Modern Merlin

by Jason Paul Rice

  Modern Merlin

  By Jason Paul Rice

  Copyright 2017 by Jason Paul Rice

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All names are made up and used fictionally. Any resemblance to real people is completely coincidental. Any resemblance to real events is only part of the author’s imagination.

  Cover Art by Ljiljana Romanovic

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 2 | Emily

  Chapter 3 | Prince’s Mountain

  Chapter 4 | Mike

  Chapter 5 | Emily

  Chapter 6 | Prince’s Mountain

  Chapter 7 | Mike

  Chapter 8 | Emily

  Chapter 9 | The Broken Amulet | Claude Escott | Originally published in the Pumpkin Pamphlet of 1836

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 1

  THE THREE YOUNG MEN plunged deeper into the creepy forest darkness, with a legendary murderer on the loose. Mike, Gary and Kyle stumbled through the two-square-mile, oak tree laden-forest known as Houlihan’s Square.

  None of the locals dared to enter the abandoned homeland of George Houlihan, the immortal man believed to be responsible for scores of deaths over the past two hundred years.

  “Why are we going directly into this murderer’s backyard? Anyone?” Kyle asked.

  “Man, you scared.” Gary laughed and slapped Mike on the back.

  “I’m not scared of anything.” Kyle pointed his beefy index finger in Gary’s face. “You got that?”

  The heavily intoxicated friends trampled through the dark woods using the half-moon and stars as a guide. Mike and Gary had brought flashlights but they didn’t want to turn them on and risk being spotted.

  Mike chugged the rest of his Milwaukee’s Best lager and tossed the can aside. He belched and wiped some foam from his mouth with his forearm.

  Kyle stopped. “Did you guys hear that shit?”

  “Ssstop with that ssscaredy cat routine.” Mike slurred. “Who caressss if we die anyway?”

  Gary held his hands on either side of his mouth and called out, “George. Oh George. Hey George, come out and play.”

  Kyle took two steps to his left and punched Gary in the shoulder, almost knocking the smaller man down. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  “There you go again. Being a little bitch.” Gary gingerly rubbed his shoulder and continued heading toward the heart of the dense woods.

  “I’m not scared. And you two alkies should be glad I’m here. You both are drunk out of your minds. I shoulda never even drove you two here.”

  Mike pulled down the zipper of his camouflage shorts and began to urinate on the trunk of a mighty oak tree. “Hold up, y’all. Gotta drain the main vein.”

  Kyle said, “Not funny. How much farther do you guys want to go in? We been walkin’ in these stupid woods for at least twenty minutes.”

  Mike swayed back and forth, dribbling on one of his Nike Air shoes. He turned toward Kyle, forgetting to zip his shorts back up. “We ain’t stopping till we get to the Circle. I got a bone to pick with this so-called murderer.”

  Kyle spun around a few times. “Where’d Gary go?” He whispered into the woods, “Yo, G, where you at? Stop playing, man.” He turned to Mike. “You see where he went?”

  Mike ripped a twelve-ounce can of Milwaukee’s Best from the plastic six-pack holder hanging from his cracking leather belt. “You want a brew, Kyle?” He put his hand over the last warm can left on his hip.

  Kyle held up an open hand and waved him off. “Nah, man. I can’t think about drinking right now. I got that metal taste in my mouth, and I feel like I’m gonna yak. We gotta go find Gary. Now. I hope he’s not trying to scare us, ‘cuz I’ll beat his ass into pulp if that’s what he’s doing.”

  Mike tried to keep up with the situation but his severe inebriation was seriously inhibiting his abilities. “Gary was here?” Mike squinted his eyes and peered into the woods as he rotated around. He stumbled to one knee and had to wait a few moments to regain his balance, then stood up too fast and scrambled to grab a tree branch above his head. He held on until his vision cleared and his balance returned.

  “If we don’t find Gary in five minutes, I’m hightailing it out of this spooky place,” Kyle said.

  An unimaginable scream of sheer agony ripped through the eerily quiet forest. Continuous high-pitched shrieks of terror only served to slightly muffle the background growling and chomping sounds.

  “I’m out,” Kyle announced, backing away from the sound, his eyes about to pop out of their sockets.

  The yelps of pain acted like a smack of sobriety across Mike’s face. “Wait, hold up. Did you hear that?”

  Kyle kept walking. “Yes, I fucking heard it. Why do you think I’m trying to get away from it? Come on.”

  Mike started to follow Kyle yet suddenly stopped. “I gotta go back.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kyle slowed down but kept moving.

  Mike shook his head slowly. “I have to go back. I have to kill him. For my mom.”

  “Dude, that’s a stupid plan. He might have killed your mom, who knows, but if you go back, he’s gonna kill you, too. Guaranteed.” Kyle nervously yanked his long bangs.

  “I don’t care. I’m going to die soon anyway.”

  Kyle finally stopped walking and turned around. “Man, you keep saying that. What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m going back and I’m going to kill him for my mom.” Mike turned and took two steps.

  Kyle slapped his firm palm on Mike’s shoulder. “Come on man, stop playing. You know I’m going to get lost in these woods without you. Let’s just get out of here.”

  Mike wiggled his body around until he shed Kyle’s giant hand. “I can’t. I just can’t. I made a promise to myself that I was going to kill George one day. Today’s the day. Or night.”

  “If you go toward that sound, you’re a lunatic. That’s all I know. I’m going this way.” Kyle pointed and stomped away.

  In the blink of an eye, Mike stood alone.

  Despite the life-or-death scenario, peaceful visions of the past flashed in front of his face.

  The house on Smithfield Street.

  His eighth birthday.

  Chocolate cake on the tilted green card table.

  Candles blazing.

  Wish.

  Go on, Micheal. Make a wish.

  Mike’s trip down memory lane was derailed by a fetid stench that reminded him of rotten meat. He pinched his nose and breathed through his open lips and clenched teeth to keep from throwing up.

  Terror plucked at his heartstrings, creating a spine-chilling, staccato symphony.

  He wanted to avenge the death of his mother, but in his inebriated state, he hadn’t brought a weapon. The spur-of-the-moment decision now left him frozen in place. His scalp crawled. A force centered in the pit his stomach, sending pulsing waves of unhinging fear throughout his body. His glazed eyes, st
aring off into the abyss, only found darkness.

  What was that?

  Mike’s facial features curved and wrinkled, creating a visage full of shock and horror.

  The moon, although only half-full, shone down like a spotlight in a cylindrical shaft of gleaming brightness. It revealed an ugliness only a handful of people had seen and lived to tell about. He or she appeared to be an amalgamation of the greatest horrors Dante Alighieri had encountered on his voyage to the underworld with Virgil. Had the devil’s spawn been released on earth?

  George looked like a wild boar standing upright. Mike stood 6’2” and gazed up at the stout beast that seemed to be hovering just above the ground about twenty feet away. His brown fur, matted by burgundy blood, covered his face and body. Drops of blood fell from the corners of his mouth and collected on his massive, heaving chest.

  Despite every ounce of common sense screaming at Mike to run, he stood with his feet firmly planted, staring at the evil face.

  The spotlight grew weaker and disappeared. So did the local legend. Mike pulled out his flashlight and pointed it at the area where the beast had been standing just a few seconds before.

  Nothing.

  Empty woods.

  Mike’s pituitary gland kicked into action and sent a huge rush of endorphins snaking through his body. They helped clear his scrambled head, and he chose the most sensible option given the tense situation.

  He turned and ran in an unknown direction. As he hurtled through the woods, he ripped the last can of Milwaukee’s Best from his hip and wielded it like a weapon, despite the fact that he looked utterly ridiculous.

  A compact ball of blue and orange flames streaked in front of Mike’s face. He spun around several times until he became dizzy and dropped to his knees. Immediately, he sprang to his feet and started struggling through the dense woods. He scurried away from the direction the fireball had come from.

  Another flaming object sailed directly at his head before suddenly veering upward and flying over his left shoulder. The intense fireball exploded against a huge oak tree, immediately igniting the wide trunk and blackening the bark.

  Mike fell again and scratched desperately at mother earth with his empty hand to get back to his feet. He stumbled to get fully upright as a strange sensation attacked his chest. The inside of his chest. Mike felt an alien hand flatten out and slide through a gap in his ribcage. It opened like a claw and clamped down. Four powerful fingers and a thumb grabbed hold of his heart.

  Breathing became labored.

  Mike’s blood flow slowed to a crawl.

  His mind and eyes were getting heavy, and he fell flat on his face. The killer grip tightened, and Mike sensed his life was fading away. He curled up in a ball.

  I’m sorry, Mom. I thought I could get him for you, but I failed. Again. I failed like I always do. Sorry for being such an embarrassment. I’m sorry I let you down. I guess it’s all over now.

  A heavy hand slapped Mike’s shoulder and violently lifted him back to his feet. He assumed George had arrived to claim his prize. Mike wanted to be defiant and stare death in the face.

  He opened his eyes, and to his great surprise, he saw Kyle.

  “Dude, I am so lost right now. I thought you were fucking dead there, too. Did you ever find Gary?”

  “No. I found someone else. Let’s get out of here.” Mike cracked open his last beer, and foam exploded everywhere. He chugged the warm lager and threw the can down. “Hold up, Kyle. This way.” Mike pointed to the right.

  Thirty minutes later, Kyle and Mike walked out of Houlihan’s Square. Kyle’s dented and rusted 1984 Ford F-150 had never looked so sweet. The two young men jumped in the pickup truck.

  Kyle searched his pockets for his keys. “What happened back there?”

  Mike didn’t want to answer the question. He shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to mentally scrub the ugly memories. Kyle turned the ignition, and a slow, stubborn rumble finally started to rev into life. A cascade of relief washed over Mike. He opened his eyes and looked in the side view mirror.

  Chapter 2

  THE STANTON-HURST TRAIN whistle blared like an angry army of boiling tea kettles. Mike Merlino’s crusty, bloodshot eyes opened and focused on the naked woman sleeping next to him.

  A few questions came to mind. Who was this girl and when was she leaving? He also wanted to know how she could sleep as the thundering train rattled the loose plasterboard walls of the tiny apartment.

  The veins in his temples pulsated and a cold sensation settled in his stomach. The frosty feeling normally set in soon after waking up. He tried to make it to the bathroom only to collapse to his knees and hover over a black plastic wastebasket.

  He wrapped both arms around the circular basket and threw up on the crumpled papers that detailed his medical diagnosis and treatment options. He set the basket down and used the rim to brace himself.

  He made it back to his feet and took a few wobbly steps to get inside the bathroom. He grabbed both sides of the yellowing porcelain sink to steady his dizzying head after standing up too fast.

  Mike lifted his head and the mirror reflected an image of a gruesome face covered in brown fur, matted by thick, dried black blood in several areas, and two long fangs reminiscent of a saber-tooth tiger. The sides of the beast’s mouth had frothy yellow deposits and the eyes were two lumps of burning coal surrounded by mysterious darkness.

  Mike’s heart pumped out of control and panic-stricken blood coursed through his veins and arteries. He closed his eyes and slapped his cheek four times. What happened last night?

  He hesitantly opened his eyes.

  This reflection showed a deep burgundy visage save his dilated pupils, their cerulean surroundings and his short golden hair. Even through the heavy film of dirt and dust on the mirror, the blue irises screamed of naivety, ignorant albeit, but an innocence none the less.

  Everything Mike knew about life, which was almost nothing, he had learned from his mother before she had died when he was ten. After her death, he had never really paid attention in school, his father and friends had convinced him that was only for nerds.

  He closed his eyes and tried to piece together the night before. Strained memories flashed in and out like unevenly flipping through a stack of faded Polaroid photographs.

  The Greystone Graveyard Gates

  A Headstone-Can’t make out the name

  Same Headstone-Crashing and breaking

  Running

  Someone’s Running in the woods

  Mike’s Running

  Now he’s at a Party

  Kissing the girl in his bed

  Scared

  Screaming

  Someone was Terrified

  A Face was coming into focus

  Mike

  He opened his eyes and wanted to know why he felt the overwhelming urge to punch the mirror. In his haze, he had forgotten about the important matter at hand. Survival. He tiptoed back into the bedroom of the tiny apartment and smiled in response to the sound of light snoring.

  He searched around the filthy brown carpet covered in dirty clothes, empty potato chip bags, used paper plates and beer cans. He spotted his lady friend’s purse and traversed the trash heap covering most of the floor with the silence of a seasoned cat burglar.

  Mike unzipped the handbag at a torturously slow pace, especially for someone as hungover as he was. He tried to stay focused on the purse and the girl on his mattress at the same time. He got it open and riffled through some tampons, berets, a plastic baggie with cheese curls, a set of keys and a cell phone before locating the wallet.

  Mike peeked over and made sure she was still sleeping. Feeling grimy, he gently pinched the gold clasp to open the black leather wallet, snatched the cash between his index and middle fingers and tugged the folded bills out of their slot.

  He tucked the small stack into the band of his boxers and kept looking for that piece of plastic. There it was. There’s the car she had used to pay for Mike’s beer
s and shots last night. He remembered that.

  Mike put the wallet back in the red purse and a rush of guilt coursed through his head. His feet pounded the floor as he walked quickly toward the kitchen. He stashed the cash and card on the counter.

  He slammed the loaf of Wonder Bread on the uneven table and struggled with the twist tie. He had to really focus to get the tie off. Opening the plastic bag released a formidable yeasty smell that wafted through the musty kitchenette.

  Flies circled around the overfilled sink of dirty dishes as he pulled two slices from the bread bag. He tore one piece in half and squeezed it into a ball while searching for something to drink. The tap water came out yellowish brown and smelled like rotten eggs so his hunt continued.

  Mike found a dented can of Silver Star Beer on the counter. He picked up the can and noticed a little weight to it. Shaking the liquid from side to side, he jammed the ball of bread into his mouth and took a swig of the sour lager that had been opened three days ago. Struggling, he chewed up the doughy mixture.

  Mike gagged as he forced himself to choke down the sustenance. An instant sheen of sweat covered his upper body and his tear ducts emptied onto his scarlet face. He went to rip off another piece until he noticed the bluish-green mold on the crust.

  Mike sloppily tore away the infected area with the same precision as an unlicensed doctor on acid. He finished his sourdough meal, fought away the urge to vomit and went back to his shoe-box of a bedroom. His guest was still sleeping on his nasty, never cleaned mattress that didn’t have a box-spring for support.

  He threw on a pair of stained, torn and stinking khaki shorts. He leaned over and missed on his first two attempts to grab a shirt, almost falling over until he finally swiped a shirt from the floor and stood back up. The red T-shirt had peeling white lettering on the front that could barely be made out.

  Merch Auto Service

  Pungent body odor emanated from the tight shirt and Mike wished he had a better alternative before sliding it on. He closed his eyes as the soft cotton went over his head and a memory from last night jumped in.

  He pulled the shirt down and wanted to open his eyes but they wouldn’t cooperate.