The Gift from Lysander

I wrote this for Creative Writing. Since we were only limited to 8 pages, it feels as if this story isn't fully fleshed out, but it received high praise, anyhow. I may re-write, and lengthen, it later

Only a small population of the world, excluding those who are religious and place all they believe in toward the concept of fate, actually are aware that there is very little that science has proven to us. Of course, we know of hundreds of diseases from polio to cancer, and we know of basically every human culture dating from the present all the way to roughly three million years previous to this very second. However, there is one simple concept that science has never been proven, even though it is the very fear that is the paramount of all of fears shown by humans: the unknown. I do not doubt scientists’ ability to see what will destroy us, but they cannot see what will change our lives forever.

My name is Nikolas Weatherby, and I have seen the unknown.

I can assume that a full-length biography will be completely unnecessary and rather useless in my tale, so I will just give you a brief summary. I consider myself a towering, slim man, who, when compared with other gentlemen of my age and position, does not stand out any more than a single blade of grass in a hundred-acre field. No doubt I am an “exceptional writer,” as many of people (the majority of them being female) have said. I can write everything from poetry to graphic novels, but I seem to have been lacking recently in the field of journalism, which, unfortunately, happens to be my occupation. For the past twenty years, I have been employed as a journalist for a newspaper in Stockholm, entitled the Dagens Nyheter.

During the winter of 1927-28, I received a letter from my mother, detailing her desire to see me, so I travelled to Spökstad, where she resides. Upon my arrival, I discovered that there was something rather peculiar about the local town residents. Every time I came across one while driving down the street, they would give me an expression that reflected both disgust and fear. Even while I type this out, I cannot comprehend this curious manner of behavior.

I finally reunited with my mother, and we sat together in the living room. She mentioned that there was a rather intriguing story that she would like to tell me, which she just recently learned in the morning newspaper (ironically not my own). According to her, for exactly one-hundred years now, unsystematic disappearances have been occurring here in Spökstad. No culprit has yet to be found. Such a surprising truth had reminded me of the infamous nineteenth century killer, Jack the Ripper, in a way, except he, at least, he had the decency to allow his victims to be findable. My mother’s story had also given me a brilliant, yet absolutely extreme, idea to perhaps solve this case on my own and finally write a high-quality story.

I phoned the editor of the Dagens Nyheter, Viktor Svensson, and I asked him if he would be interested to insert this future article into his newspaper. At first, he seemed unwilling, due to my recent additions to the Nyheter. Viktor seemed to be far more interested in an article discussing an ape that was bred in a zoo just outside of Stockholm, who was raised successfully its entire life without an arm. Eventually, however, I was able to convince him that such an article would only be considered monotonous to the public and that an article such as mine would be much more captivating. After about ten minutes of my persistent behavior, Viktor finally had enough, and he allowed me to write the article. He said that if I fail him this time, then I would ultimately be fired.

The next day, I decided to begin my new case by asking people around town for information on what they know of the disappearances. Not many wanted to discuss the matter with me, and multiple people basically slammed the door in my face before I was even able to announce my own name. The people that I could interview, though, were able to give me some rather valuable information.

Some told me stories given to them orally by either grandparents or parents who were able to experience actual disappearances that occurred right before their eyes. Many of the people who ended up vanishing were said to be acting in a strange manner days before they ended up gone for good, such as excessive twitching, paranoia, strange muttering under their breath, and constantly jumping at the slightest of sounds. Such behaviors could lead to the possibility that the majority of the victims were schizophrenic. I already could tell that my article was going to be front-page worthy, at the least.

All of the interviewees spoke of one curious man in particular, named Lysander. There was not a last name given. Everyone said that he abandoned Spökstad just days before the disappearances began, and that if anyone was behind the mystery, it would most likely be him. All descriptions of him proved slightly different. The most I was able to fathom was that he was a petite gentleman, with long, blonde hair and bright eyes.

After gaining all of the information that I needed, I headed back to my hotel once more, and I decided to turn in for the night. I closed my eyes, and it seemed only seconds afterwards that I was opening them again after hearing my door opening with a loud creak.

There standing at the foot of my bed, just a couple of inches away from my left foot, was a short yet intimidating individual. His shoulder-tip length hair was in golden locks, and his feline-like eyes flashed a scarlet hue against the luminescent moonlight that beamed into my hotel room. Backing from his leaned grip upon the frame of my bed, he proceeded to dance toward me in cat-like grace, and then stopped abruptly in a Herculean pose �" for the strange man always acted as if he were surrounded by the press �" and pressed his small nose firmly against my own.

He whispered to me, “Do I even need an introduction, Nikolas?”

“Who are you?” I mumbled in the same cliché manner that the victim usually asks the murderer in a tasteless pulp fiction novel.

“I am the man that you have been searching far and wide for all day. I have many names, known throughout the centuries of a fair few worlds. You know me already, as many do here in this pathetic town, as a man simply named Lysander. I know you, too, Mr. Weatherby. I recently read your article discussing the fire at the Oresund Bridge. Fascinating article, really. Have they still not discovered the culprit behind it?” He gave me a friendly smile.

I knew that the word “recently” must have just accidently slipped from Lysander’s tongue, for I knew without a doubt that I wrote that article nearly ten years prior to that night. Regardless, I answered his question with a simple, “No.”

“Pity,” he said. “Anyway, I am here to give you a bit of news. Well, ‘news’ I guess is not exactly the best word here because I assume I can be well assured that a bright, young man such as yourself should have realized by now that I have been following you for a while. I just wanted to inform you of the fact that if you continue to search for me any further, I promise you that you will regret it in the end.” He pulled a knife from his coat. “Do you see this knife? Imagine the handle just slipping from my hand one day and the blade landing into your mother’s chest, impaling her heart like a shish kabob. She will not be the only one to fall, either. Many, many innocents will be slain under my hand �" under your hand, I should say �" until I finally reach you. Would you like such a tragedy to occur due to your own wickedness? I know I would, but that is beside the point. Sleep now, my friend, and think about what I have said.”

Before I could object, Lysander squeezed his fingernail against the space between my eyes, and, like a blow to the head, I fell unconscious.

I awoke the next morning in a haze, my skull throbbing with the intensity of a symphony composed of nothing but drums. I laid in my bed, contemplating whether or not the previous night’s events had really been events or merely just illusions created by my mind, in the form of simple dreams. Was it also possible that I experienced an anomalous arrangement of the two? I could propose that this was not only a question of my dreams; it was a question of my sanity, for I knew that there was not a rational man that dwelled on this planet who naturally experienced such vivid nightmares. Bearing this truth in mind, I decided to believe that the events were, in fact, truth, as I was incapable of admitting to such a terrible possibility in those days.

Lysander told me that if I were to continue with the case, my family, along with an immeasurable amount of innocent lives, would be at stake. However, I knew that Lysander was truly a man of lies and destruction, so that no matter what choice I made, many people would be slain anyway. I had only two options left: I would either allow myself to be fooled by this wicked creature, or I will do all that I can to put an end to him. The latter choice seemed to me to be the most coherent one that I had left.

With my decision made, I left that morning to go and visit Spökstad’s Theatre House, just down the road from where my mother currently resides. Judging by Lysander’s rather dramatic performance last night, it was perfectly safe to assume that he was a man of the theater. Sure enough, upon my arrival, I read an advertisement for the theater’s next production (an adaptation of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights), which featured a small-framed photo of Lysander, under the false name “Andersson Lindqvist.” He wore a disguise that made him look like a completely different man, except for the scarlet, feline-like eyes that served as a giveaway to his true identity.

Entering the theatre, I snatched a costume of a minor, non-speaking role in the cast, and I went to a bathroom to don the outfit. It neither the most elaborate nor most intriguing disguise I ever used, but sometimes when life gives you lemons, you must turn them into oranges. (Memo: Attempt to increase your ability to make better puns.)

I searched everywhere I could inside of the building, but no matter where I looked, I could not find the culprit. Eventually, I found a backstage worker who appeared to be tinkering with the spotlights.

“Excuse me,” I called to him, “have you seen Mr. Lindqvist today?”

“An’ who are yeh, if I may ask?” said the man in a rather boorish voice. The man also had a rather annoying lisp that I could hardly tolerate.

“Olof Lindqvist,” I said quickly. “I am Mr. Lindqvist’s cousin. We have been performing in the theater since we could walk and even for a little bit before that. I got wind that Andersson was doing a production of one of my favorite novels, so I called him up as soon as possible to request a role in the production. He said yes, and I flew here straight away from Sofia, which is where I live. I work there as an actor. I was just in a huge movie a few months back, but I seriously doubt you heard of it since you are obviously a Swede.”

“Alrigh’, alrigh’, I get it,” said the man, stopping me. He obviously fell for my story. “I will tell Mr. Lindqvist ‘at yeh stopped by.”

“No need, my good man,” I said, with a Cheshire grin of triumph on my face.  “I will just give my dear cousin a phone call tonight. Good day, sir.”

The man grunted, returning to his work as I exited the theatre house in disappointment. That night, I was awakened by the sounds of a trash can falling just outside my window. Spökstad was a quiet town, so barely anybody would stay up past midnight (if even that late), so a sound such a sound was sure to liven up anyone. I stared through the window and saw two people: a young, fair lady of about twenty-one years of age and a middle-aged man. There they stood, walking together in such a manner which reminded me of the Haitian characterization of a “zombie.” While the two walked, neither showed each other the least amount of acknowledgement. She did not speak to him, nor did he speak to her. My God, it was as if they were entirely oblivious to each other’s presence! What could have encouraged these two to be out this late at night in a town such as this?

With a desire to learn more information on this odd behavior, I began to pursue the couple. For a long time they walked together through the streets, until about fifteen minutes later when they stopped in front of the theatre that I had visited earlier the same day. The couple beamed at the building for about ten seconds before they entered, and I silently trailed behind. There, sitting upon the stage, was none other than the villain himself.

“Ah, my dear friend, welcome,” said Lysander. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting you. Did you have trouble getting here? No, I suppose you didn’t if you were following these two.” He carelessly indicated the couple who I had just realized were under hypnosis. “If you are wondering where the people I borrowed are, you can find them in the cellar of this place. I would advise you check it in a bit, and who knows? Maybe you can find at least half of them alive. Oh, and just so you don’t try anything funny on me, I am finished with my buisness here. You will neither hear nor see me ever again. I even forgive you for going against my wishes. In fact, I want to give you a gift for your troubles and the signs you showed that reflected your keenness, as well as courage. I have been working on this experiment for nearly a century now, and now that I am done, you, my comrade, will be my first subject? Don’t you feel honored? Oh, how I envy you right now! I would attempt the analysis on myself, but I am thoroughly afraid if something were to go wrong, then well - well, let’s not think about that! Now, don’t try to resist, Nikolas. This should only hurt for a second... I think.”

Unable to protest, I stood there defenseless as Lysander clutched my head. What happened next was totally indescribable. The majority of which my memory can recall is the fact that I was undergoing something like a vision. Attempting to write the whole event on paper would be the equivalent of remembering all of your dreams from the past month and giving a vivid description of each and every one, including dialogue, plot analysis, and characters. I can only remember two emotions that I had felt during the process of the vision during and after its occurrence: horror and sorrow; sorrow to the point I can vaguely recall weeping several, several times. I knew as well that I was forever a changed man. Whether for better or worse, though, I still have yet to decide.

The hazy mist that had blanketed my fem senses finally passed. I was still entirely amnesic to what exactly I had just viewed. Before I could dwell too long on this, I quickly realized that my enemy was no longer gripping my head. I began searching for him, turning my head this way and that, as if I were beholding a rather engaging tennis match. No matter how hard I searched though, I was given in return no amount of luck. Lysander was gone!

The captives (those at least that survived the century of kidnappings) were returned home safely. Like the couple, they too were apparently under hypnosis. I sold my story to the Dagens Nyheter, and, like my story on the fire ten years before, it proved to be a huge hit. My employer, Svensson, again has full confidence in me.

I still can not exactly contemplate whether or not what I experienced in the vision was fact or fiction. Like the dream that I had just one night before, I question myself once more on my sanity. I feel now that I am under the impression that my gift from Lysander has sucked away every drop of of rationality that I had left. I fear now that I am completely insane. At the same time, I can not state whether or not Lysander will actually remain true to his word and not return to Sweden. For the town of Spökstad, as well as myself, however, I hope he does not.

Author's Note

As I said above, I am aware this doesn't seem fully fleshed out, and I do plan to, at some point, lengthen it and make it better. However, feel free to point out anything else that could improve it. I do plan on using this character later on.