She whispered my name as I plucked the low E string. I then strummed across all six strings, my head spinning, a bottle of aspirin next to the bed. Strum and pluck, there was no melody nor harmony, only a random dance across the fretboard. I was too disoriented to play anything coherent, too confused to walk in key.
“Play the damn song.”
“No,” I answered. “I’d rather not.”
My girlfriend leapt out of bed and ran out of the room.
I was in a hypnotic state. The notes reverberated longer than normal; they never seemed to dissipate, constantly melding together with previous notes from an earlier time, creating a soothing monastic hum. The past lingering, the present fading.
I was aroused by the smell of bacon. I placed my guitar to the side and got up out of bed. My mom was standing at the stove, wearing her bright yellow nightgown.
“I know it’s late, but I had a hankering for some bacon. Do you want some?”
“Sure.”
“I saw Maria stomp out of here. She didn’t even say goodbye. You and her not getting along?”
“I guess.”
“Well, you’re gonna lose that girl if you don’t start treating her right.”
“We’ll be fine.”
I devoured some bacon and stepped outside on the front porch. I sat down on the swing and looked across the street. I could still see the large green dot painted on the side of the English Tudor house. The house was abandoned but not dilapidated. It retained its idyllic charm. The street light next to the house kept the dot illuminated.
The dot had appeared two months ago. It was an affront to the beauty of the home. At first, I thought someone had vandalized the home, but as I became keener of its subtle characteristics, I could perceive that there was more depth there than what a can of spray paint could provide. If I stared intently, the edges would begin to pulsate and move about in a circle.
I attributed the phenomenon to an illusion exacerbated by stress and obsession. My obsession was created by the fact that no one else could see the green dot.
“Mom, did you see what someone has done to the house across the street,” I had asked when it first appeared.
“No.”
“You don’t see the green dot?”
“What, who did that?” She walked outside. “I don’t see anything. Someone must’ve cleaned it off.”
But I could still see it. It hadn’t been erased. It existed with an appalling reality. I never mentioned it again to my mother. I did ask several other people, but they were just as ignorant as my mother of the dot’s existence.
Then one day, while smoking a cigarette, and leaning up against the porch column, I watched as a man stepped out of the green dot. At first, he was as green as the dot itself, but then the green faded and the blackness of his suit and the greyness of his skin became apparent. He wore a ridiculous straw boater hat with a red band and a long matching red tie. Mrs. Davis, our neighbor, oblivious to his existence, walked past him on the sidewalk, carrying a bag of groceries. He grabbed her from behind, clasping his forearm around her neck. She gasped for air and tried to scream, but all that came out of her mouth was a pitiful low yelp. Eggs and milk spilled out onto the pavement.
The man effortlessly dragged her from the sidewalk and into the green dot. As they entered the dot, the green surface extended out from the building and enveloped the rest of her body.
Three days went by before anyone began to enquire about Mrs. Davis. The news broadcast the story and informed the public of her last known whereabouts and put forth pertinent questions. Where was Elayna Davis? What had happened to her? Her husband was pleading with the public to keep an eye out for her. The police did the same. In a short time, they found her groceries and canvassed the neighborhood.
I knew where Mrs. Davis was. She was in the green dot painted on the side of an empty, modest middle-class home, but who would believe me.
The home became a crime scene, with police tape strung across the side yard where her groceries had been found. The neighbors circled about gossiping and theorizing about what had happened. Later that day, a detective knocked on our door and asked to speak specifically to me.
“Did you hear anything or notice anything suspicious?”
“No sir,” I answered.
“What about the groceries? You didn’t notice?” His tone was incredulous.
“No sir. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Hmm. Well, if you think of anything give us a call.” He handed me a card with his name and number.
I was surprised at the brevity of the interview. A month passed. The tape was never taken down. It simply fell to the ground, forsaken and of little use.
Roused from my memories by the guilt I was feeling for treating Maria with such disdain, I took out my phone and called her.
“Hello,” a man answered.
“Who is this?”
“Who’s this?”
“Where’s Maria?”
“She’s in the green with me. I’m playing her favorite song.” The phone went silent.
I put my phone in my pocket and walked across the street. As I advanced toward the dot, my body temperature dropped. I started to shiver, and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. It was a moonless humid night, heavy rainclouds reflecting the city lights from below. The dot was shaded with a disagreeable orange hue from the streetlamp. I thought I heard a murmur, as if two people were talking behind closed doors, but then I recognized it as a continuous dark tone, a resonating low E.
Rain began to fall. It was in the middle of April, yet the rain that fell in close proximity to the dot, froze and fell to the ground as snow. Some of the snow disappeared into the dot. I reached out my hand and placed it on the wall. It was frigid, and solid.
My phone rang.
“Hello.”
“You’re not allowed to go that way. Come around the front.”
“Where is Maria? Is she alright?”
“She’s fine, quite agreeable, not at all like poor Mrs. Davis.”
“Don’t hurt her!”
“Then do as I say. Shut your sauce box and come into the house.”
I walked around to the front of the house. The door was ajar. I hesitated, listening for any kind of movement. I imagined he was behind the door. The rain was coming down harder, spilling into the interior of the house. From the sound I deduced that the floors were barren. I could hear the echo of the wooden planks.
“Come on in you flapdoodle and make yourself at home.” His voice was low and raspy. I turned and ran back to my house.
My clothes were heavy and wet. I quickly got undressed, found a dry shirt and a pair of shorts, put them on and climbed into bed.
She’s alright. I’ll call her in the morning, and she’ll answer, ready to come over and hear me play her favorite song. She’s fine, at home, sleeping.
After much deliberation with myself, I fell asleep.
I heard the sound of a guitar string being plucked repeatedly, a low mocking E, tormenting my soul. I dared not to look, but it grew louder, working to a crescendo slapping hard against the soundboard. I flipped on the light. The sound stopped. The guitar was on its stand, the strings motionless and quiet as if it had never been played, a virgin untouched by dancing fingers. I got up and took the guitar off the stand and laid it face down on the floor, hoping to mute the haunting melody.
That morning my mom woke me up. I had slept through the alarm.
“Hey, you overslept. You’re late for school. Are you sick?” I nodded my head yes.
“Ok, well just stay home.” She went to leave the room but then abruptly turned around.
‘Oh, and have you talked to Maria? Her parents said she never came home.”
My heart jumped; my palms sweated. I was brimming with panic. “She might have gone over to Michelle’s. I haven’t heard from her since she left last night.”
“I gotta get to work. Surely, she’s ok. Call me and let me know.”
I heard my mom start the car and drive off. I got out of bed and changed clothes. I hurried across the street and went to the front door. It was still opened. I could see a ray of light coming through the kitchen window in the back. There lying on the floor was a body with its head covered in a burlap bag. I bounced up the steps and went inside. The door slammed shut behind me. I knelt down next to the body.
“Maria?” I shook her by the shoulder, but I knew it wasn’t her. I noticed she was shorter than Maria. I flung off the bag and tossed it across the living room floor. Mrs. Davis’ white hair was matted with dried blood. The back of her skull was collapsed, traumatic indications of a violent attack with some heavy blunt object.
I heard a laugh. “Isn’t it a shame. I tried to calm her down. She was a church bell, ringing and wailing. I had to do it.”
The man was standing in the doorway, leading from the living room to the kitchen, still wearing his odd attire, with his straw hat tilted to one side. His skin was ashen grey. His eyes were deep set emeralds, with no pupils.
“Follow me,” he commanded.
He turned and disappeared behind the living room wall. I followed him into the kitchen. He opened a door at the far end of the kitchen and walked through it. There was a set of stairs, enclosed by dark mahogany paneling that descended to a red ceramic tile landing and then bent behind another wall. I made my way down the stairs to the first landing, only to see yet another set of stairs leading to yet another landing. I descended at least ten flights of stairs, all of them the same. I would catch a glimpse of my guide every now and then, but he always eluded me. Maybe, in truth, I purposely stayed at a slower pace, doing my best to avoid the murderous creature. Yet, I was afraid to lose his presence, in case I were to get lost. I know there was only one path, but for some reason I had a sinking feeling that I was hopelessly lost.
I descended more and more stairs. It was maddening and I suddenly had the urge to turn and run back up the stairs. As I turned to make my escape, I bumped into the grey man. There was an immediate shot of pain and chill that ran through my spine.
“Almost there my friend.”
I turned around to see a large red door at the bottom of the stairs. There were two large blue glass figurines affixed to the wall on each side of the door. One was a woman, and the other was a man, and both were holding lit candles.
I grabbed the doorknob. A vision of Mrs. Davis’s murder flashed through my mind. The grey man grinning and laughing, having a jolly good time with a large ball-peen hammer.
I pushed open the door. The entire room was painted green, including the furniture. There was elaborate cornice moulding running across the top of the room, interspersed with grotesque human faces writhing in pain. The ceiling was high and slanting. There was a chandelier that spread out the breadth of the room hanging from a massive steel chain. The branches, which were many, looked like human arms with upturned palms. A tongue of fire was gently flickering in each hand. Under the chandelier was a lectern with an open book on top.
“Where’s Maria?”
The man lifted his hand and pointed to my left. Hanging on the wall was an immense mirror, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Just like the rest of the room, the surface was tinted green. Maria was inside the mirror yelling for help, but I couldn’t hear her voice. I could only see her agitated expressions.
“Sign the book and she’ll be free,” the man said.
“What am I agreeing to? Selling my soul.”
“No, someone sold that years ago.”
I walked up to the lectern. The pages were filled with names; no other writing, no terms or conditions I could read to figure out what I was getting myself into. The scarlet ink was the only thing in the room, besides me, the man, and Maria, that wasn’t green. I picked up the quill pen. There was no bottle of ink. I turned to enquire about the ink when the grey man grabbed my wrist and slashed my forearm with a knife. He forced my arm over the lectern and twisted my wrist until the blood dripped out onto the surface of lectern. When enough blood had pooled about to be useful, the grey man released my arm.
I dipped the pen in the blood and signed my name. On a whim, I grabbed the cover and flipped it over.
Deus Parricidii, was stamped on the cover.
“Latin, the God of Murder.”
I heard the mirror shatter and a million shards fall to the floor. I heard Maria scream. My skin was agitated, an insatiable itch spread throughout my body, and then there was a burning. My skin turned grey and tightened against my bones. Two of my molars, one on each side, grew into large sharp points and cut through my cheeks. I felt the protrusions growing, my head growing heavier, my gums bled. It was as if a dentist was pulling out my teeth with no anesthesia. The nerves in my jaw were excited with a continuous jolt of pain. My neck strained with the added weight. Every muscle in my body was cramping.
I walked over to where the mirror lay scattered across the floor. My image reflected across a mosaic of broken glass, a man turned grey and emaciated with emerald green eyes and boar-like tusks growing out through his cheeks and curling outwards towards from his face.
“Now, time for a sacrifice and you’ll be a god and I’ll be free. The pain will go away for a little while and then, you’ll need another sacrifice.”
The grey man was no longer grey. His skin looked healthy and young. He was dragging Maria across the floor by her arms. I could see her mouth moving, but even though she was freed from the mirror, I still could not hear her voice.
I felt a sudden murderous rage. I wanted to kill, to annihilate life. My entire body was now in pain. There wasn’t a spot of relief anywhere throughout my flesh. All was pain and all was hate. Painful lacerations slashed across my forearms by some unseen assailant.
The man dragged Maria over to my feet and violently shoved her head to the ground.
“You want to stop the pain? You got to kill someone you old wet sock.”
There was so much pain, an overwhelming sense of foreboding and madness. I felt like I had been thrown off a cliff and set on fire.
I looked at Maria. I lifted my hands up in front of my eyes. My knuckles were hairy and my nails long and sharp. Between my hands I saw the man laughing and taunting Maria. I clasped my gigantic hands around his head and began to squeeze. He didn’t struggle or try to escape. He smiled. I only meant to break his neck, but I hadn’t realized the strength I had come to possess. When I twisted, I heard the bones in his vertebrae crack; his head hung loose staring down his back. I let go of his limp body and let it fall to the floor.
Immediately the pain in my body subsided. I felt a warm soothing relief. Maria ran over and hugged me.
“Are you alright?” she asked. “Is it over?”
At that point a hidden door swung open to the outside world. I could see my house across the street. We quickly ran out the door. It slammed shut behind us. I looked back and realized it was the exterior wall where the dot had once been.
“We can’t go in the house with me looking like this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I look like a demon, a monster,” I explained.
Maria gave me a quizzical look. “What? You’re just rattled… shocked. You look like you always look, except a little pale.”
Maria stayed with me that night, worried for me. She didn’t recall anything. She was perplexed to learn that she had been kidnapped. The more we walked away from that house, the less she remembered.
The next morning, I was awoken by Maria shaking me and requesting I play her favorite song. She was rapidly strumming the low E which now sounded like a low D flat. The pitch of her voice was deeper than normal, and she spoke in a long drawl. I could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, but it didn’t have the savory aroma one would usually wake up to. It smelled like my mom was cooking rotted roadkill, burnt hair and all- the entire carcass slung up on the stove. I started to feel the same pain I felt the day before, but now more intense. I opened my eyes to see that my entire room, including Maria, was tinted green.