The broken wind chime hung from a single rusty nail outside the front door. It struggled to choke out a melody in the night breeze. The old chime had seen many seasons and many other breezes, but as time typically bestows upon the long lived, it now sang a worn and exhausted song. Qulin pushed through the front door which barely hung to its hinges and stepped out onto the front porch. He considered the faulty chime, considered its irritating performance, and snatched the crippled device within his hand. He loathed the possibility that its pathetic and clamoring racket would draw attention to his home. Any bit of attention was the last thing he wanted. Any distraction that pulled him from the thought of his blue halos. They swirled around endlessly in his mind, brilliant and mighty. He dared let himself search for a sense of delight, of hope, though he was clueless as to what either felt like anymore. He'd seen the halos form around the orchids. He was as closer to finishing the elixir as ever. It was just as Cora described in her diary. And soon, he would see her again.
He squeezed the chime snapping the metal clapper as brown flakes of rust fell from his hand. The ridges of his scarred face filled with blood as his furrowed gaze tracked the flickering lone streetlight at the end of his driveway. In the light stood the crooked dead apple tree in his front yard, its lone branch jutted out flagrantly like a judging, bony finger pointing towards his neighbor's impeccable New England colonial—the Hustons.
He hurled the chime towards their yard. It crashed into a mocking heap just under their mailbox.
This morning they had interfered and denied him the one chance to determine what might have caused those wonderful blue halos to blossom from the orchids. His precious and long sought after halos, were right at his fingertips before those nasty Huston kids distracted him with their hysterical and perverse laughter. How it flowed like a raging squall into his yard where he worked. That miserable Huston boy, what was his name?—Mitch, sending barrage after barrage of errant baseballs into his yard with the sole purpose of stoking his anger. It succeeded. Distraction after distraction. Even now, recalling their miserable laughter brought a rush of nausea to his mouth.
Underlying this disdain for neighbors, was a vivid fear of those who lived close by. Qulin, in his many centuries living in Derryton, had known those by your side were the least trustworthy. They were the first to gossip, the first to call you monster. How easily butterflies turn to maggots when the sun disappears. And even after centuries not much had changed. They still whispered about him. Perhaps they had good reason.
His thoughts returned to the blue halos. Who knew if he'd be able to conjure them again. What brought them out? It had all been such a mystery. He stepped over broken planks of the front deck, and made a course toward the mailbox at the tail-end of the driveway. Broken chunks of driveway and dead leaves fell away under his feet leaving a moldy earthy odor. Moonlight bounced off in crooked strands from the splintered roof and broken windows. He reached into the mailbox and pulled out the single piece of mail. The unmistakable town hall insignia—Potter's Bluff with a downward facing sword wrapped in a prickled vine—was stamped in bright red ink in the left corner. He knew what was inside. He'd been warned numerous times by city hall officials regarding the failing conditions of his house. It was unsafe they said. It was in no shape for habitation they said. He somehow knew Mr. Huston had his hand in this. However repairing his house was the last thing on his mind. His hands urged him to tear up the letter then something caught his attention. The FOR SALE sign that had been posted outside the first house in the neighborhood was gone. A sour taste slapped across his mouth—another neighbor. He cursed the four other Colonial style houses on the street. If only he could use his magic. Summon a flood to sweep them all away. Anger seized him. It would be so easy. He whirled towards the sound of the clock striking quarter till midnight coming from his living room. He hurried towards the front door. He had lost track of time ruminating like a fool. With his head down, he burst through the front door and passed the crackling fireplace, keeping his eyes away from the painting above the mantle. He snapped his fingers and a flood of light beamed from the incandescent bulbs hanging from rafters in the basement. With another swirling of his hand, the phonograph needle slid over onto the motionless black LP. A dark and somber piano score drifted from the trumpet horn.
Qulin proceeded to the worktable propped against the far wall. White mice greeted him with a chorus of squeaks and yelps from their cage. He tapped the crossbars, acknowledging their greeting. Four shelves bolted in above the worktable were littered haphazardly with old spell-books, potion formulas, and enchantment ledgers. Mason jars filled with herbs and plants, some with black seeds and others with little blobs of living elements. Stacks of aged books leaned precariously against one another.
He removed a loose brick in the wall. Inside was a hidden compartment. He gently reached in and pulled out Cora's diary and laid it on the table and pulled the white orchid from underneath the table. He sat the flower alongside the diary. The wilted white orchid slumped downward towards the brittle soil, pathetically lifeless.
He cradled the limp bulb in his palm, trying to cast aside the doubt groaning in his head. The same doubt that always emerged from failing to pull forth the halos time and again.
"Cora," he said, touching the edges of the diary. "I'm so close to having you back."
He opened the diary, making sure to pass over the scorched the image of the beast and came to the elixir. He placed a tin examination plate to the center of the table. The plate was equipped with two tiny buckle straps at the top and two at the bottom. The mice went into frenzy. He rapped the top of the cage, murmuring words of encouragement as he opened the gate and snatched up a plump mouse who could scarcely hope to flee the incoming sorcerer's hand. At first the mouse offered a flimsy protest but soon became tranquil, succumbing to its inevitable duty.
"Don't disappoint me like your previous cage-mates." He strapped in the mouse belly-up and pulled the table lamp closer. As always, he followed the instructions from the diary and even though he had each step committed to memory it was a matter of comfort to look upon each line, if only to lay eyes upon Cora's sweet and delicate handwriting. First, he separated the bulb of the orchid from its stem and placed it into a granite mortar. A sparkling substance oozed from the severed plant stem. He collected the ooze with a swab, and spread it in the mortar along with the orchid bulb. He began grounding the contents ferociously with a pestle till nothing remained but a clumpy powder. He reached up to a jar labeled Breath of Toad and opened the lid. A loud croaking sound emanated from the jar, followed by a tiny plume of black smoke. He seized the pungent vapor with an empty baster in one bid and returned the jar to the shelf.
Next, he pointed to a beaker of black tea with a boiled down crow's foot inside. He raised his hand, and the beaker floated from the cabinet, gliding safely onto the table. He popped off the wooden cork, plunged the baster into the tea and aspirated the liquid till the baster was filled. He shook the concoction stopping once he heard the sharp crackling sound emerge from within the baster. He brought the baster up to eye level and was pleased to see the scores of lightning-bolt forms squirming within the fluid.
He released the baster contents into the mortar where the orchid powder was, and began to pulverize the substance till all the sediment was infused and the end result was a turbid, glossy fluid with a fruity aroma. At last, he arrived at the final instruction. The one step that had puzzled him since embarking on this plight to break his curse. It couldn't be surmised as anything short of a cruel riddle: procure the essence of proper innocence.
The series of cryptic words had stumped him. They stood undiscerned mocking his failures. The entire elixir depended on the meaning of this one line. And he couldn't do it.
His eyes shifted from the diary and met the curious gaze of the mouse. Its contorted face reflected doubt. Doubt that its sacrifice would give him what he needed. The caged mice scurried in a frantic manner sensing the climactic moment was near before lining up like tiny spectators to watch their strapped comrade's final moments.
With a syringe, he collected the elixir contents from the mortar while his other hand secured the scalpel. He inhaled deeply, cutting the mouse across its neck and tossed the scalpel aside. Tiny streams of blood flowed down from the laceration. It squirmed for a few moments then fell still.
He quickly placed the bevel of the syringe into the mouse's slackened mouth and discharged the elixir into the specimen and watched. Impatience started to kindle in his feet, as if hot coals were slowly being dragged up his legs. He began to rub the surface of his knees incessantly. Why was there no movement yet from the rodent? Where was the returning life? The resurrection? He pleaded for the slightest sign of life. A little tremor of the legs, a subtle squeak, even a shudder of a whisker would suffice. Another minute passed—and the mouse remained motionless, dead. Qulin shriveled in a familiar despair, the air taking on a sudden flagrant quality of defeat hammering a thousand stabbing knives into his lungs. He began to sob, resenting his lungs for permitting his breath to continue passing through. A vision of Cora's supple, fair face. Her delicate skin. Her blue radiant eyes formed in his mid. This was the way he wanted to remember her. The way he always tried to remember her. The agony of what he had done to her instead ruptured this precious vision into a bloody flame; her smile, melted away till bone. An odious scent of cooking flesh as if he was back again at the pyre.
He rose in a fury, hurled the exam table against the wall knocking the bookshelves down. Broken glass scattered across the basement floor, books laid in splayed heaps. He turned his wrath to the mouse cage and struck it with the back of his hand. The cage crumpled, sending the mice fleeing into the shadows, far away from the fuming sorcerer. He stumbled over to a nearby cabinet, ripped off the doors and grabbed a vial of ricin powder.
He stumbled up the basement stairs and into the corridor. The fire place flames licked the walls of the hallway in an irresistible hunger calling him towards the living room. He entered the desolate living room, his head washed in a blurry daze and approached the soliciting flames. He bit off the cover to the ricin vial spitting it out somewhere into the darkness. The orange and red flames lashed out for a taste, whipping, sneering at his pant legs.
He looked at the oil-painting of the two-headed feline above the fireplace mantle. It gazed down with contempt. The horrible sight, this unforgiving beast. One head covered in black fur, the other head hairless. Inert red stiletto eyes, converging on his wavering form. All sense had left him, he existed as a pathetic orb of a man, with only desperation throbbing through the structure of his hands as he held the vial of ricin. He raised the vial towards the cat painting, as if it would object to the poison.
"Curse you," he screamed and emptied the ricin poison into his mouth, tossing the empty container into the fire. He felt the banal tide of inhale and exhale begin to leave him, a tight grip like a constricting boa wrapped around his torso. His eyes bulged and a weak squeal escaped his lips. He collapsed, crashing in front of the fireplace.
The old clock in the hallway struck midnight.
He laid on the floor motionless while the last midnight toll rung.
As the last bell toll faded, the cat painting shifted slowly then began to seizure above the mantle. Particles of dust fell from the brass frame in thick flow. The painting lifted from the wall, shaking with a sudden heartbeat. The fine brushstrokes bulged, something was forcing its way out. The image split down its center sending a blinding purple aura outwards filling the entire living room. A guttural moan followed. The painting dropped towards Qulin's corpse, dashing out the fire. The moan became a steady purr. A fury black tail followed by a paw with its claws unsheathed stepped from the painting. The frame crashed empty to the floor, and the two-headed feline stood erect, released from its bondage. The feline leapt onto Qulin's motionless chest, plodding and hissing victoriously like an unholy choir, irritated over its summons. The furred feline head, in a show of submission, began kneading into the neck of the bald feline, seemingly awaiting instruction. It stroked Qulin's scarred and cold face, the many scars it had inflicted, purring tenderly almost as if grieving. Suddenly the feline arching its back in an attack posture.
"Chaos, for you," hissed the bald feline head. It raised its paw, talon-like claws spread, and slashed Qulin across his right cheek, leaving a gaping laceration. Dark, thick blood seeped out and fell onto the carpet.
Qulin gasped. His eyes rolled open. Air filed through his mouth and replenished his deflated chest, life returning to his body. He turned over and vomited.
"No, no, no," he cried, wiping a mixture of vomit and blood from his face, a familiar searing pain in his cheek. He struggled to his knees. As his focus returned, he saw the outline of the beast, its scolding red eyes welcoming him back to life, to his damned eternity.
"Let me die," he pleaded, spit falling from his mouth. He lowered his eye towards the old blood stains on the carpet. "Why won't you let me die?"
The feline circled him as if he was prey. "You are a failure. Endless chaos for you." The feline chanted this repeatedly while slithering its way back into the empty picture frame lying on the floor. The fireplace reignited with a dazzle of orange and red flames. Heat poured over Qulin in a useless embrace. He tried to strike the beast but the painting lied inanimate in its original form on the floor.
He stood and collected the painting and returning it to its wicked perch above the fireplace mantle. The curse had meted out its punishment for another night. He staggered from the living room holding pressure against his new laceration, up the three flights of stairs to his bedroom. He entered the bathroom. Light above the sink flashed on. He paused over the porcelain sink and stared into the mirror. Water dripped lazily from the rusted faucet keeping pace with blood seeping from his wound. He forced himself to gaze upon the hideous and disfigured creature he'd become. Clumps of irregular ridges betrayed his once handsome face. The curse had caged him behind the mass of indurated flesh. The new wound began to tingle, and red blood disappeared altogether. The edges of wound reached out towards each others like distant siblings rediscovering their shared flesh, tiny hairlike fibers grasping and knotting, pulling the laceration edges together until it was nothing more than another scar.
He returned to his room and sat idly on the edge of his bed, lowering his face into his hands. Oblivious breeze whipped dead leaves by the dilapidated house. He remained in this position, dreading tomorrow's inevitable elixir failure, dreading another midnight.
~~~~~~
By mid-morning, the new house was fully furnished. Lucas watched the delivery truck drive off from the living room then stormed up the two flight of stairs carrying a heavy box of clothing, surprised he'd managed to gather so much clothing in spite of their hasty departure. He continued down the unfamiliar hallway. Wall lamps spewed out a lukewarm yellow light. He swung into the last room on the left—his designated place of slumber. Four walls, pale brown hardwood floors and two windows—one facing the front of the house and the other the neighbor's house. The one thing off in this otherwise dull room was his bed was in the wrong position. In a hurry to get the job done, the delivery men simply left the bed in the center of the room instead of up against the far wall like he'd asked. He dropped the box of clothing and rushed to push the bed against the wall. Being exposed on all sides while he slept made him uneasy, made him feel unsafe. It needed—he needed—the protection of a wall against his back. Otherwise, he was vulnerable, endangered. Unprepared for whoever might drunkenly barge through the door and rip his blankets off. The frame crashed up against the far wall. He sighed and laid down on the mattress. Now it was safe. Out of habit, or perhaps from a conditioned sense of survival, he stared at the closed bedroom door. He studied the door, as he had learned to study every door to every room he'd ever slept in. Was the knob lock switched on? Was the door shut tightly? His eyes drifted soberly to the spatter of light slipping underneath the door from the corridor. A tightness formed in his chest as he reflexively scanned that tiny space for silhouettes of stumbling feet on the other side. His ears resolutely listening for the unmistakable drawl of an approaching drunken gait, the unnerving broken rhythm of a heavy hand striking the outside of the door followed by the harsh convulsing doorknob which could only hold steady for so long before giving way to the blind fury fuming on the other side. Lucas shuddered and sat up. Dad wasn't here, he reminded himself. He repeated this a few times, glancing around the room to convince his chest it was okay to stop heaving so hard. After settling down, he collected the box of clothes from the floor and placed them on the bed before deciding to close the window blinds. He reached for the string to lower the stack of black blinds and stopped startled by the sudden appearance of an odd looking figure wearing a long red cloak passing by outside. Aside from the bizarre outfit, this figure seemed to glide not walk, almost floating. The figure carried a large cardboard box in one hand with some sort of plant or flower and disappeared onto the main road before Lucas could get a look at its face.
He scoffed, and let the blinds fall the rest of the way. Certain that the floating was only a figment of his imagination. He pulled his headphones from his pocket, placed them in his ears and turned up the music wondering what other kind of weirdos were in this town.