Voice in the Darkness

A struggling writer, who really listens to the voice.

        

        

 

 

The Voice out of the Darkness

 

        I have to get this done, the submission deadline is in three days and this might be my big break into getting published,  but why won’t this damn story just work like I want it too, he thought deleting the one and only page of text. 

        Giles McDurmet even by his own standards couldn’t be considered a writer let along a serious one since the only published work he had to his credit was a short story published in the college rag his freshman year and each day he sat in front of the computer, the dog at his feet and the cursor flashing before him. 

        “Come on you,’ he said reaching for the leash,’perhaps while we’re gone the story fairies will come do this for me,” he said cynically waiting for Patrick.

        Giles why don’t you get up and write you know you want too, I am here to help you.

        “What! Who said that, who’s here? Come on it’s three in the morning I am really not interested in any games Margie so go back next door and lay off the pipe.”

        Who’s Margie? You want to write, right? Why are you setting there in your CK undies let’s write...I’ll tell or show you what to write and you do it--couldn’t be simpler.

        

 

        Giles sat upright, his eyes scanning the room looking for any glimpse of the intruder who could clearly see him in his CK’s, “where are you if you want to help me then show yourself,” he cried out.

        Can’t do you want help to become famous? All you have to do is listen and follow through with what I say. 

        Of course he knew deep down that he wanted the help and would kill for it if thats what it took, and he sensed that whatever or whomever was here with him knew that, grabbing his glasses from the bureau he headed towards the computer, “Can I turn the light on?”

        Of course you can— buuuddy, after all who says that I am in the room, but don’t worry I’ll help you.

        The word “buddy” sent chills down his spine and the thought occurred to him of Faust selling his soul to the devil for his earthly desires. “What do you mean that you aren’t here? If you aren’t here than where can you be?” 

        Does it matter? 

        “No not really.”

        Then write.

        Slowly as his fingers touched the keys vivid and horrific images, and words flashed in his head and burned as he tapped them out they increased in strength and vividness:

        

 

 

        “The old women ran from the door, her hear pounding, the blood turning her eyes red as the dark, thick hand grabbed her hair and pulled her screaming towards the stairway…” he wrote as it gushed from him. 

        The sun began to shine through the window as he rounded out four thousand words. 

        Time to stop.

        “No— come on I am— I mean we are on a roll this is good.”
        NO, tonight same time. With that a fatigued sensation overcame him, as he retreated to resume his slumber. 

        Giles awoke, finding it hard to sleep with visions of screaming children and gore matter running through his head, “I have to get back to the computer and work on this it’s— it’s brilliant the best stuff I’ve written in years,” he said sauntering towards the workstation. 

        What are you doing Giles? Did I say now? 

        “Where— where are you?”

        I am everywhere and yet nowhere and right now I am watching you and since when is this your work? I thought it was our work— perhaps I should go and leave yo—

        “No please— I’m sorry.”

        Sorry you’re sorry, I told you when to work, but this isn’t the time is it?

        “No it isn’t.”

        Let’s see how sorry you are— I want you to do something for me…

        

        

        Giles dreaded what he had to do, but now standing outside of the 1453 Oakline Avenue with the sack of gory accoutrements ready he knew it had to be done, or his muse, his life would be gone forever. Everything down to the smallest detail was as the muse showed to him, approaching what he knew was the child’s room he treaded softly and slowly across the gray saxony carpet, be careful or the dog might hear you--turn the knob slowly.

        The smell of urine choked him as he entered the room, pulling the bag from his bag, you can do it, just think of me— your muse and your god. 

        How did it go?  “It was great— I— I never knew that murder could be such a powerful experience, but it felt as if I’ve been there before.”  Perhaps you have been.

“What do you mean?” You’ll figure it out, now get rid of the clothes and let’s write. 

        The writing continued into the early morning hours, where an exhausted Giles placed his finished manuscript on the desk, I’ll have to go through this later and make the corrections.

        His slept with images of gore and death dancing through his head. 

        What are you doing?

        “I am going to edit, make any corrections—’ there won’t be any corrections, ‘there’s always corrections that need to be made, nothing is perfect the first time out. “

        This is.

        “With the writing done, where did you come from? Are you one of the muses that have been written about for generations?”

        No.

        

        “No, then where did you come from?”

        I am you.

        “Your me? That’s impossible, I can hear you.”

        You can hear me; are you sure that you can hear a voice or do you think you hear a voice, after all there’s no one else in the room.

        “But you have to be divine—you had me kill that family and I could never do that.”

        Couldn’t you? Who killed the Hamilton’s dog ten years ago?

        “That was an accident.”

        Accident— you loved doing it, remember you rubbed the blood over your face and wrote about it.

        “It was an accident!” He said collapsing in the computer chair. 

        How was an accident— you planned it, and the what about last night? Think and Think hard, don’t you remember following the Murphy’s home from the movie theater, and watching them from the windows. “How did I know where everything was?”

Think! That house, that area should be familiar to you, that was your house, before your family moved, that must have made it very easy for you, having grown up there. 

        “I would never kill someone.”

        You did, did it feel good? You’re a monster a real life Jekyll and Hyde and I’m your Hyde. You need to be taken away in the padded truck, strapped in a strait-jacket, locked away. 

        “I didn’t do anything”

        

        Yes you did, you slaughtered, gutted a whole family and you left something behind— didn’t you

        “No, I didn’t do—”

        You left a fingerprint on the door, they’ll find you and when they do it’s going to be the chair for you.

        “I’ll say that you did it, and planted my fingerprint.”

        Giles, I am you.  You’ve cracked man right down the cortex and now look at yourself you’re talking to yourself and trying to blame a murder on a voice--Your voice. 

        

        

Author's Note

This is a finished story, I hope you like it.