ellyssian | Entries tagged with suspense

The Thirteenth Apostle
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt

It is time.

They will come for me now, I, the murderer, the taker of life.

Eyes open, ceiling above. Dark stone, so cold. It has sung to me these last many nights. A song of despair, of blood chilled, and blood let. This stone I cherish. It is the only thing I might touch that is real. That is solid. To stand upon the bed, to touch it with the portions of flesh exposed by these maniacal torture devices – these cursed gloves! My hands end in fingers, five to each, like any man. See you no talons here! These gloves are my burden, one of many, that I must bear, I, the murderer, the taker of life.

I, the murderer!

Fist formed tight as allowed under constraint, hitting the bed, the loose fluff, so insubstantial that I might not use it to end my life before they take it from me.

I, the taker of life!

I have hurt no one.

This is not happening. It is a dream, and soon, like from all dreams, I'll awake. Everything will be as it always was. Life normal, boring even. Ahh, I am in my bed. In my house. Asleep.

The pinch to wake will not function. Can not. Hands bound, fingers padded. The walls, padded. The bars, padded. Am I that horrible? No, it is not me. Was not me. Never me. In the trial I protested, screamed for mercy, have you no mercy for an innocent man? Have you no mercy! But... they said it was me! Me? Had to be me, insurmountable evidence. My very own hands that – these same guarded claws that...

The crime most horrible! How can any man stoop to such a level, such a depth!

Oh, I cried when they said all the damages that had been done, all the violence, the rending of life! The splashings and crashings and gnashings!

Oh, I cried!

I pleaded for them to find this evil man, this anomaly of humanity so base as to perform such deeds as they had listed in the lengthy prelude to this terrible drama. Each worse than the last. Each causing cries of remorse to ring out. Cries of anger to rise from the audience. To hear the sounds of sickness when evidence was presented was too much for me to bear! Find this taker of lives, this destroyer of all that is sacred.

They said they had.

And I looked around, to seek out this wretched soul. To find him among the number present in the courtroom.

And all were looking at me.

No, this is madness!

You can read the complete story in my collection, Cautionary Fables: Warts & All, available on Amazon.com or by order from your local bookseller.

Of the Leaves and of the Waves
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt

The following manuscript was pieced together from a large number of copies found strewn across the library steps. Someone had attempted to destroy the papers in an ash fire, but they somehow escaped extensive damages in part from the flames, and almost wholly free from ruin from the rains that extinguished them. Sadly, the author's name did not survive on any of the copies...

I am of the leaves, and she was of the waves.

They did not believe me, and they did not understand me. They talk of listening and they talk of hearing and they expound on the differences, and they straighten the diplomas on their walls, ever so unsubtly referring to the learned status heaped upon them, but they spend more time talking and speaking, so they do not understand.

Perhaps, now, they will take the time to read this missive. They will not need to hear, nor to listen, only to read and comprehend. I fear even that shall prove elusive, but I shall write this down nonetheless.

To begin with, I did not kill Miss Popularity. I shall call her thusly, and those familiar with the case will know of whom I speak, as it was for her death I faced my meagre sentence in that crawling chaos that is known as a sanatorium. A sanatorium, at least, to those who have never been imprisoned in its soft bindings. To end with, I did not kill Mr Popularity, although I daresay I shall be accused of that, should they ever find a remnant of his body or his flesh, or should he ever be indicated as having been last seen following me to the waves. By choosing to name both of my, pardon me, my alleged victims with the same surname is not entirely by accident, although they are not of relation by blood or marriage. But more of that as I am finally given the freedom of time and am lacking the quickening of their medications to loose my tongue and their gentle chiding and rearranging of what they may call my metaphors or similes, or whatever misuse of the lexicon comes to their feeble minds. For some, truth may not be enough. For others, quite plainly, the truth is far too much.

So how shall I start then, this tale of murders? Of the madness of the murderer? The pathos under which he laboured, blinding his caretakers so that they might think him harmless enough to release? The victims, then? – each well loved by family and community, for they never did no wrong to no one, speaketh the wise in television interviews. That is how this tale will be repeated, as journalists digest and decipher the clues, and juries hang on the words of lawyers and psychologists, and still they are all blind to the truth. I shall begin there: with the truth.

She was of the waves. I am of the leaves.

Metaphors spring to mind. Illusions deceive the minds of the overeducated. Crazy, the falling leaves in some film about walls, they say. I thought her to be a mermaid, beautiful as the ocean itself, and I tried to assist her in returning home, too forcefully for her poor, champion swimmer cheerleader captain lungs. Fanciful illusions, nothing more. I stray. It must be known now that when I say she was of the waves, I do not, for the merest moment, hint that Miss Popularity was of the waves. I think, at this early juncture in my narrative this must be understood. I know, without exception, that no one, no matter how many overpriced hours they may sit and pretend to listen and sketch doodles mindlessly in their little notebooks, daydreaming of Freud and his fallacious fancies, has passed this point successfully with truth in hand, mind, or body. This must be understood. Still I stray.

I am of the leaves, she was of the waves.

I did not know this at first.

I thought she was of the leaves.

The Photographer
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt

There was no questioning the man's talent as a photographer, as an artist; equally, there was no doubt as to the depths of his eccentricities.

You could gather up all those who had known him in life, whether superficial acquaintances or those with more familiarity than is comfortable in polite company, and not one would offer up an oh-so-common eulogy: not one would describe him as a good man, a good father, or any number of other bland or superfluously grand benedictions.

He was a man, although some refuse to think of him as thus, for whether or not there are monsters walking this kind Earth and threatening us as we go about our existence, there was at least one who breathed who was monstrous beyond belief.

We are currently working to unlock more of his secrets - his lair, if you will, cast in a vault of concrete, with no apparent method of access, save for that of a mouse crawling through the copious air shafts. We expect to find horrors - nightmares and visions already plague the work crew, but I lead a dedicated group of volunteers who would - and, it seems, must - dig to the far ends of the world to bring to light what has lain in darkness for too long.

Many of them are parents, my volunteers, parents who once had one or more child than they do at the present time, and their cause is hope - hope, or, at the least, knowing. For that sense of closure, they work long hours, puzzling over the mysteries left behind.

And why do I remain here? Why am I so intent on this goal that I donate immense amounts of my own time, despite that it takes me from my regular practice and from my dear family? Those questions can be answered almost wholly with a similar reply to that which my entire crew will give: I am a father. No, the question you want to ask, but are somewhat afraid to, is: why are the authorities allowing me here, let alone investing me as a leader in this effort, when it is I who killed the man with my bare hands?

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The Elysian Fields

The Thirteenth Apostle

Of the Leaves and of the Waves

The Photographer

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