Short Weird Tales: Guestbook

It has been three days since I read aloud from the book I found in the locked closet, and Bersheba will not stop visiting me. For this I can only blame myself, since I summoned her and must therefore take at least some responsibility for my actions.

For clarity, what I call 'the locked closet' was in fact freely openable when I stumbled upon it while exploring my newly rented holiday apartment. Having unpacked for a week's stay of recuperation following the incident, I required somewhere to stow my empty valise, that I may feel more at home during my time here. The gap between the bed and the floorboards was, alas, too slim for this task, and so I sought storage elsewhere.

The back corner of the bathroom at the rear of the apartment featured a full-length closet which appeared ideal for my needs. A padlock hung closed around half of a clasp under the handle, the corresponding half folded back against the frame, leaving the chamber accessible to prying eyes such as my own. Ordinarily one would assume this space was for the arrangement of cleaning products to be employed between clients' stays, and indeed those were present. But there was also, on the head-height shelf, a weighty hide-bound book of indeterminate age, clammy to the touch and filled with intricate illustrations and indecipherable glyphs on thick, mottled pages that smelled of a disused cellar. Because naturally, I looked through it. To say the heavy, oddly formed and textured cover had 'a face' would not be fully true, and yet I swear this tome looked at me. Furthermore, while I could not consciously translate the streams of symbols therein, I quickly found myself reading aloud without thinking - and in a language I had never before heard, let alone spoken.

I put all of this down to my tiredness and overwrought circumstance, and endeavoured to settle in as best I could. Not an hour later, I first heard the voice.

~ ~ ~

There is a painting above the bed in the front room. A shorescape of the local town. Rough-hewn whitewashed buildings and the sea-wall of the harbour, uninhabited there in its frozen moment of time. The painting is rudimentary in its execution (at least not bearing the fierce movement and detail of its accompanying seascapes), but it nonetheless captures the humble beauty that has drawn mankind to the sea since time immemorial. Including myself now, I suppose. But catching reverse-sight of this painting in the large mirror on the opposing wall, I could see a face. A face in the small darkened upper window of one of the fishing cottages. Lit as if to be some way back from the glass, but there all the same. A face loosely rendered with a great artist's innate ability to have their living subjects transcend all time and medium. A still face, looking - undoubtedly - at me.

You have doubtless guessed, dear reader, that when I turned to examine the visage in the actual wall-hung oils behind me, this was nowhere to be seen. Turning again to the looking glass, the miniature figure was indeed still there, stock still as would be expected. Staring - glaring - out of the surrounding frames and directly to me. And so, without movement, it spoke.

I cannot directly translate what the face - what she - said. Once more, it was in no language I had ever heard, yet one I understood implicitly. The voice was a low, hollow rasp, but female in its intonation. It promised no distinct personal threat, and yet an ominous tone of foreboding suggested this moment had been long awaited by my interlocutor... that this address was the recommencement of previously unfinished business. I do not recall verbally replying - certainly there was nothing I might realistically ask in this absurd situation, and yet there was a connective interactivity between us. The figure responded - somehow - to my feelings, if not my questions. When the... the 'exchange' ended, it was dark outside. I slept on the couch.

My slumber was, as one might imagine, fevered that night. My visitor was once again present, and this time in the dreamed apartment itself. She did not introduce herself but I knew her now to be Bersheba, a healer or sage of some sort as anciently familiar with this town as its sand-blasted harbour and the rolling hills which surround it. She had been waiting for me, for more years than she could describe. Again I felt no actual malice to myself personally, but instead the unspoken knowledge that Bersheba's goal - whatever that may be - would somehow use my very essence as one would use coal to keep warm on the coldest of nights.

~ ~ ~

My dreams, it seemed, had broken the seal. The next day, Bersheba was - at various intermittent points - very much outside of the painting and in the apartment with me; a shape I could not define, a sight I cannot describe, murmuring indefinable words of dark intent that held no distinction. I paced the floor, somehow afraid to leave as morning turned to afternoon turned to dusk. Finally tending to myself with reluctance, food had no flavour and my books no meaning - and so I determined to avail to a local hostelry in the vain hope that company would at least drown out my companion, if not drive her away.

Some hope. The Sloop Tavern held little comfort, surrounded as I was by local groups of varying sizes who seemed not to notice me. The crowd did not so much go out of their way to make me feel uncomfortable, more that their collective weekend jollity benignly annulled my sombre presence without embracing it. That is, my presence and that of Bersheba, who hovered around the corner of my sight at the door, judging me and the saloon bar with wordless utterances. I left after two shots of the local liquor and slept on the couch.

~ ~ ~

The next morning I woke alone, by which I mean my spectral companion seemed not to be present. I admit that my first port of call was to look at the painting in the bedroom and then the reflection of that same in the mirror. Nothing. I felt no heaviness in the air, no voice in my ear, no eyes on my back. Could it be that I had imagined my torment of the last thirty six hours? That this had been a surreally concocted dream of some sort?

Nonetheless, after a light breakfast I made myself proper and endeavoured to research local lore at the town's library and museum, if anything to hopefully disprove my fancies rather than expound them further. Curators at both institutions were initially reticent at my enquiries, although their interest was piqued somewhat when it became apparent that I was not merely some tasteless tourist with a penchant for the ghoulish. That said, their actual help was minimal, with Bersheba's name appearing but three times in more threadbare volumes of localised mythology than I could count. Her life was alluded to rather than documented, and two of the notes could easily have referred to anyone with her - admittedly unusual - moniker. I retired to my apartment little the wiser, with a sense of dread, and with a darkly brooding visitor once more. Bersheba was in the corner of my vision again, watching me intently and murmuring her inaudible commentary.

By this point I was close to my wits' end with the numb acceptance of some ill-defined, pencilled-in fate appearing to be the only palatable option and path of least resistance. It was in this state that I found myself in the nearby St. Barnoon's chapel, overlooking the rugged shoreline where countless ships had run aground over the centuries, and I myself feeling like one more of their number. My presence in the stone building soon attracted the attention of its attendant, Father Inglis, and our ensuing conversation was in equal parts of no help whatsoever and also the closest to comfort I have been able to find.

While he has no knowledge of Bersheba herself, the clergyman tells me tales of this sort are not unheard in the town. He is unable to be any more specific, to tell me who or what might be trying to return and from where, or to tell me what later happens to those who reported these events as they occurred. But he is fascinated by my experience, to 'have a live one' so to speak, and is endeavouring to make further researches when he is not with me. He appears quite taken with my case, for which I am grateful.

Himself an apparently outspoken local folklorist - if not quite an historian - Father Inglis has been very supportive in his time with me since, although his friendliness soon took on the air of a hospital chaplain visiting a terminally ill patient. After repeated explanations of my time here, he says there are no easy banishments for that which has been openly invited into the world, and I am inclined - reluctantly - to believe him. I do not share the priest's ecclesiastical devotions, and he assures me in the politest possible way that it would make little difference if I did. How odd, that solace can be found in the encircling arms of oblivion.

~ ~ ~

And so I wait. I wait for the return of Bersheba, knowing full fell that I shall not be fully here to see whatever form that may take. I grow weaker by the hour. The bells of St. Barnoon's chime for evensong, breaking the silence of a day where the gulls seem to have completely abandoned their usually plaintive cries. Below, a small, lone trawler putters out of the harbour at the start of its nightly excursion; nets cast, harvesting life indiscriminately so that others may happily gain sustenance. The fate of each individual fish caught this night is to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, to not even understand its part in the grander scheme, but ultimately just accept a thread unravelled to its end and the grim accident of happenstance. This is the way of things.

So tired, now. Bersheba has stopped talking.
She sits inches away from me, waiting.

Bersheba is smiling.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Contract

The air felt thick as the hunter looked down from the hotel rooftop.

Absolute bedlam.

Good.

That should simplify things. It would certainly delay any organised reaction to the job at hand, making it easier for her to vacate the scene afterward.

The funfair in the street below was in full swing. The crush of colour and noise was overwhelming as the normally reserved and well-respected city played annual host to two days of strobe-lit, late night chaos. Revellers weaved their way between the attractions, awed and excited by the transformation which surrounded them. No alcohol was being served at the packed stalls, but the surrounding pubs, bars and cafes made this unnecessary. And who cared? Drunk people spent more money while paying less attention.

Even at this height, the smell that drifted up between the buildings was a cloying cocktail of stale hotdogs, overheated electrics and old mechanical lubricant. Pounding music filled any gaps between. She recognised Bananarama’s cover of Venus rattling speaker casings that adorned every striped awning. This was suitable enough for its use as a soundtrack to pulsating rides, but belied the age of either the Carnival Master who’d chosen it, or the box of CDs that travelled with the fair from town to town. The song vied for attention with the intermittent squealing of questionably maintained machines, and the heightened shrieks of the youngsters crammed into them. The song was winning, but only by virtue of being the one whose volume was controlled by a slider.

She'd opted for the crossbow to minimise the risk of being detected by the noise a rifle would make, but now realised that other would probably have been covered just as well, certainly at street level. The auditory payoff was the crossbow's slight drop in accuracy of course, but from this distance that would be negligible. All she had to do now was find the needle in this haystack that was her target and wait for him to pass beneath. Her gaze kept a roving eye on the main thoroughfare as it cycled between the three burger vans in attendance. He'd be drawn to one of those like a fly to shit.

There wasn't long to wait. Rick Astley was in his second verse of earnestly assuring that he was never going to give you up when the target shambled his way to the filthy fast food outlet in the centre of the fair, apparently alone and barging blithely to the front of the short queue and slapping his fat wallet down onto the stainless steel counter that folded out from the side of the van. A baggy, cream-coloured linen suit hung badly from a frame which was as wide as it was tall, topped by unkempt black hair and a scowling, pockmarked face. Dressed as a bad comic book villain, just like the photos she'd been shown, except she suddenly disliked him even more.

Now, it didn't do to be curious in this line of work. If you want to get to know strangers, train to become a psychiatrist. The why of each task here was rarely as important as the how. With a more high-profile assignment the reasons for termination may already be known, and on occasion the one holding the money actively wanted to explain their motivations, justifying the job to themselves as much as the contractor. But as a rule, finding out more about a previously 'blank' target could only complicate matters. The client for this particular case had been professional enough only to offer a price, and all the details necessary for earning that. Precisely how it should be.

It was overhearing a conversation in a grimy bar the next day (in all actuality, performing reconnaissance work for another job) that the reason for this hit became apparent. The target was in possession of a book. That simple fact in itself was enough to warrant, on this occasion, his death. Not her place to judge, this made little difference. She'd certainly killed people for far less. The item in question was a very old, very expensive, and by all accounts very sacred - even powerful - book. But the job was not to locate, acquire or retrieve the tome, it was only to take out the target. Precisely how it should be.

What complicated matters right how was that she'd be willing to bet half of her fee that she was looking at the same book. The target had flopped it down onto the greasy counter next to his wallet as he reached for the salt in anticipation of the order he was greedily barking at the vendor. Not quite as impressive as the gossip had made it out to be, the book was around six inches by eight, an inch and a half thick, and with antique leather wraparound reinforcements over a mottled, damp, pale cover. It looked like it should be sympathetically lit on a velvet cushion in a museum, although she suspected that until recently it probably had been. But the brazen, haphazard way the target treated this priceless artefact, laying it carelessly aside - along with his own wallet, no less - suggested that this slob was either incredibly stupid, or incredibly powerful. Odd that she didn't already know him by reputation. He was almost taunting someone, anyone, to steal what he professed not to care about. But it wasn't the items on the ketchup-stained counter which were about to be taken from him.

And that was the real problem. She had a clear shot, and the target seemed in no hurry to leave. But if she acted now, the book would be left exposed on the burger van's counter, and could easily disappear in the ensuing chaos. But so what? The hunter had absolutely no intention of moving down to the scene of her sanctioned murder to retrieve this curio. Since she didn't officially know of its existence or significance, she could hardly present it to the client as a clumsy hint for bonus payment. And keeping the book as a memento would certainly be idiocy, given what was about to happen to its current custodian. No, she had the matchbook from the hotel reception for that. But by the same token, if the book were to be removed from the scene by someone else, would this anger the client? Ultimately, she'd be responsible in that chain of events. No one was looking to lift the item at present, but that was because the target was still breathing (albeit raspingly, his posture really was appalling). Once he went down, all bets were almost certainly off.

But then, perhaps this was the client's plan? Maybe the client knew that this oaf would never let the book out of his sight, and the best way to recover it was to have him taken out in a public space while other operatives hovered at ground-level, ready to opportunistically swoop in and complete the job? As long as no one else takes the guy's wallet, nothing should look too amiss when the authorities arrive. Well, no more amiss than a public assassination usually would. She had no doubt the police would instantly know the target's identity. But organising a hit-and-run would have been easier, surely? Although that ran the risk of damaging the book, of course. And in that case, she wouldn't be being paid to be a part of the plan.

The job wasn't supposed to be this convoluted. Fuck it. She wasn't paid to worry about the book. Hell, she wasn't paid to know about the book. She took a long blink, exhaled and squeezed the trigger. Just over a second later, the target jolted silently forward and smashed into the open side of the van, a spray of blood erupting from his chest and catching the glistening white polystyrene carton being handed to him. Shock was instant, the queue gasped and distanced themselves from the event. People surrounding noticed the reaction of the onlookers before the one person who had caused it. The target bounced back dully and collapsed on his back, twitching. She re-aimed and placed another shot, at his head this time. One second and the job was done. Dead, and covered in chips. Precisely how it should be.

Simply Red were explaining how they love the thought of coming home to you, although they were losing that battle against the rising screams now.

She drew back slightly on the rangefinder and refocused. The book was already gone.
In its place was a framed photograph. She zoomed in, refocused.

It was a framed photograph of her.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.