Rue Black

Rue Black

1

A lean figure huddled over his combination knob. His shoulders rounded as sweat trickled down his face. Faster and faster his fingers flew to solve the digit puzzle, but it was useless. From a varsity jacket gang in fast approach of a solitary member branched off and as his rowdy team mates hustled on without him he looked at the pitiful boy Ian Keller and scoffed.

"How long have you been working that thing, Ian," asked the tall varsity leader as he arched a brow.

Ian glanced at him and squeaked, "I think it is stuck."

He flashed him perfect pearl white teeth as he grinned. "It isn't stuck. You have to know how to get tough."

 

      Ian lowered his head, his thick round glasses slipping down his thin nose. "That is easy for you to say, Dennis."

"Hey, so are you going to try out for the team this year?" Come on, it is our last year, Ian."

Ian grimaced and shook his head. "I am not a jock. Just looking at me should tell you that."

Dennis rolled his head against the neighboring locker. Looking at the weak and fragile Ian did render a rather dismal picture in his head. There was no way he'd make the cut. Coach said you had to weigh in on the nose of academic standards, whatever that meant, but either way there was little chance he'd accept him on the team as a runt.

"You could always bulk up," he heard himself say and winced at how cold his voice sounded. Quickly he straightened and added, "But you know football isn't everything. Instead of tackling a dude you would be more interested in tackling a blonde or brunette."

Ian's fingers slid away from the stubborn combination knob a little shaken. He pushed his glasses up and shot him an inquiring look. "That would be harder than making the squad, Dennis. What makes you think there is a girl within fifty yards who would even give me a second chance?"

Dennis rubbed the end of his nose with his thumb and then shoved his hands deep in his pockets. He rocked on his heels. "You aren't ugly, Ian. You just need to toughen up your image."

Ian lowered his head.

Dennis sighed. "Never mind what I said. We will still have a kick a*s senior year, right?"

Ian shrugged.

"Do you need a lift home?"

 He nodded.

"All right then. Come on and I'll take you."

He grabbed him by the shoulder, his bony hand forcing Dennis to a halt and as he turned to gaze into those dark eyes Dennis recognized something different in the way his expression befell his face. It was far away and vague.

"Can we make a stop first?" Ian asked. His voice was steady without a hint of his usual stutter.

For a moment Dennis peered at his friend. Reading Ian at times was like solving a puzzle. What would start as assertiveness often succumbed to surrender, but as more pieces fit together a bigger, more complex picture formed. At the moment the picture seemed even more complex.

"Sure, buddy, whatever you want." A chill coursed up his spine. "Where did you have in mind?"

Ian tilted his head back, the fluorescent light reflecting in the lens of his eye ware. He laced his fingers across his chest and together they jerked as a loud crash came from the opposite end of the hall. Approaching fast another sort of team whistled and called, swore and made obscene gestures with their hands.

"Let's just get out of here," Dennis tried to say to Ian over the calamity brewing, but at the finish of his sentence he felt a strong hand pat him on the back and he turned to see the rugged face of Mike Lexus.

"There is no need to run and hide, Denny Boy," he shouted and his sidekicks roared with laughter as they quickly surrounded them.

Dennis rolled his eyes and bit his cheek. "Let's go, Ian." He grabbed him by the arm and tugged him away from the enclosing circle of trash. As he dragged Ian down the hall he glanced over his shoulder to see the so called bad clique withdrawal then scattered like insects.

As they popped out into the quad Ian wretched away and spun to face him, eyes wide and face pale. "I would rather show you than tell you, Dennis. I have been passing it for years and could never work up the courage to go inside, but today I think I am ready."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth and he said, "Oh, I see. You want to buy your first porn magazine, huh?"

Ian scoffed and threw his hands up. "No!"

The smirk slowly disappeared as he replied, "All right, just tell me where to go and I will get you there."

        Ian grazed his teeth along his lower lip. Thin trails of blood followed in their wake yet Ian seemed almost distant in thought as he explained. They started to walk toward another set of doors.

"Now I have been struggling with this for quite some time. Since I was young I was taught to believe in this and that and if you don't you might succumb to a horrible fate in the afterlife. As I have grown I question the laws of religion and often wonder whether religion as a whole is perhaps just a security net and that the fear of death is so great one must invent a belief of gods, demons and angels."

Dennis held open one of the double doors for Ian as they entered. "Yeah, your Mom is a real nut for that sort of stuff."

Paying his statement no attention, Ian continued, "Charles Darwin, English naturalist, eminent as a collector and geologist, provide and purposed scientific evidence that all species of life evolve over time from common ancestors. It was a process he called natural selection. After much study I find myself intrigued by this and therefore try endlessly to subscribe to the possibility."

"I know who the guy is, Ian," Dennis said dully.

"I am not in any way condemning religion here just as I am not forcing my beliefs onto others. I am merely expressing my voice in this often debated field. Charles Darwin's theory though, for me, is more influential and perhaps believable. However, and I strongly stress this, I do believe in fact we have a creator of sorts. Whether it is natural or accidental, I cannot discern, but if some label it as God so be it. I don't. I believe maybe it is life itself. Elements of water, fire, air and earth are creators."

 Dennis chuckled and swore under his breath as they turned a corner. "You sound like you are giving a lecture."

 Ian laced his fingers together and smiled, "It does sound rehearsed, doesn't it?"

 Dennis nodded, his tongue pressed against his cheek. "Just a little bit rehearsed, but that is fine." He laughed. "But don't talk that way around your Mom."

2

Behind thick black framed spectacles Ian Keller's eyes widened. In his two gaunt hands he held a tattered leather bound book. He turned its yellow stained parchment pages and licked his lips as he skimmed through paragraphs written in heavy red ink. It was the most elegant handwriting he ever had seen in all his seventeen years and the sentence structure at times seemed cryptic and almost hypnotic.

He turned and closed his sacred discovery. His fingers clutched onto it as he approached a varsity jacket clad young man, his heart hammering against his ribs, and glanced around the mystic miniatures of gargoyles, moon and stars, pentacles and iron cast cauldrons.

"I have to get this, Dennis," he told the towering blonde who turned to cast a look of disbelief at the object in his hands.

Dennis watched as Ian set the book on the counter. This bookstore was a place for the strange, not the nerdy, he thought and closed his eyes as a fragile old gent ambled passed. He smelled of exotic oils, but the air was thick with all that incense and oil garbage. He didn't know how on earth he let Ian talk him into coming, but now as his skin crawled he could not wait to get the hell out of there.

"How much is this book?" He heard Ian ask the clerk. He opened his eyes and squirmed as the old man leaned close to Ian and whispered something.

He peered to his right and shifted his weight to his hip. In an even neat row incense burners for both stick and cone glistened under florescent lights, their enamel coating colorful and, as he moved his observation down the line, macabre. He glanced up at Ian who was handing the old clerk three twenties, a ten and three ones. What the hell was he thinking? Buying a book from an occult shop wasn't exactly the best way of getting in good with an estranged parent, especially when the estranged parent was Ian's Mom.

Across from incense burners were shelves of books. Each one had their own unique design and jacket cover. Some hadn't a jacket at all but still a special texture cover he seldom saw used now days. Pentagrams or stars flanking moons seemed a common theme though as he looked around. He figured it meant something spiritual. On the other side of the aisle he spied shelves of bright gold bells both large and small. Next to them on a lace fabric snowflake arranged by size were silver, gold and metallic pentagrams produced from metals, woods and by the angle he assumed clay.

He heard change hit the tile counter top and glanced to see the old man sliding a ten and two pennies toward Ian. He rubbed his mouth, dabbed the beads of sweat popping across his brow as he watched Ian scrape the shiny coins into his palm and tuff them into his pants pocket. Ian then claimed his prize and held it close to his chest, nodding as the old man whispered something for him only to hear.

Dennis threw an awkward glance over his shoulder as the bell chimed and in shuffled a cloaked individual whose hood was drawn and face a formless void. The door fell closed with a dull clang and a swift gust of clean crisp air followed. He tried to turn and hide his face from the other customer, not that it mattered much, but still to be associated with s place such as that would be a devastating blow to his reputation.

Ian receded. He nodded once more and slowly sauntered toward him. "I understand." He repeated as his eyes glazed over and stared into space. "I understand."

"Ian," Dennis whispered and grabbed his arm as he passed, "what is going on?"

Ian flinched and jerked away. He blinked as his surroundings called him back from someplace Dennis never before believed Ian to have visited unless in a daydream, but then again Ian Keller rarely daydreamed. He was more of a serious book worm who always preferred living in the real world than some fantasy one. At least that was what he thought until he slowly showed him the front cover of the book and beamed.

"What do you mean?" Ian stammered. "Look what I got, Dennis."

Dennis poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue and rubbed the end of his nose as he ushered Ian toward the door. "Are you insane? Look, let's just get out of here."

Ian twisted the handle to open the door and stepped onto uneven sidewalk. Dennis was right on his heels and pulled the door shut behind him as he quickly looked up and then down the street. He peered over Ian's shoulder at the tattered leather bound book and shook his head.

"There is no way your Mom will let you keep it," he said and shoved his hands deep into his varsity jacket's pockets.

Ian tightened his hold on it until his knuckles turned bleach white. "She will never find out," he said in a daze as he stared at it and froze in place near the curb. "She doesn't have to know."

"Good luck on that," Dennis chuckled and tugged on his sleeve. "Come on before it gets too dark."

Slowly Ian followed, his eyes darkened by primal excitement. He stepped up to the blue Oldsmobile's passenger side, reaching blindly for the door handle with shaky fingers while he curled the book under his free arm and held it in a lover's embrace. He neither knew the moment Dennis unlocked the electric locks or when he slipped the key into the ignition and turned over the engine.

"Hey, are you okay?" Called Dennis from the driver's seat and Ian stirred again. "Come on already!"

Ian nodded hastily and hopped in. He reached to pull the safety strap over his shoulder and across his lap and pushed the metal strip into the slot. He heard a faint click sound and threw Dennis a sideways glance as he fastened his own safely belt and shifted the car into drive.

"This book has power," he told him and as Dennis pulled away from the curb he shot Ian a what-are-you-talking-about look. "It has the power to invoke Ancient entities and maybe even bestow god-like powers onto a person who invokes such powers."

Dennis cleared his throat and wiped more beads of sweat from his brow before they could pop and run down his face or into his eye. He exhaled sharply and rolled his eyes. If he didn't know Ian any better he'd wonder if he was playing with a full deck of cards.

"You got to be kidding me, Ian. That s**t is dangerous! Are you seriously willing to risk everything just to play around with something you have no business fooling around with in the first place? Besides, I bet it is just a bunch of worthless crap anyway and you probably are just going to waste your time. Have you ever thought of that?" He guided the Oldsmobile around a corner onto Cherry Street as he felt his stomach somersault.

Ian licked his lips and shifted in his seat. He glanced out the window at a pair of giggling school girls he saw around before but never talked to. He then glanced at his lap where he caressed the leather face of his purchase.

"It isn't a waste of time and even if it were what does it matter? It isn't like my social calendar is filled with important dates."

Dennis scoffed. "It could be if you would just loosen up."

Ian curled his toes inside his sneakers and bowed his head. He pushed up his spectacles using his forefinger, frowned and sighed. He circles the binding of the book with his thumbs and forced a smile. It was easier said than done, but those sort of things never occurred to Dennis. It was easy for him to get a date on Friday night or any night of the week while he was stuck at home playing the latest edition of Scrabble or Monopoly with parents whose idea of fun was popcorn and board games or a rented movie.

"With my parents I am as loose as I will ever get," Ian said and the smile vanished.

Dennis pressed a button on his side control panel and his window rolled down with an electronic whir. Fresh autumn air flooded the cab of the Oldsmobile and stole away any hint of athletic exertion that had been there since the start of the school year. Never again had he forgotten his sports gear in the backseat. Once the smell of body odor and dirty socks settled into upholstery it was almost impossible to get out.

He raised a sandy brow and chuckled though it was anything but funny. "You have a point there." He tossed him a look and said, "But still messing with the occult is bad news."

Ian looked at him. "This book is different. It is the diary of an Ancient."

Dennis eased his foot on the brake as the Oldsmobile rolled up to a stop sign. A mob of fellow teenagers crossed the walkway. A few he passed in the hallway every day, but since they were freshman and Ian and he were now seniors there was little need for conversation. Sure there were a few interesting freshman but from his experience a lot of them were immature wannabes who'd say anything or do anything to fit in. A certain effort was required to obtain an amount of "coolness", but when effort turned into desperation all sense of morality disappeared and when a friend discarded morals anything was possible, including betrayal.

He regarded the leather book in Ian's hands and shook his head again. Ian never had in all his life been considered among the "cool" crowd and many wondered why a "jock" would be so tight with a "nerd", but all he had to do was explain stereotypes pissed him off and anyone who used them were no friends of his. Football might be his present but his future still was a mystery he could not solve. He doubted very much he would be playing sports in his thirties. He needed a career to fall back on and so far nothing suited him.

He watched Ian push up his glasses. He flicked his blinker and took a right. Long bands of yellow and red leaf trees hugged either side of a twisting and elaborate stretch of road. It was a perfect route when avoiding home, especially in Ian's case.

"What in the hell are talking about now, Ian?"

Ian grazed his lower lip with his teeth and swallowed. "An Ancient entity, Dennis, is a superior being unlike anything we have ever encountered before. I have only heard rumors and read fairytales, but I believe they really exist."

Dennis directed the vehicle around a sharp bend. He favored this time of year. As the sun cast a low orange hue across sparkling waters and a cool breeze rustled through his hair he was reminded what it meant to be alive and how nature indulged humans with colorful wonders. Still even as the sun began to set and radiate gentle warm color he so loved he couldn't take his eyes off that damned book or ignore the expression sketching Ian's face every time he turned through its pages.

"How much did that cost anyway?"

Ian jerked up as though being awakened from sleep. "What was that?" He looked at his book and said, "Seventy-two dollars and some odd cents is all it cost."

Dennis swore under his breath. With one hand on the steering wheel he hooked his elbow out the window and used sweaty fingers to massage his temple and as he leaned slightly forward. A tidal wave splashed over him as it rolled back out to sea it carried him into the midst of a typhoon. His stomach threatened to spill into his mouth. He furrowed his eyebrows and recognized the familiar squiggly lines popping up in his field of vision as pain crept up his spine, hot and tingly. It usually occurred right before a big game, but this time was different.

        "Seventy-two dollars is a lot of money for a book, Ian. What Ancient entity garbage are you talking about anyway?"

Ian shifted; his new angle better to face him as he ignored the restraint of the safety strap pressing firmly into his shoulder. "It isn't garbage, Dennis. According to significant medical journals and-and archeologists' findings there are signs of higher powers, Dennis. Up until now people believed their own religion was the one, but what if they are all wrong? What if there are forces out there more dynamic in ways of might and capabilities? What if they are the only gods in heaven, Dennis?"

Dennis massaged his temples harder and clenched his teeth as he swallowed the knot in his throat. It splashed in his stomach where it churned and gnawed at his insides. He swore again under his breath and eased off the accelerator as another curve neared.

 "You have got to be joking. You are messing with something that you shouldn't be messing with, Ian." Dennis glanced at him and felt bile rise up at a snail's pace. He cleared his throat in effort to suppress it.

Some time ago he figured would come a day he would regret all those evenings at football practice and his overzealous desire to make quarterback would be for nothing. Day after day, week after week, month after month his role of Mr. Popular seemed a constant chore rather than a piece of good fortune. To top it all off now that looked back on everything he wondered if his absence triggered this new daring trait in Ian.

"Dennis, you don't understand," Ian laughed. "It isn't like that at all. For every religion comes a set of risks. This isn't Satanism or Wicca."

Dennis sighed. "Then what is it?"

Ian gazed at the book. "I don't know, but whatever it is it'll be something amazing.'

 At the next intersection the Oldsmobile hung left. As the tires beat against narrow ribbon of road the cab became a very silent and awkward place. Dennis occasionally threw a stealthy glance his friend's way and was marveled by the way Ian poured over the book. His shoulders rounded over as he held it close to his face, his wide eyes busy marbles in his head as he read line after line, paragraph after paragraph and his fingers turned the pages with feverish anticipation.

He knew he would regret it but asked, "What does it say?"

 At once Ian said, "There are no years on the entries, just months and days."

 Dennis persisted, "But what does it say?"

 Ian read in a clear and calm tone. The peculiar handwriting presented him with little trouble though the dark red ink was faded and difficult to decipher. "’Fabulous thing isn't it; the invention of the written word. Since its creation I found myself drawn into the capabilities and possibilities of mankind. Who would have thought such a delicate yet insignificant species could harvest such clever thoughts and talents. Perhaps after all they might prove rather useful, though those days have yet to present themselves. Still, having sowed my own prediction I must say I cannot condone resentment or bitterness for them. Aren't emotions their downfall?’

 "'To revise my earlier evaluation, maybe on closer inspection these beings that breathe and require various sources of survival are more complex than before thought. Theirs is a lot to bear and an existence far too short, yet they course through even the worse of circumstances and emerge stronger than before, and all without powers they deem as supernatural. Of course what is supernatural to them is a natural development among those of my own kind.

 "'And to think they bore from the mere drippings of ocean life is still a brilliant conception. I wonder where credit is due for it. I suppose it doesn't much matter. What is done is done and the beginning is an impossible place for me to start anyway. Though I may be older than time and my memory is very much still intact I find it an old tale both stuffy and boring. So then let me start somewhere a bit more up-to-date yet still before the craze of technology and war.’

 "'As of yet our existence was still a hidden secret; my family and our abilities a well-kept secret at that. No one had ever though even we would be susceptible to emotional development, yet for some of us it was evitable I suppose. For not all of us harbor great detestation for mortals. In fact I can add with certainty a massive quantity discover mankind as worthy subjects for exploration. Our Queen especially is one of such numbers.’

 "'Looking back on all my many millenniums I might give reason to believe even my views have changed some regarding these creatures though I can say I never loathed them. At first I found them humble yet insignificant. Now however I see them as much more complex mammals capable of either great destruction or construction, depending on the circumstances.’

 

         "'When I first gazed upon them from shadows, I found their texture rich with detail. Over time their appearance greatly improved however; coming from hairy dwellers using all appendages to move about to walking upright on two legs. With the thirst for knowledge came a variety of principles. Not long after the portrayal of beauty painted a very specific picture. It demonstrated how a proper woman was expected to look which gave way to various interpretations. Such burdens often accompanied civilized societies.’

 "'Now here I sit with quill in hand as the swell of light dims. Under the might of thought I am able to sustain its glow and work as I never worked before. This is a fun activity, is it not? I never imagined a piece of parchment or a silly thing as a quill to be so exhilarating. Still I must rest here as other things call my attention.’

 "'And still I wonder who or what am I? Where did I come from? Was I always here? Is the rumors true Chaos is my creator; Father and Mother? From Chaos all forms of life sprout. Therefore it might very well be true.'"

Ian glanced from at Dennis who was rubbing his temples again.

Dennis poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue and nodded. "Sounds strange, Ian, doesn't it?"

Ian scoffed and turned away. He folded the book closed. Etched in his mind the crimson words hailed some profound meaning. He neither knew how or when but soon the secrets within his recent purchase would be known. It burnt inside him like a hot iron. Dennis wouldn't understand. No one would understand. For years now he saw the world for what it really was; a crap maze constructed of liars, cheats, users and abusers. Either you join the race or get screwed. Those were the rules. He looked at Dennis.

 "You don't understand, Dennis." He shifted his gaze to his lap where he clasped the book in his hands. "You don't understand I will never fit into anything. The puzzle of life never involved an Ian piece."

 The car slowed, yielded at a hook which lead either straight forward or to the right. Dennis turned right. Fewer and fewer multicolored leaves littered the well-manicured lawns as further along they travelled into neighborhoods of high prestige.

 Ian awoke from a daze and stuffed the book into his polyester jacket. He zipped it up to his chin and folded his arms across his chest to conceal the square bulge. He looked about as though someone might have caught him in the act, but those outside were too engrossed in their chores to have cared. Dennis recognized this activity as mere obsession rather than responsibilities. He wondered if anything else held more importance to these people than appearances.

 "Please," Ian said as they pulled up to a beige stucco house, "please don't tell anyone about my book, especially my Mom. She would really blow her stack."

 Dennis replied reluctantly, "Don't sweat it. My lips are sealed."

As Ian unfastened his seat belt he eyed the two-story home and late model Jaguar parked in the driveway. "S**t," he whispered and opened his door, "they are home. I will call you later if I can, but can't make any promises."

 "I know." Dennis did know all too well. "Just take it easy and be careful with that thing." He motioned toward the book inside his jacket.

 Ian nodded and smiled. He hopped out, closed the door, and strode across the lawn with his arms folded tightly across his chest, across the book nestled safely behind polyester. He gave him one last glance as he climbed brick steps leading to the front door and reached for the polished brass knob. Gray colored his cheeks as the rest of his thin face went white. In his eyes bred a child-like innocence and as Dennis pulled away from the curb he couldn't help thinking how small and fragile he looked. It was like throwing a child into a lion's den.

Had he some spare time Dennis would invite himself in for a friendly though unwelcomed visit. It certainly would take the heat off Ian anyway. Dennis struck the steering wheel and exhaled sharply. H bit his lower lip. Someday things had to change, he told himself. Someday Ian Keller had to stand up for himself!

3

Ian slunk inside. Inside the smell of roast beef and fresh mashed potatoes lingered heavy among aftershave and perfume. He closed the door behind him, slowly so that it might not make a hint of noise to signify his presence. His reflection caught in the large hanging mirror on the wall. It was flashy enough with solid gold trim and carefully crafted twists and loops; however the boy who peered back at him was anything but the picture of perfection.

Past the large sliding doors he crept, his eye tightly closed as he chewed his cheek. Under his weight a floor board squeaked in protest and his eyes became two round saucers as instantly from the front room he heard movement and a rough voice call out to him.

A rather cross Mr. Keller was first to appear with arms folded across his maroon cardigan sweater. "Where do you think you are going, Ian? You owe us an explanation."

 Right on cue Mrs. Keller entered, her pristine face hard and angled with her sharp chin pointed upward as her cold eyes locked on her son. Her ruby mouth parted slightly to allow a long breath of air escape. It was an action she often favored when in great disappointment or disgust.

 Ian froze in place. He was a deer caught in the headlights of a fast speeding car and no matter how he tried to move to get out of the way he was frozen by the beams. He tightened his arms across the bulge of his jacket.

"Where have you been," scolded Mrs. Keller. "Were you with that piece of trash again? You know his kind is beneath us, Ian. Why can't you make friends with people more within your financial range?"

Ian pushed up his spectacles with his forefinger. He shuffled back against the wall and leaned against it as his focus slid to the carpet. He always admired how shaggy it was and how it felt squished between his toes. However today it did nothing to help him as Mr. Keller hammered, his voice striking Ian square in the chest.

 "Answer your Mother, boy. You are being disrespectful."

 Ian licked his lips. He wanted to mold into the corner and fade away. "He gave me a ride home."

"Haven't you ever heard of public transportation?" Mrs. Keller barked and Ian jumped as her voice rung in his ears.

He kept his head low as he challenged. "And if I take the bus you complain I am taking charity."

 Mr. Keller raised a rigid finger and tapped his nose like a bad dog. "Don't you use that tone of voice with her or else you will find yourself with no supper tonight!"

  Ian mumbled under his breath, "It would not be the first time."

"What did you say," screamed Mrs. Keller. Her voice resounded off the peach colored walls.

Now he shook. On one side of him his mother now stood while on the other side his father loomed over him. There was no way past them, at least not an easy one. In order for them to withdrawal their attack he might have to resort to deceit. Then he thought against it.   Should they catch him in the lie he figured he would receive much worse punishment than no dinner.

 "He is my only friend," Ian muttered. Host tears stung his eyes. He fought them back. Seeing his pain would only add fuel to their fire.

"I can't imagine why," Mrs. Keller exclaimed.

He squeezed the book against his chest. His breath caught. He glanced down at himself. Though it was well concealed beneath his jacket and arms he felt as though it was in plain sight, that they would see and take it from him only to forever use it to prove his sin again and again. He swallowed hard as a shiver coursed down his spine.

 The only way out of this was a lie. He didn't want to think so, but as the room closed in around him and their hot stares burnt him through and through he figured it was worth anything he might receive if caught in it. His sweat slick palms rubbed against the fabric of his jacket as he thought hard, scrambled his brains for a believable lie they might not figure to be a lie, but the more he thought the less and less his brain functioned.

School work makes for a perfect lie, came a voice from within the deep regions of his mind. It carried his tone, his cadence of speech, yet oddly enough it seemed unlike him.

 "I-I have an important paper due tomorrow," he invented. "May I please go upstairs so I can study?"

"Where are your books?" Mrs. Keller hissed.

He shivered. His insides shifted, his head throbbed. His abdomen became alive with twitches and shivers as though something were trying to claw its way out. He cleared his throat and forged another falsehood.

 "The test isn't anything textbook so I left my books in my locker."

You see how easy it is to lie and have it believed? In order to protect you lies must be told. Without the mighty spin of silken fabrications, how else do you hope to accomplish anything in life?

 Ian shook his head. The voice was without his control. He looked up to see the ever growing flames burn in his mother's eyes and for a moment set the oddity aside.

 "I am supposed to write an essay on the pros and cons concerning modern day technology and if the advancement of human kind might lead us to destruction or significance." He swallowed a lump in his parched throat. Even to his ears it sounded a bit farfetched. His linked his fingers together. He waited. If he failed in his attempt at deceit he imagined this time his father's belt would not be suffice punishment. Instead he pictured the orange lit ends of cigarettes pressed against his inner forearm or behind his ears. Those burns stung much fiercer than any belt.

There is no need to fear, whispered the voice and at first he found himself wanting to believe it rather than questioning its origin. Fear is for the weak, the poor creatures spent crawling instead of walking and walking instead of running! You can be much more than just a crawler. Do you not want to run and maybe even fly? Would it not be better to soar where no one can touch you ever again or breathe a word against you?

  "Go upstairs then, but make sure to wash up before supper and remember to take out the trash," Mrs. Keller said as she turned away and scratched her forehead.

 Ian looked up, his eyes round marbles. He padded toward the stairs, his rubbery legs nearly caving under his weight. As he took the stairs at a slow pace, he glanced back at the two of them. At the top he spied his Mom retreating into the kitchen while his Dad slipped back into the large front room.   Nearing his room, he froze. Under the lining of his jacket he felt a twitch, not from his own human but from the book itself. He glanced down. No, that was silly. Books do not twitch. Books do not...pulse. Strange enough, it did again and his breath caught. His imagination sure was an active one; he argued and closed his eyes briefly as a wave of nausea swept over him.

He ambled onward. Was it all in his imagination? He wondered. The knob was cool and smooth beneath his fingers as he gave it a gently twist. The first thing he saw as the door swung open was his unmade bed. Drawn to it he shuffled toward it, closing the door with a nudge from his foot, and unzipped his jacket. As he sat on the mattress he turned the pages and read.

      Ian blinked. His fingers shook, turned the page as he lay his head on his pillow and skimmed the next entry. A trickle of sweat coursed down his temple. Beads of sweat wrung up across his forehead. His eyes widened, his cheeks flushed and as he read on a storm raged through fiber of his being. At last he might discover the truth behind the myth and lay to rest all the rumors and doubts.

     He lowered the book and rubbed his eyes. He rolled onto his back and consulted the clock. He bolted upright and leaned closer to the night stand. Could it really be that late? He shook his head. He squinted. Even still the red digital numbers read six o'clock. He pulled back his jacket sleeve for a glance at his wrist watch. It was a minute past six o'clock.

He bent over and snatched a piece of torn cardboard from another book stowed on the first shelf of the night stand. He pressed it in the crease of the diary and stood. His eyes locked on the closet.

  "Perfect," he mumbled to himself.

Often his Mom referred to it as the Black Hole. He admitted it needed a bit of cleaning, but she never bothered with it anymore. He pushed a pile of stinky clothes aside with his foot and rearranged an awkward stalk of old magazines. As he did so he thought he saw remains of a turkey sandwich and several Burger King Wrappers. As he made progress, a slight peanut butter odor waft to his nostrils followed by old salty ham and cheese. Then finally he reached up and on the top shelf tumbled down more clothes and wrappers as he withdrew a show box. He opened the lid, placed the diary lovingly inside and returned it to the shelf. On top of it he tossed a variety of wrinkled smelly garments long forgotten and overdue for a wash.

 He stepped back, cocked his head to one side and smiled. No one would dare look for it in there. He furrowed his brows. Why would anyone look for it? He wondered and slipped out of his jacket.

 "Ian," bellowed Mrs. Keller from the bottom of the stairs, "I am not going to call you again! Get down here and eat your supper!"

 Ian didn't know she called a first time, but no matter. He shuffled toward the door. Slowly he descended the stairs, seeing his Mom scoff and turn away at the sight of him. As he neared the kitchen roast beef and mashed potatoes announced their presence with a pronounced aroma that made his stomach growl yet sour.

The light bore down on him like a disciplining hand as he crossed the hall and into the atmosphere of cookery and soft playing music. He squinted against the bulb's harsh rays and looked at the table stretched out in brilliance. Fine was the sliver polished forks and spoons, butter knives and crystal stemmed glasses. They gleamed with a sophisticated elegance he regarded as cold and unnatural yet had grown accustomed to.

As he seated himself and gazed across into the dark eyes of his Father, he realized the fierce glare was gone. He then looked down at his plate. The cool steel of his fork rocked through him as his fingers curled around it. Under the light as he held it up for a moment he did not recognize it.

 Trembling he scraped into a beef grave drenched helping of home-style mashed potatoes. The fork hovered and then froze as it neared his lips. The aroma tickled his nose. He lowered it.

 "Ian," Mrs. Keller frowned between bites, "is there something wrong with the gravy?"

 Ian studied the glistening grave slid off his fork. "No, Mom, everything is fine."

The very words that rolled off his tongue carried a foreign sound and he softly chuckled. His voice...his cadence of speech hardly befriended his memory. He shook his head.

"Then eat," Mr. Keller chimed in after he chased down a mouthful of roast beef with a cup of coffee.

Shut up, Old Man, just shut the hell up for once and let me...let me….  The voice drifted lazily away and Ian looked up. Had he said something?

 Ian raised the fork again and opened his mouth. As the salty gravy and buttered potatoes violated his taste buds with tantalizing tastes, he slowly withdrew the fork from between his working lips and stared. Helplessly he watched his fingers behave on their own accord, rearranging the heap of potatoes, sculpted them into a mountain and then a canyon. It was dream-like though he was very much awake and alert to his surroundings; the calm music lofting up in the background, the clanking of dinner glasses and clang of silverware.

 "Ian," gasped Mrs. Keller and he jerked to see her on her feet with a napkin in hand. She wiped the corners of his eyes and when she pulled back the cotton fabric sheet for him to look at his heart leapt into his throat.

 "Blood," he stammered and pushed his chair back from the table.

 "Is this a sick joke?!" Mr. Keller hotly asked.

"This is not funny!" Mrs. Keller roared and peered at the napkin herself, her face pinched.

 Ian doubled over, his arms holding his stomach. Nausea rolled in unrelenting waves and quickly he stood. "I just need to lie down. I am not feeling well."

That is a good excuse, the voice laughed.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," suggested Mrs. Keller and Ian looked at her. Was that concern he heard?

He felt his limbs come alive and twist free from her grasp. Again his voice rolled off his tongue in a fashion entirely foreign as he protested, "No, I just need to lie down."

With the napkin clenched in her hands she chased after him, a plea in her tone as she begged, "Ian, let me call the doctor. If it is drugs doing this to you they have clinics! People do not bleed like that without a terrible reason!"

"Is it drugs?!" He heard his Father bellow as he dropped his fork and shot to his feet.

The stairs under his bust feet seemed almost to bend to his whim and carry him fast upward to where the floor greeted him with peculiar colors and smells. Suddenly his thoughts were consumed by images of the diary. Those sweet parchment pages and their dark red ink, exquisite handwriting and fragrance beckoned him. He didn't want to disappoint them. He swung into his room, slammed the door shut, secured the lock in place and jiggled the knob.

He pressed his forehead against the glossy wood and closed his eyes. Fresh warm dribbles streaked his face. He wiped at them with his palms and looked. He backed away, his eyes round marbles as they examined the deep shade of crimson.

"We have to take him to a doctor!" He heard his Mother scream.

 Ian shifted his focus. Fists struck the door in a frantic rhythm that grew faint as his head turned and his eyes fixed on the closet. Slowly he approached it. He tore down all the garments and removed the shoe box from the high shelf. As he pulled off the lid a smile sketched his face. He sat down on his bed, turned to the next entry and laid back. By the shimmer of sunlight through the closest window he read.

4

Dennis pulled on his sneaker. As he tied the bow, pulled the laces tight he glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall. Throughout the night he tossed and turned as thoughts kept returning to Ian and that occult shop. He shook his head. They should have never set foot inside that store. Ever since that moment he had been plagued with a gnawing dread.

Downstairs bacon and eggs lingered in the air surrounding the tight kitchen space. His Mother stood at the range, stirring sizzling strips of hickory smokes strips with a spatula and he bit her a fair morning's hello. He fished in his pocket, made up some excuse why he wasn't hungry and gathered his books under his arm. They sat neatly stacked on the table where spotless breakfast dishes mocked him in their gleaming shine.

 As he opened the door and step foot out onto the porch he heard her call after him. He turned and saw her waving through the thin screen mesh. He returned the gesture and wondered what her day consist of. He never thought much about it before. Now as he considered it he smiled and found a new respect for her as he closed the door.

 An insipid taste flavored his tongue. He swished spit in his mouth and spat into a bush. He gave the sky a quick look. Gloom hung in the air.

He paused. In the reflection of his windshield he detected a frown and distorted slouching figure. He straightened though his shoulders rounded a second later. Sometimes it was better to ignore dread than to cave into it, but no matter how hard he tried to shake the ominous gut reaction to yesterday's happenings, it remained ever more evident.

Shaky fingers traced the outline of his side mirror and he hung his head. Though it felt cool and familiar he winced as it also felt unforgiving and foreign. He curled his fingers under the handle and tugged up. At the door opened he hopped inside and seated himself behind the steering wheel; a seat usually comfortable and welcoming but not today.

For a moment he sat engulfed in silence. The chirping of birds, rustling of leaves and sounds of car tires beating against pavement filtered through and he looked around. He slid the key into the Oldsmobile's ignition, hesitated and then turned it over. At the nape of his neck hairs stood on end as he listened to its engine purr and pressed a button on his side control panel. The window rolled down with a lazy electric whir and he twisted around to toss school books onto the back seat amongst sports equipment. The cool breeze fanned in, dried drops of sweat from his forehead but did nothing to ease the building tension in his shoulders and chest.

He tapped the steering wheel and blew out another long stale breath. Ian surely knew the dangers of messing around with it, but what it was he could not put his finger on. He might call it the occult but somehow the phrase did not seem to fit.

 In the rearview mirror two blue eyes stared back at him; youthful yet aged. He gripped the floor shift mechanism and pushed in the button. He slid the shaft into reverse. As the car rolled back he threw an arm across the passenger head rest and craned his neck for a perfect view of the driveway. Where his mind should have been soon drifted again to the leather cased book and the expression on Ian's face as he held it up under the florescent light.

 He scrambled the image as he shook his head and his focus restored. He rounded the driveway corner. He glanced down as he shifted into drive and as another vehicle raced past he pressed the radio knob in with his thumb. Immediately the cab filled with loud thrashing drums and guitar squeals. He pulled into the lane then and as each mile brought him closer to Mayfield Place, or as called it Rich Ville, his heart fluttered and his stomach soured. Though he often refrained from an occasional encounter with Mr. and Mrs. Keller, this morning he actually considered it. Then he remembered his last words to Ian the evening before and rolled his head.

 How could he discuss any of it without betraying his trust? He tightened his hold on the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. It was for the better, he told himself. Friends sometimes must go back on their word in situations such as this, right?

Then he asked himself, "What grounds do I have to be so alarmed?"

“Because your gut instinct tells you something is wrong!" His conscious screamed.

 "Damn it," he swore under his breath. "Something is wrong, isn't it?"

But you do not know that for sure. His other half argued as the Oldsmobile yielded at a sign.

That was right, he agreed. There was no need to jump to conclusions. He should see Ian first. He pressed a finger to the side of his nose and his left eye twitched. Slowly he slid it up to his bridge and gently rubbed. Damn headaches. His temples throbbed beneath his circling thumb. As he pulled alongside a curb, he fixed his eyes on a perfect manicured lawn. The house stood bleak and a structure warped by cold precision. He shifted the shaft into park and blew air into his cheeks. Already he could see the accusing stare of Mrs. Keller and hear the booming voice of Mr. Keller as they attempt to lay blame on him for the corruption of their dear boy.

 He turned the key in the ignition and listened a moment to the engine die down. As he drew the key from the metal slot he followed the stone pathway leading to the door. It might as well mark a path of death and destruction. A piece of curtain fluttered aside and for a second he thought he saw Mrs. Keller standing behind it, a long stemmed glass in her hand. He paused behind the wheel and then opened his door and stepped out.

 He ascended gray steps leading onto the gray path. He hung his head. He had walked it a thousand times. Every twist and shift is direction seemed to carry him toward scrutiny and scrutiny's keeper. He glanced back at the Oldsmobile, wondered what would happen he made a gallop toward it and drove far, far away.

 Then there he stood at the door. Before he rose a hand to knock it flew open and a sickly Ian popped out. Dennis took a few steps back. His jaw dropped and eyes widened.

 "Ian, what in the s**t happened to you?" Dennis asked. Mrs. Keller appeared in an instant beside her son, her face a sheet of tears.

 "Ian will be unable to attend school today," she attempted to say.

 Ian rounded on her, his eyes huge marbles as he glowered, "Stop telling me what to do!"

 Dennis gulped.

 Mrs. Keller recoiled as fresh tears streamed her face. Dennis rubbed the back of his scalp. Another squiggly line appeared in his vision. When Ian turned around he saw purple bags under his bloodshot eyes. Beads of sweat budded across his forehead.

 "Are you sure you are okay?" Dennis asked, taking a long look at Mrs. Keller who slunk back inside like a whipped dog.

Ian smiled. His voice was slightly softer than he remembered as he sang, "I am fine!" He yawned. "I am just tired. I had been reading all night."

Dennis stomach sank into sour nausea. "Is that so?"

5

From under his jacket Ian revealed the tattered leather bound book. He caressed its exterior as Dennis signaled, pulled into traffic and pushed in the stereo button. Silence rushed the cab. He glanced at him, then at the book and resumed his focus on the road.

 "So you were reading that thing all night long?"

Ian, his glasses slightly askew, looked up and nodded. He thumbed through its pages until a thin slip of cardboard stopped him. "This book is meant for me."

Dennis cleared his throat. "How is your Mom, Ian? She looked shaken up."

 Ian closed the book and slid a look his way. They were the eyes of a stranger now as they stared cold and hard at him. "She is just holding me back."

 "Maybe she is worried about you. Have you looked in a mirror?"

"Worried?" His voice had become a satin cord of irony. "My whole life she has worried for no reason, Dennis. I cannot make one move without her either approving or condemning. I am sick of her. I am sick of the both of them." A spasm crossed his face, hardened his features. "One day they will get what they deserve.”

 Ian, where are you? The words played on the tip of his tongue. Paying him another glance only caused the speed of his heart to increase and the knot in his throat to swell, choke him until he coughed to force it free. It splashed in the pit of nausea imprisoned stomach acid where it boiled.

"You really believe that?"

Those eyes he peered at him with bared no resemblance to any he knew, for pulsing in the depths was an uncanny blue aura of winter. He blinked. He looked again.

"They just don't want me to grow up. They expect me to take their s**t forever, but it isn't going to happen."

Dennis clamped his hands on the steering wheel. It took all his self-control to not grab that damn book and toss it out the window. "I think...do you want to get a sandwich after school?"

 Ian shrugged. He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. "I don't know. I might have to go straight home after, but we can wait and see."

As the Oldsmobile pulled up to a stop sign, Dennis hooked his arm out the window and gazed at the fallen orange and yellow leaves littering lawns and sidewalks. He figured the life of a leaf was a miserable one at best, but perhaps simple and carefree. Then he laughed and brushed the thought aside. How silly was it to envy a leaf? Still as the cab grew silent and ever glance he remunerated his friend conveyed the same dreadful message he could not help but wish to imagine the life of anything but his own.

 Seeing the brick and tinted windows emerge over the horizon was in many ways a comfort that bemused him. Never in his eighteen years had he ever regarded this building of confinement anything but a safe haven, yet as he turned into the parking lot swamped with cars and hustling mobs of teenage youth he smiled and felt a weight lift off his chest.

As he swerved into a parking stall he asked before sliding the shifting shaft into park, "Are you going to be okay? I won't see you until…."

"I will be fine," responded a velvet voice from Ian's mouth. It sounded nothing like him.

6

Ian rested his forehead against the locker. He worked the combination and as usual the damn lock jammed. His eyes fluttered shut. When they opened a different gaze examined the crude fashioned metal and plastic contraption. He considered it a moment then thrust his fist at it. Bit of black knob and metal fell around his feet with a ping and bounce. He took a step back and the door slowly opened. Inside he spotted a pile of books, retrieved then and held them under an arm. As he turned to walk away he felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder.

"Hey, Smeller," the spiky headed teenager said.

Ian woke to see Mike's painted face very close to his and trembled. He looked past his bulging shoulders to see the usual gang behind him, snickering and throwing in a taunt or two.

"I have to get to class," he said weakly, his eyes round saucers.

The diary pulsed under his jacket. No doubt the slight curve of his stomach would arch an eyebrow or two, but most paid no attention to Ian Keller. That was, unless you were Mike Lexus or his cronies. Ian wrenched against his vise like grip, but the more he squirmed the tighter his hold became.

A grin spread across Mike's chiseled features. "Well you might not make it."

 Mike's peers burst into laughter as they closed in. Though he tried to call out for help, Ian doubted anyone would answer his cry. Even so his voice refused to work, his mouth a trembling and useless device. As Mike rose a gigantic balled up fist, his arm drawn back like a mighty bow, Ian cringed and clamped his eyes shut. He didn't know what to expect; a visit to the nurse surely, but what to tell Mom and Dad was a pisser. No lie would be sufficient enough and the truth would only land him in deep s**t.

Darkness enveloped him. What woke in his place was not Ian Keller. His eyes flew open to pulse and stare into those of Mike without as much as a blink.

 "What the hell?" Mike's grasp weakened. What were once brown shady pools were now glowing pale blue flames, but Ian Keller's eyes hadn't been the only feature to alter beneath his heated stare. As Mike receded an unusual scent bore about him. Then a change of voice swelled as Ian Keller's unblemished face turned up and his lips moved.

 "Get your hands off me!"

One outward strike flung Mike down the hallway and into a row of lockers standing at the end. Instantly the gang disbanded, dispersed as gasps and shrieks rang in his ears. As Mike crumpled onto the floor, what wore Ian's face turned his back and reached into his jacket. His hand withdrew the diary. He peered at it with new perspective and a smile stretched his lips.

 "Oh, Dear Diary, I have forgotten thee." He opened to where a slip of cardboard settled between the pages.

He closed it and glanced over his shoulder at the gang who were helping their fallen comrade. He squinted. His vision certainly wasn't as he had remembered it. He reached up and pulled off the thick round black spectacles. Instantly his vision cleared and he folded the bows, tucked them into his shirt pocket and discarded the books previously taken from the broken locker. He tossed them into the metal receptacle, all but the diary, and pressed on.

7

Dennis observed the dark Sedan as it made a broad turn around a posse of giggling freshman and rolled his eyes. If something as mundane as a Sedan impressed them they were bound for trouble. He checked his wrist watch. It wasn't like Ian to be late for anything, especially lunch.

 He spotted Henry Cowper sprinting across the grassy knoll and whistled through his teeth to get his attention. The brown mop head slowed and waved. With a noon sun beating in his eyes he squinted and jogged toward his bench.

 "Have you seen Ian, Henry?" Dennis asked.

Henry shoved his hands in his back pockets as he panted, "Earlier, but maybe he went home after what happened."

 Dennis stood. "What happened?"

 "There is a rumor Mike Lexus kicked his a*s. By the looks of Old Mike, Ian might have got in a few good shots though."

 Dennis shook his head.  "When did it happen?"

Henry shifted his weight to his hip and answered, "Before first period I think."

 Dennis balled his hands into fists and bit his cheek. That explained why Ian hadn't been seen all day, why Ian never showed up for lunch and why the lump in his stomach hadn't digested by now. Poor Ian was probably lied up in some hospital bed. It wouldn't be the first time. Dennis imagined white plastered casts encasing Ian's shattered legs and arms. He shook his head again. No, it could not be that bad. He looked at Henry with a scowl.

 "Thanks for letting me know," Dennis said and turned to leave. He was halfway across the quad when he saw a slender figure. He squinted and lifted his hand to shield the glare resonating from a pair of glass doors.

The figure paused, stiffened and turned slowly in his direction. Dennis at that moment thought he was mistaken, but as the image became clear and the distance between them shortened there was no denying the figure was Ian Keller. The funny thing was though he looked like his friend, talked like his friend and still clutched that damned diary like his friend, Dennis did not recognize him.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and stared into calm brown eyes as Ian said, "There you are. I was looking for you everywhere. How about a sandwich after school? I forgot my lunch at home." He laughed and made a goofy expression that made Dennis cringe. "So how is your day so far?"

Dennis stammered, "F-fine. I-I heard you got into it with Mike Lexus."

 Ian laughed and shrugged. "It was no big deal."

"Where are your glasses, dude? I thought you were blind without them."

Ian tapped his front shirt pocket where Dennis then saw his black rimmed glasses peek out with abandonment. He should have noticed the bulge, but his focus settled over his face. Not a single blemish, not a visible pore could be found on the usual pizza face Ian Keller. Dennis shivered.

"Don't worry so much." He patted him on the back. "It'll make your headaches worse."

 Dennis nodded in agreement and then froze. "How did you know about my headaches? I never told you, did I?"

 Ian laughed again. "Come on, let's go inside. It is hot out here."

 "Hot?"

Dennis peered at the markings of fall on the leaves under his feet and on the trees. A cool gust raked over him, chilled him as planting within were suspicions he never thought possible to consider in reality.

 "Ian," Dennis whispered, hoping to keep his voice steady. "Why don't we go to a movie instead?"

This, Dennis thought, would be the true test. The Ian he knew strayed from theaters at all costs. He might have gone once or twice in all the time he knew him, but often complained the floors were sticky or the crowd was too noisy. He watched him tighten his hold on his book.

 Ian's gazed wavered and he cocked his head to one side. His eyes narrowed then widened in the same sentence. "I don't know."

 Dennis rubbed the ache in the back of his neck. He tried to convince himself his suspicions were all in his imagination, but could not shake the overwhelming doubt. He cleared his throat and urged smoothly, "I think you will really like this flick playing now. It has action, adventure, horror and all sorts of cool explosions and car chases."

Anything to get you away from that damn book, he wanted to say but held his tongue.

"All right," Ian said in a pitch softer than his usual one; creamy and almost dreamy.

 Dennis lowered his head. A rush of dizziness swirled around him. This cannot be. This sort of thing doesn't happen in real life. What sort of thing exactly? He couldn't spit it out. The word stuck in his throat like a bone.

 The bell rang.

 Ian's eyes lit up. "Got to go, pal! See you after class! The movie theatre it is!"

 Dennis watched his move up the grassy knoll and toward a pair of glazing double glass doors. He mumbled in a less than thrilled tone, "Sure, buddy, whatever you say."

His cheeks blossomed with color as Dennis admired the sleek frame of his Oldsmobile. He opened its door. The second bell rang, but he had intention of attending sixth period. He sat behind the wheel a trembling lump of flesh.

Thirty minutes later he pulled the Oldsmobile along a curb and from the windshield stares at a front window display of crescent moons and fairies. As he drew the key from the ignition his heart skipped a beat, his mouth dried. The air was a bitter swallow of truth and choked him as he entered the shop. The door, a cling and clang of its bell, announced his presence as once again his senses flooded with incense and candle aromas.

He shoved his hands deep in his varsity jacket where his fingers curled and were slick with sweat. Each step inward carried him into territory he never wanted to revisit yet here he was.

 Dennis glanced between aisles for any sign of the old man. A floor board squeaked behind him and he spun around to see a set of clouded eyes stare into his.

"You bring must despair into my shop," the old man spat, his voice thick with an accent Dennis could not distinguish.

Dennis straightened. His resolve was stronger than he though it to be. "You remember selling a book to a slender, zit-faced kid wearing a pair of black rimmed glasses?" Then he looked again into his eyes and wanted to kick himself. The old geezer was obviously blind.

The old man lowered his head slightly as his eyes twitched. "You believe just because my eyes are blind that I cannot see?"

 Dennis stiffened. He backed into a stand of cauldrons and jumped.

 "I remember every book I ever sold. I am not responsible for the buyer's stupidity."

He leaned on his cane and smirked as Dennis challenged, "That book isn't just a book, is it?! Tell me what you know about it!"

 The old man clicked his tongue and exhaled sharply. "Why should I? You have nothing of use to me."

 "My friend's life is in danger from that thing!" He steadied himself and reached into his back jean pocket. He retrieved from it his wallet. "Look," he thumbed through it and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. "I will give you whatever I have. I have fifty bucks. It is yours if you just tell me what I need to know."

The old man scoffed and thrust down his cane. His expression was a contorting mask of insult. "Money is all you Americans ever think about. Money cannot buy everything, boy!" He twisted a strand of silver hair around a bony finger and as he flicked it over his shoulder hissed, "You have to consider something of more importance."

 Dennis stuffed the bill back into his wallet and returned it to his jean pocket. Sweat collected along his hairline. He rolled his eyes and didn't want to know exactly what that more importance was, however at the same time knew it might very well save Ian.

 "All right, just tell me what your price is and I will meet it."

The old man chuckled. "No payment is required at this time. I will tell you, but only on one condition."

 "Just name it."

 "When the time comes for me to collect my debt, you must give it freely and without question." His jowls hardened. His nose was a thick mass on his ebony face and as he limped toward Dennis, his eyes rounded. "Do you understand?"

Dennis wiped sweat from his temples with the sleeve of his jacket. Every inch of him signaled this nightmare surely led somewhere foul and forsaken. Still he raised his chin high and folded his arms across his chest. "I understand perfectly well Now just tell me!"

A smile pulled the dry cracked lips upward and bared yellow stained teeth as the old man replied, "Very well."

 Overhead lights flickered and though he shifted to watch them, examine them, Dennis never diverted his attention from the old man. For a moment, no matter how brief, he could have sworn two needle shaped flames burnt in his sagging sockets.

 "Have you ever heard of the Ancients? Not Hollywood fantasy or horror here, but actual Ancients of the Universe?"

Dennis remembered Ian mention something and told him so as from the corner of his eye he spied a glistening crystal ball.

The old man chuckled again. He rolled his eyes upward; the milky depths making Dennis suppress a shiver. "Modern times and the gadgets invented in such clouds more than the mind, boy," he wheezed and wrinkled up his brown spotted nose.

 He turned and motioned Dennis to follow. Reluctant Dennis dragged his feet as he guided him to a round table with two chairs. Lying on top in neat rows was an unusual bunch of cards. Their edges appeared gold, their backs designed to resemble swirling black holes, but what drew Dennis in was the writing. The language wasn't one he could discern. He saw it only briefly once before. When Ian opened the book and read from the first passages, hidden slightly in the crease was an oddity of language, a series of unique symbols and letters that at first led Dennis to believe it had been artwork by the author, but now as his stomach wrenched anew he began to reconsider.

The old man deposited himself in a chair opposite him; his hands folded over his cane's head as he cracked a smile and said, "The diary your friend purchased is no ordinary book, book. It once belonged to an Ancient entity whose name we best never recite. To do so would invoke the temper of Chaos."  The old man chuckled.

 Dennis tightened his fists and said hotly, "Look, just tell me already! Stop stalling!"

The old man's face hardened and his eyes focused. For an instant Dennis believed those eyes bore into him and revealed his every thought. He trembled and tapped the table with his knuckles gently. Every muscle tensed as his wheezy voice resumed.

"To understand an Ancient, boy, you must first know where it is they hail from. No one knows for certain, but speculation believes Chaos."

Dennis raised an eyebrow. "Who or what is Chaos?"

"Infinite time and infinite space, boy, is what and who Chaos is; the only creator of worlds, galaxies and life."

Dennis laced his fingers over his heart and then placed them behind his head. He reclined in his chair. The overhead light flickered as he listened to the old man continue.

The old man broke off and stared at the open mouth of the teen. His milky eyes glistened and closed half way. He turned, his cane clenched under his chest and stiffened.

"What does this have to do with Ian?" Dennis asked and scoffed.

The old man shifted toward him and rasped, "The entity your friend has encountered is considered a Master of the Undead, boy. It will use your friend to resurrect its army here on Earth."

Dennis straightened as his spine stiffened and filled with ache. "This cannot be possible. You are telling me some Ancient thing is using my friend to enter our world and bring back some army?!"

The old man chuckled. "It is already in your world, boy. Ancients appear wherever and anytime they wish. They need no vessel, no permission to do so. It is through the diary it will obtain license to enter your friend.   Now do you understand, boy?"

 "Like possession?" Dennis rolled his shoulders forward. "But how is it possible?"

 The old man snickered. "Anything is possible, boy, and if you don't begin to understand logic along those lines I am afraid your friend will be doomed."

"But I still do not understand how your story has anything to do with Ian."

"It will use its army to bend reality," explained the old man.

 Dennis cradled his face in his hands. Throbbing pain stabbed his temples and across his brows. He moaned. As his fingers opened he perceived the old man glowering at him and shivered. This was far from over.   "This has got to be a joke," he mumbled though knew better than to consider it in such a way.

His brow arched, his lip curled, the old man spat a bitter retort, "With that attitude you will never see your friend again."

Dennis reclined, the hard wood chair vindictive against his spine and shoulder blades, and winced as it raised discomfort throughout his body. Tightness claimed his chest. He coughed and traced a shaky line along his breast bone. Against his fingers he felt his muscles twitch. He transferred his weight to one side, then back again and cleared his throat.

"Then why sell such a book in the first place! You answer me that!"

The old man bowed his head. He rested his chin on the head of his cane and took a deep breath. When he looked up Dennis leapt off his chair. He stared, shook his head and recoiled as his features contoured and shaped into another set before his eyes.

 "S**t," Dennis exclaimed.

Thinning gray hairs thicken, darkened and grew longer on his head. Wrinkles smoothed as skin stretched, firmed and brightened; brown liver spots vanished and age a fleeting memory. Then his eyes, those milky glaucoma ridden eyes, pulsed and glowed fierce color. Where an elderly man once sat was now a youthful, mystic fantasy who defined time and space. He stood. His cane fell, landed with a clunk on the floor.

He snapped toward Dennis like a whip, pressed a long, light violet tinted finger to his throat and hissed, "I am through messing around, boy." His eyes were round gems that sparkled remarkable bright as he stared and spoke. "My sibling will succeed in bringing forth the Army of Undead. To stop it you must retrieve the diary and you must destroy it."

Dennis stumbled back, away from his touch and backed into a cold slab of wall. He blinked hard and then watched as it shot forward in his direction. He defied more than time and space; he defied logic and even the speed of light!

"Why can't you get it and destroy it yourself?" Dennis challenged and flinched as he leaned closer.

"A mortal purchased the diary therefore a mortal must destroy it. Your world needs a hero. What good would it do if I bail you out of this?"

 Dennis took a few side steps, his legs rubbery. He licked his lips as fever flushed his body. Perspiration broke out over his limbs, trickled down his face. As it collected in the collar of his jacket it became moist and chaffed.

  "So you are one of them?"

A wind brushed over him and as his eyes confused the blurring stream of color, he readied himself for a sudden rush of image to settle in place. As it came to be, the entity balanced no more than an inch in front of him, wore long robes of another era and spoke with a majestic grace. His hair streamed like silk; soft violet roots shading into rich purple. Dennis watched it slide along over broad shoulders as he touched a tinted finger to his left temple.

 "You must not fail."

Dennis fists clenched. "You didn't answer my question! Why sell that book in the first place?! What are you?!"

 The entity froze. He laced his fingers together over its chest and turned his face upward. "Very well, I suppose there is no harm in explaining to you what you do not understand, though such information might be too much for you to bear."

Dennis spat. "I will take my chances."

"Your friend was looking for something to fill the void in his life. After years of searching he believed to have found it in the myth about Ancients. So, since no other options seemed appealing, he absorbed himself in endless tales and wonderment. He wished time and time again for a manual of sorts to happen upon him so that he might summon power and defeat his enemies."

Dennis shuddered. "That can't be true. How do you know all this?"

"You know deep down inside, boy." He eyed him most peculiarly. "You know because your instincts are alive with knowing."

 "So how did the diary end up here?"

"His prayers were answered. He knew where to look."

 "But then why did you sell it to him?!"

 He bowed his head and then looked up, eyes blazing cold. "You ask far too many questions. I suppose it is human nature to be curious, isn't it?"

Dennis moved along a tall case of glowing orbs and heard what sounded like a train whistle emit from behind the glass. The evitable headache began dull behind his eyes and on top his skull. He winced, glanced toward the door and back to the advancing entity. His soft, feathery voice was something not of this Earth and dashed for the exit.

 "You must destroy it," sang the thing. 

Dennis caught sight of a shadow on the wall. It bore a new shape as it gave chase and hot steam fanned the nape of his neck. The door nearly within reach, he made a mad leap for it, but not before feeling the slap of tentacles at his heels. He fell out onto hard concrete and heard the entity call from inside, his voice still a caress of velvet, "You must destroy it!"

Dennis scrambled to his feet and dashed in route for the Oldsmobile. He slid across the hood with keys in hand and fumbled with them as he tried to remember which key it was to unlock the door. With success he fit the correct one into the lock and soon sat behind the wheel. He thrust his foot on the accelerator and as the engine roared, tires spun and smoke billowed out a long and violent wave of determination. The Oldsmobile lurched forward, leaving two black lines in its wake and Dennis never looked back.

8

As he squealed into the high school parking lot nausea rolled in mad fits. He found a stall almost immediately and swerved into it. His head pounded with a million images and inner monologue.

"Dennis," he heard someone call and didn't know who quite until he came into focus. It was Ernie Callahan from sixth period and fellow teammate. He jogged from the black sedan he observed earlier. It was parked two stalls over. "Ian told me to give you a message."

Dennis froze, his keys clutched hurtfully in his hand. "What might that be?"

"Dude, he was acting weird, almost like a completely different person...."

"What did he say?!"

 Ernie's face, spotted with scars from his bout with chicken pox, pinched as he softly said, "He said he was going to greet the birth givers and thank them for the body they provided for him. He said you are welcome to join." His rigid posture sagged as he leaned to whisper, "Do you think something might be the matter with him? Do you think he might be taking drugs?”

Dennis whipped around. The color drained from his face. "I wish it were that." He took a few steps toward the Oldsmobile and turned to him as black circles filmed across his vision. "I can't explain it now."

Ernie's hands shot up out his pockets as he watched Dennis hop back into his car. "Wait! Football practice is in under an hour!"

But as the engine roared to life, and tires squealed as the Oldsmobile screeched out of the stall, he doubted Dennis heard a single word. He began to make his way toward the building, glancing over his shoulder as the car speed fast and steady through traffic. Soon it was nothing but a dot in the horizon.

9

The house stood a dismal reminder of high society's privilege without liberties. Dennis wiped his hands on his jacket as he stared at it. In his angst he fathomed a silly notion it appeared to be looking at him from some altered perspective. He might have chuckled at his own expense if not for the icy claw grazing his spine and digging deep into his nerves.

His paced slowed as he neared the door. It hung ajar. He inched toward it, reached out to grasp the knob and pushed it open for his width to enter.

 "Hello?"

 No one answered his call. He peeked around the corner as he took another step inward. Everything appeared to be in order. No signs of a struggle or...anything. He quietly closed the door, his heart beating like a kettle drum.

 "Mrs. Keller?" He waited. No answer. "Mr. Keller?"

His fingers coiled and uncoiled around his keys as they jingled in his coat pocket. They were sweaty again, hot and achy. He ambled with caution into the hallway. Surely they must be home, if not Mr. Keller than Mrs. Keller. He saw the Jaguar parked in the driveway as he pulled up. That was the car she usually drove.

"It's Dennis," he shouted, now standing at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up them. "Ian, are you up there?"

 "Dennis."

Dennis spun around and stared into an odd pair of blue pulsing eyes. He stumbled backward, found the wall and his jaw dropped.

"Ian?”

The thing wearing the Ian mask laughed softly with a charming tone wrapping each note. "Ian? I do like that name."

Dennis slumped. Across his brow flared pain. It radiated down his neck and into his shoulders, grew tight and spun many shades of ache, misery and despair.

"Where are Mr. and Mrs. Keller?" He strained.

Ian advanced and as he stretched outward a single hand, Dennis stiffened. His fingers had begun to tint a fair shade of blue.

 "What do you mean?" He touched a digit to his cheek and instantly the migraine eased.

Dennis straightened, blinked as he regained balance and determination. Fleeing agony left a stale dull throb in its wake as he stared and fought to keep stomach acid from rising in his throat.

 "Where are they? Where are Ian's parents?"

 He tilted his head, his mouth forming a perfect O. His skin illuminated beauty; flawless ivory that emitted fragrance. His eyes rolled to stare into him, those unnatural blue pulses for a moment luring Dennis into awe, but as the metal of his keys bit into his palm he looked away and spat.

"I am Ian," he replied.

Dennis gritted his teeth. "You stole his conscious and-and everything!" He crammed the little gap between them with his athletic stature and towered over the Ian-thing as he added, "And I am going to get him back! Now where are his parents? I know Mrs. Keller must be here. Her car is in the driveway!"

The entity sighed and rolled his eyes toward the kitchen. Dennis was about to start in its direction. Then he halted as drawers' flung open and began spitting out silverware. He receded as what entered through the archway was not Mrs. Keller but a dozen or so knives. They hovered. They waited.

"I do not want to hurt you, Dennis," the entity said, "but I will if you get in my way. You do not understand.  Believe what you will.  Shall it be my sibling masquerading as a book salesman or me?”

Dennis stumbled and collapsed on the stairs. He glanced from the entity to the knives and panted, "I can't believe either one of you!"

As he moved so did the knives. They now surrounded him like an aura and he bent down on one knee to gaze into him, pierce his soul with those eyes and squeeze his heart with his silken words.

"That is a shame." He lowered his gaze.

Dennis coughed, winced and struggled. A weight sat on his chest, his lungs submerged in airless suspension, and his body restrained by unseen chains, but the chains sizzled cold all around him like cold metal would feel in extremely freezing temperatures. He squirmed and gasped.  The Ian thing stood. As he turned away the knives followed. The crushing mass rose and he his chest relaxed as he drew fresh breath. Slowly he regained motion in his limbs and pushed himself up into a hunched stand.

"I can't kill you," he said as he turned to face him. The aura of knives collapsed at his sides and landed with a waterfall splash of metal. "I am not a killer. My mission is to preserve life, not annihilate it."

Dennis coughed as he said through strained gulps of air, "Then why have you taken my friend?"

He shifted his weight to one side and looked off somewhere distant and endless. "He chose this."

Dennis shook his head and protested, " Ian would never...."

The thing shot him a warning look that halted his words at once. "You don't know him very well, do you?"

"Let him go!"

 "There is nothing to let go. I always existed in him. He is of my flesh. If I surrender him he is nothing more than an empty shell."

Dennis staggered against the railing and sat on the next step up. "Bullshit!"

"It was no accident Ian found my diary. He knew exactly where to find it and that sibling of mine masquerading as shop keep knew exactly when and where to leave it for him to discover. Perhaps I should explain it more slowly, yes?"

Dennis shook his head and swallowed hard. He whipped in vain at the streaks of sweat spiraling down his face as he spat, "It isn't true! You can shove your explanations! You can...."

The entity rounded on him, crouched behind him in a flash quicker than that of lightning and whispered in his ear, "Doesn't it seem odd to you Ian never once fell ill?"

Dennis leapt from the stairs and landed on shag carpet. It might have been soft carpet but it did nothing to soften his landing. He crawled on his hands and knees toward the door until a long pair of legs materialized before him and he froze, looked up into pulsing eyes and scrambled back again.

"Ian was never human to begin with," the entity insisted.

A spasm crossed Dennis' face as it grew red and warm. He stared first at the knives lying wasted on the carpet and then up into the thing that so calmly spewed lies. He leaned against something, turned to look and remembered the last time he touched Mrs. Keller's precious iron cast statute. She nearly blew her stack and for what? He certainly couldn't break the thing. It weighed more than he did and was a bulky, sort of macabre looking thing. Ian said it took four men to just load it off the truck and into the house. So then why now did he find it so comforting?

 "Where is Mrs. And Mr. Keller? Did you kill them?"

 The cold piercing eyes turned upward as a light powder blue eyebrow arched. More and more it erased Ian as though he were a sketch in a comic book; redefined his features and molded them into its own.

 "I don't kill humans, Dennis. They came home and saw their son wasn't quite himself."  He laughed. 

Dennis swallowed hard. He used the statute to pull himself onto his feet. "Then tell me! Where are they?!"

"Upstairs, but I advise you, the shock made them quite incapable of handling thought or consciousness."

 Dennis glanced toward the stairs. He knew there would be no possible way past the thing and stood still. "What is your name?"

The thing smirked. "Just call me Ian, Dennis. My so called 'Ancient name' is far too complicated to pronounce in human vocabulary."

Dennis stifled a retort. Little could be gained in confrontation, especially when there was no chance he could win. He doubled over as the reality of it settled in. How could this happen? Did that mean everything else he ever thought to be fairytales actually hold truth?

 "What do you want me to do?"

He reached inside the remains of the old Ian's jacket and pulled out the diary. He handed it to Dennis with transfixed emotion boiling in his eyes.

Dennis recoiled at the feel of it as it slid into his hands. His first instinct was to drop it as if it were a searing hot metal piece scolding his palms and fingers but he clenched it and suppressed the urge. The leather-bound face and back emitted a fragrance he managed a guess at, but never fully pinpointed it.

 "The truth lies in the pages of my diary. Read it and you will understand," Ian said and as Dennis lifted his head to look him over he took a large step back against the statute. Now not a speck of the old Ian existed.  

Still he dared to ask, "And what if I don't?"

 Ian shrugged. "That is your choice."