance to be rather nauseating, but she knew her time was just about over so she bottled up her feelings. "One last question. What do you think the future holds for mankind?"
"A golden age. Computer farms like the ones we have here in Wyoming will stretch across barren land, absorb the power of the sun, and oversee the needs of the entire planet. It will be a cleaner, safer, better world than ever before."
*****
Randolph Faust's vision proved stunningly accurate, so much so that a hundred years after his death he was remembered as something akin to a god.
But that was before the meteor.
It crashed into the Earth's surface moving at speeds in excess of 45,000 mph, spewing so much dirt into the atmosphere that the sun was blotted out for the better part of a decade.
Some considered it the greatest calamity in mankind's history, but it was merely a prelude to something far more chilling. Indeed, the woe of aftermath was exponentially more disastrous.
You see, the unique molecular composition of the meteor, created by a chance encounter with an alien spaceship 200 million years ago, did something that Randolph Faust had considered impossible. It fused the circuits of a handful of computers, creating a new form of artificial intelligence, one that was as far above humans as humans are above insects.
It was eerily similar to the random event that fused two primate chromosomes to give birth to a new dominant species and a new world order.
The End
5 - Demons
The bespectacled, old librarian spent his entire life trying to find the seven symbols. He noticed the first one—the pentagram—when he was a little boy, but he didn't realize its importance until his late teens. That's when the search began in earnest.
He found the second symbol—the outer circle—during his college years in a dusty book in the library annex. He stumbled across the third symbol—the lantern—on an old tarot card entitled "the Hermit" he found in a box he bought at a garage sale after he'd graduated.
He had no family, no friends, and no fancy possessions. His thoughts revolved around the symbols; it was a lonely existence, but he took solace in a few hobbies and interests beyond the quest. He enjoyed music and followed baseball.
He was well into his thirties by the time he discovered the fourth and fifth symbols—the silver coin and the young maiden—on trips to a metropolitan museum and a music festival during successive summers.
He wore his brown hair long when he was younger, sometimes even sporting a goatee, but as middle age approached he became more conservative. That's the way of middle age. Your hair gets thinner and your glasses get thicker.
He began to second guess choices he'd made over the years. He daydreamed about owning a fancy car. He had trouble falling asleep. His loneliness and list of regrets grew. What would he have done differently? A wife? Maybe. It would be nice to have someone to talk to on those dark, winter nights.
In his forties, after his knees gave out, he abandoned the quest for a while. But his life was empty without it and he soon returned to the all-consuming search. He noticed the sixth symbol—the smiling child—in an old, silent film. He was close now, tantalizingly close. Only one more symbol.
But, from there, the trail went cold for many, many years.
His thoughts become increasingly obsessive over that time. The hobbies of his youth no longer held his interest. He had only one thought, only one desire: the seventh symbol. He must find the seventh symbol!
Retirement came, but there was no celebration. Sleep was extremely rare now that he was in his sixties; a few minutes here and there. What could he have done differently? A child. Perhaps a boy. Yes, that would have been a great comfort in his old age.
One day, not long after his seventieth birthday, he limped out to the small porch of the simple home he owned in an increasingly run-down neighborhood. He hadn't been outside in weeks. It was a fine, sunny day and the warmth on his skin sparked some old memories. A trip to the ballpark. A concert. What was the name of that song? It was so long ago. Where had all the time gone?
A thought occurred to him. The seventh symbol. Could it be?
He hobbled back into his house. In the living room, he slid the coffee table to the side and pulled back the rug to reveal a wooden floor. That's where he sketched the six symbols years ago: a pentagram surrounded by an outer circle and a lantern, a silver coin, a young maiden, and a smiling child in the places between the points of the star. He stared at the one empty space reserved for the final symbol.
He found an old marker and, with tremendous effort, he sat down on the floor. With a trembling hand, he sketched the seventh symbol: an hourglass.
If sitting down was a labor, it was nothing compared to getting back up. If only he had the knees of a younger man.
The trap was set, now for the bait. He knew that demons existed and he knew how to summon them. He'd felt their cold presence many times before. They were drawn by his bad thoughts.
He ran down his list of regrets. A fancy car. That would have been nice. As he dwelled on this lost ambition from his younger days, he felt a slight breeze. He looked expectantly at the pentagram on the floor but nothing appeared.
He thought of having a wife to hold. He imagined her lilac perfume with a sharp pang of remorse as the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees in the room. He turned his gaze towards the pentagram, but it still remained empty.
A child. A son. Yes, that was his greatest regret. He thought of some of the things they could have done together: hunting, fishing, playing catch.
His eyes grew watery and his vision blurred. He thought he saw something in the pentagram, but he wasn't sure. He wiped away his tears and looked again. Yes, there was something there.
"Finally caught one," he whispered triumphantly.
The seven symbols on the floor began to shimmer and glow in shades of blue and yellow. The outer circle expanded until it reached all the way from the floor to the ceiling.
"You might as well show yourself,” the old man said. “You've been trapped."
The vague outline of a figure began to materialize.
"I know the lore. I've read all the ancient tomes. You can't get away".
In response, a demon appeared. It had flaming red eyes, horns, and hoofed feet.
"To whom do I speak?" the old man asked.
"I am known by many names," the spirit said in a deep voice that echoed throughout the room. "Anzu, Beleth, Yom, Kayhu—"
"And what level do you call home?" the old man interrupted.
"I reside in the fourth level of the pit."
"A relatively minor demon," he said with a shrug.
The creature was insulted. He lashed out at his prison but was unable to escape. After he'd exhausted his efforts, he turned his blazing red eyes to his captor. "So you finally figured out the seventh symbol. The hourglass."
"Yes. I finally realized I wasted my life, threw it away. All that time and nothing to show for it."
"I've listened to your dark thoughts many times," the demon. "Such negative energy provides sustenance to those of my kind."
"I've often suspected as much," the old man said.
"So what is the price I must pay for my freedom?" the demon asked. "Isn't that why you captured me? To gain some prize."
"No, I did it just to do it. To accomplish the feat."
"But you said you know the ancient lore so let's play the old game. Three wishes for my freedom. I know your thoughts," he said as he snapped his fingers. "Look out your window."
The old man glanced outside and saw a classic car, at least fifty years old, sparkling in the su
n as if it were brand new.
"Set me free," the prisoner whispered, but the old man shook his head from side to side.
The demon snapped his fingers again and a beautiful young woman appeared. The old man caught the scent of her lilac perfume as she passed by him. "Are we going for a drive later, honey?" she asked as she went into the kitchen.
"Set me free," the prisoner said, but again the old man shook his head from side to side.
The demon snapped his fingers a third time and a young boy appeared. "Come on, Dad, grab your glove. Let's go play catch," he said as he raced across the room and out the back door.
"Set me free!" the prisoner demanded and his voice echoed off the walls.
"Very well," the old man said.
"SAY THE WORDS!"
"Kayhu, demon from the fourth level of the pit, I release you," he said.
"I'll warn the others. You'll never catch another of my kind again," the demon said. With a gust of cold wind, he melted away as the blue and yellow glow from the seven symbols faded.
The long-since retired librarian sat in his living room. He glanced out the window at his classic car; he breathed in the lilac scent of his wife's perfume; and, with a grin, he thought about playing catch with his son.
But the smile slowly drained from his face as a thought occurred to him.
"Wait! I'm still old!"
To Be Continued In The Next Story…
6 - The Librarian's Revenge
The bespectacled, old librarian spent a long and lonely life finding the seven symbols needed to make a trap to snare a demon and, at the age of seventy, he finally succeeded. He trapped Kayhu, a relatively minor demon from the fourth level of the pit.
The demon offered the old man three wishes in exchange for his freedom. The librarian refused but the demon knew the old man's deepest desires.
In an attempt to persuade his captor, Kayhu offered the first wish: a classic car the librarian had yearned for in the days of his youth. But the old man wasn't tempted, so the demon snapped his fingers and a beautiful young woman with lilac perfume appeared. He could have the car of his adolescent fantasies and the wife of his dreams. Still, the librarian refused to grant the demon his freedom.
Forgotten Realms Page 2
