Victor Hauspar 2/16

February 16^th
Victor Hauspar

I cannot rightly remember all of the proper steps I took that lead me to the doorstep of this abominable structure. I remember the book, first of all. No. To be correct, I remember my childhood first of all. So many years of meaningless travel race beyond my eyes when I think of that time so long gone. Meaningless in that they no longer have any bearing, however, ‘meaningless’ is a word used incorrectly. Those long vanished years prepared me for the life that yet remains. I learned then those most valuable lessons. Critical thinking, serenity before faceless oblivion, problem solving, and even diplomacy were the things taught to me in my youth.Most of these lessons I can directly place at the feet of my father. I unintentionally shudder when I attempt to recall his face. I fear to know why, however.

My father traveled the world, and had a great collection of artifacts from every unknown corner of the globe. Hideous and provocative, his tokens of the various cultures he visited brought great interest to my youthful mind. I first saw them as toys, but with an ice chill do I recall the pain that taught me otherwise. I was not to touch his trophies and fetishes, he left me with the tomes. He could not read them, you see, and he trusted my youth to soak the knowledge, even if I could not understand it myself. As my memory tells me, he would often remind me, that faceless shadow in my mind, that I was to be a repository. When we found one who could decipher the ancient and enigmatic runes I committed to memory, the whole collection was to be translated.

Through my mind’s eye, I recall little else of any substance. As though the fine threads of a dream long dead or dying is all I have connecting that childhood with my current state.Perhaps it is an effect of the lithium or the opiates. Perhaps it is a defense. Perhaps the nightmares that visit me waking and dreaming are in truth the journey that led me to the brink of oblivion. At times, between the false lethargic peace and the waking horrors of my broken mind, the veil lifts. In these fleeting minutes, I feel the bare threads of my mind fatten with recollection. Only in these rare moments am I able to see the road in the darkness. However, it is these times when the road behind me is once again clear that I am most frightened, for only in these moments can I be certain of what is real and what is not. It is only when I am aware of my lucidity that the terrors beyond can truly feed upon the fear within me.

I must tread lightly. The more I focus upon those terrible visions, eyes and teeth, the harder it becomes to maintain my memory. If only you could know the visions, if they spoke to you instead. I would sit across this table. I would calmly write words! I would rest in haughty skepticism! I would… I… I am sorry. As was said, it takes a great deal to hide from them. I am alright. As I sit upon the precipice, I feel my legs dangling over the edge. Terrible and glorious, it is. If I were to descend now, however, you would not listen to my tale. So I will remain, whilst I am able. I can recall some of the past, if you wish.

Between a childhood spent traveling across every derelict and unknown culture and a life in chains and a fountain of madness, there were several decades. Unfortunate, then, that no one can recall them but one you must wrap in such cruel bindings. As was said, I recall little from those young days, despite them being the things I most desire to remember. In the distant memory fogged by madness and lithium, I can see my father. He sits with old, brown men. There is a fire, and some kind of meat.

I have been told on no less than three occasions that I traveled to the ancient temples in the deep, enigmatic east. I know that we wandered the tribes of the Amazon and the modern ancestors of the vile brutes of the Central American bridge. The recollection of such travels I feel clawing at my mind like some spiteful gaunt, tearing its way out of the depths of the great abyss.Oh, their cries! Years of travel locked away! The keys! The words! They will! They must!They… I … I cannot. I am still here. Oh, my time is yet still shorter. I may continue, if you have ceased your scribbling. In the fog I see they had given me a tome of some kind. I was “reading” it, to the best of my ability. My father was watching their rituals, and attempting to bargain for several devices and the very book he begged to impart into my own mind. My memory fails me at this image; for it is here that that damnable book fills my eyes. I cannot recall if I turned my eyes from the visage of those ancient shamans or if my eyes were turned to the tome by some sinister force.

Just as my memories of my father’s torrid negotiations are faded and shadowed in the firelight, each arcane letter in that cursed tome is forever creased into the fabric of my tenuous sanity. I can feel its weight in my hands, even now. I can see each line and curve. Each geometric simplicity that lapped at my eyes, searing each detail into a memory bereft of all else. It is more than that. More than the simple lines and strokes combined to form a sort of primitive, perverse writing. The texture, the structure, even what supposed to be grammar was an affront to civilized reality, and each detail is complete and unforgettable. The letters were not scribed, pressed, or inked. They appeared to be some kind of change in the substance upon which they were wrought. Dare I say, the immortal grimoire was a thing of flesh and bone. The beast, as it were, was burned and blistered with writing in a tongue I could not comprehend. It was branded with a script and arithmetic now forever etched into my own eyes.

That, after all, was why my father brought me to that forsaken place. My impeccable memory, as had been predicted by my youth and exercised to perfection, made me a master at copying ancient texts. My comprehension remained independent of my remembrance. Alas, it may be too late in the evening. As the day gives way into night, so too does my lucidity wane into lunacy. You see, the grimoire’s ilk, its masters and brethren, seek those touched by the grotesque. The cries and claws... they screech louder and closer as I reminisce. They come from within. From within me! I feel them struggle and claw!

The book called to me then, as it does now, a babbling nightmare. I can still see it! I feel its warmth! Can you not smell the singed skin?! It calls! By all the blasphemies that gurgle and curse in their death, I can hear the pages! A legion in unison, the cries of the damned shaman and their filth! FLTH S’DNUG GIZNATHUL! THE KEYS! THE KEYS! Grunfultd, and Ky-ii. The keys! Eyes and teeth, NO! They come! Can you not feel it? So much blood! So much blood!

Too early to tell

I

Just south of the Ohio, Interstate Four snakes its way among the ridges and hollers connecting Grayson and Greenup. Along the way the road’s winding reveals travelers a new landscape around every twist, tucking fragrant fields of lush tobacco soaked in sun between tree-studded hollers laden with shadows. Folks familiar with the bends command the roads wider than their lanes and drive as fast as they are brave…or foolhardy. Less frequent visitors are deliberately unhurried, equally slowed by the vibrant visage and the overwhelming desire to keep four tires on the winding pavement.
In the early hours of a July dawn, a dark van slowed to sidle half way through a particularly tricky turn that climbs the crest of an embankment before turning away and sinking to the belly of a tree flanked valley. The van’s side door swung open as it neared the sharpest point of the curve, exposing a rusty drum that was immediately sent skidding off the pavement then tumbling down the steep grade deeper into the foliage. Revving its engine, the van sped out of the turn and disappeared, skidding around the next crook in Four’s folds. Meanwhile the discarded barrel continued its slaloming careen before crashing into an ancient stone wall barely visible from the road.
Beyond the wall, tucked amongst the overgrowth, I watched my newest project from behind a grime choked window. I took a moment, and then stepped to the porch of the low-roofed cabin that hadn’t seen sunlight or a paintbrush since before my time. I silently lit a cigarette, gazing in the direction of the road and the latest delivery. It occurred to me that I had spent four years living in this rugged patch tucked beneath ridges between Grayson and Greenup and I was actually growing fond of my surroundings. The whimsical thoughts subsided with the growing glow of day and I flicked my cherry, and tossed the butt into the fading Folger’s can resting beneath the same dirt soaked window. I took one last glance toward the road and went inside. Work would wait, breakfast was on.

II

I emerged from my rustic abode for a post porridge smoke and let the screen door slam behind me. My bear of a partner was still snoring inside, and would have a tantrum if he knew I’d let him sleep while a new project had sat outside for over an hour. The sun had risen, nearing its peak but only a few slim rays penetrated the thick forest and found their way to the porch while I enjoyed the late morning in silence.
It wouldn’t be long before Nial awoke; he always had a keen sense of when there was work to be done. I would catch some shit for not telling him immediately after our newest barrel had come crashing through the trees to its resting spot a few hundred feet away, but I needed the morning to clear my thoughts and prepare for the craze that was sure to come. I took a deep breath and listened to the silence as I slowly paced and thought about how I’d gotten to this point.
It hadn’t always been this bad. I used to enjoy the work. It used to please me to complete a project successfully and it excited me to wait for the next challenge to arrive. Now I dreaded the days that a new assignment was tossed into our yard like caustic litter. I felt a sense of impending doom every day that a new drop-off loomed. It was no coincidence that I lost my passion for the job as my partner’s enthusiasm grew. No accident that as the eagerness with which he dove into each new project grew my disgust for my job and my bosses and my profession as a whole began to dwindle. There used to be an art –a finesse—to my line of work. Now it was just one big bloody mess.


III

I awoke to the stale stink of cigarettes and the sound of my partner’s insistent pacing coming in from the porch. My temples throbbed and my tongue felt like it was wearing a sour sock. I needed a cup of coffee and a piss. I would have to ask Sam why he had neglected to wake me when our package had been delivered.
I stumbled from the john and brought my self to rest against the counter in front of the coffee machine and cursed at the little light that somehow made it through the trees and all the filth that clung to the windows. I could hear Sam breathing through the doorway, but didn’t look his way. I had grown sick of his face over the past few projects and knew eying him now would wind up hurting us both.
“You look like hell,” he finally exhaled. Just the sound of his voice made me want to scream.
“I feel like it,” I growled, “Why in the hell didn’t you wake me when the new package came in?” The only time he paced and whispered was when something had come down the hill. It pissed me off that he had kept it from me, because he knew the first day was my favorite day. He knew that most of the pleasure I derived from this work came with my day-one rituals.
I bolted the mug of coffee and pushed past him onto the porch. The smell of the day brightened me. The prospect of work to come invigorated me more than the grainy coffee had, and I actually smiled. I felt Sam slinking out behind me and my grin quickly subsided.
“I thought that with the way you were carrying on last night that you would appreciate a little extra sleep. That you could benefit from getting all your strength. And besides it’s barely been an hour,” he muttered after a short silence.
“I could give two shits ‘bout what you think, Sam,” I nearly shouted. I regained my composure, figuring it would be best to save my anger for what ever slime had been delivered this morning. I took a breath and stared off in the direction of our ancient wall and the barrel resting on the other side.
“I’m ready now,” I said, and grabbed my pry bar from its nail next to the door. We stepped off the porch and headed, without words, toward our newest project. I waded through the brush across what constituted our yard with Sam on my heels. As we closed in on the ragged wall that outlined our yard my heart rate quickened, this was my favorite time of the month.
I made my way around the stone hedge and the rusty drum, on its side, came into view. I quickly stalked to the ground where it rested and knocked fiercely on the lid.
“Anyone home?” I grunted. There was no sound. I kicked the barrel, and hefted it upright. I knocked once more and again, there was not reply.
“Shit,” I said, turning to Sam. “I hope he ain’t dead.” Sam looked translucent – like he always did on the first day – and mumbled something about DOA being implausible, but I was already turned around and had begun cranking away at the stubborn lid. DOA was highly unlikely, but if this son-of-a-bitch was dead already Sam would get an eye full for not waking me up when the package was ripe.
I finally jimmied the lid of the drum and tossed it at Sam. He never helped getting the package open, but he always wanted first dibs on that little envelope. He pawed at it while I peered inside. Their stories never impressed me much, that was his job. Mine was to introduce them to their new surroundings and make them wish they had never visited.


IV?

I hadn’t been wrong about Nial being upset with me for letting him sleep in, but I had enjoyed my time with out him. He had dropped the subject rather quickly though, and I knew that we would be in for a long morning. He was more than likely reserving his anger and hatred for our newest project. That was a minor relief for me, but would prove to bode poorly for our newly acquired friend.
He had recently began drawing an unhealthy pleasure from our job and it worried me that some of his aggressive behavior would spill out into the real world. I had always imagined that I would have a life after I retired, but it was getting harder and harder to picture my partner interacting with society if he ever attempted to live a life outside of our confined cabin. It was best that most of society was unaware to my existence, and it would be best if they never found out about Nial’s.
As he peered in on our newest project I tore open the package that was attached to the lid of every barrel that came crashing down our hill. The envelope contained all the information deemed pertinent to aid our attempts in gleaning information. I’m not sure that Nial had ever found a use for the envelopes. He had his own methods of extracting information from people, usually between their sobs and screams.

Attempted action scene

October 24th 1878, perhaps 7pm

“Now watch, boy. When this is finished, you can go home.” Bill spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice strong and unwavering. Impatience rode his words, and calm anger propelled them, gave them strength. His stare burrowed into the young man’s eyes from under that ragged leather hat. Turning his attention to his opponent, Bill nodded his head.

Down the road, perhaps 50 meters, his opponent stood ready. Leaning into the slight breeze, his bared teeth held a lit cigarette in a death grip. A colorful, dirty sash drifted lazily behind him, mimicking the trail of smoke from his mouth. His hands rested atop the handles of his pistols, one on each hip. His grin split his face into a twisted mockery of a smile. Poised to draw and fire at any moment, he waited for Bill to take up his own stance.

"Are you gonna draw, or am I gonna just cut you down now?” Bill’s voice was gravel. His stern calm broke into a more directly angered glare. His opponent raised an eyebrow. He grunted, and his hands barely seemed to move. In an instant, the pistols were pointing forward and firing. Each shot exploded like thunder, and the clap was punctuated with a white flash. Bill’s motions were untraceable. The first bullet was cut from the air in a smooth, instantaneous arc. The second was lightly side-stepped. After only a few shots, the gunslinger stopped. He swallowed, clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes.

His sneer returned and he raised his pistols again, “I guess I’ll get to do more than just shoot ya.” Again the thunder rolled from his shined steel hammers. This time, Bill began zig-zagging up to his opponent. Again, his movements were inhumanly fast. The gunslinger started backing up, but Bill was too fast for him. Two more deflected bullets, and it was too late. The gunslinger leapt back, Bill was already airborne.

One last thunder clap, and an arc of pure white. Bill stood for a moment, finally leaving his sword visible for more than a single stroke. The blade was like ivory, clean and white. Despite nearly bisecting his opponent, it was unblemished by blood. It steamed slightly in the dimming light. He quickly sheathed it and turned to face the fallen gunslinger, revealing blood trailing down his arm.

“You’re pretty damn fast, aren’t ya? Haven’t been grazed in a while, now.” The gunslinger’s eyes were wide and panicking. As they rolled around in his head, he sputtered and convulsed. Blood and spit flung from his gasping mouth, but losing a lung seemed to be making it harder to speak. His pistols were cleaved in half, one on either side of his limp legs. “See you later.” Bill lowered the brim of his hat, turned and walked away.

Something i'm working on...

It'll be here later, but for now, Welcome!

This is a place for me to post my drafts (as the title and description indicate) and gather criticisms and hopefully start to grow as a writer. Also, if you want, i think i can do the whole guest poster thing on here and you all can post your stuff, too, right?

Edit: Yeah, i found the settings, i can totally make this a draft space for anyone who wants to write.

Later all,
-lostinthesauce