Date: Thu, 16 Oct 1997 10:30:50 MDT From: Robyn Meta Herrington Subject: SUB:CONTEST: From Hell - a tale with an edge Are your bones quivering as you read these tales of terror (ooh! aah!). Just when you thought it was safe to go back to your email... Critiques encouraged, and send them to *me*. rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca =============================================================== From Hell: A Tale with an Edge 7 October 19-- Today I find myself fascinated by knives. This was not always so. Why, as recently as yesterday morning, I had thought knives of no value except as implements for spreading butter, dicing carrots or slicing steak. Certainly I attached no aesthetic value to them, saw nothing of beauty in the cutler's art. Today, however, I found myself halting my luncheon constitutional along the streets of S------- to gaze through the display window of a cutlery shop, admiring the paring knife as surely as the bowie knife, entranced by the solidity of handles, the light gleaming along the metal, the curve of blades, the point of them. I attribute my newfound interest to a local antique show. My wife, Beth's, passion for clocks of the late nineteenth century, ensures our attendance at several such shows each year. Advertisements for this particular show had led us to expect something more in the way of antiques than in flea market remnants, so we were disappointed by the displays of vintage Texaco signs and 1960s French Tart Barbies. Still, our stay provided a pleasant Sunday afternoon diversion: we observed some objects of interest, and honed our wits on items from plaster "Thinker" bookends, to Shirley Temple-shaped salt and pepper shakers, to ancient, full bottles of Utica Club beer lined between Schultz and Dooley mugs. We decided upon a second circuit and had hardly begun when, as Beth bent to examine a letter opener on the handle of which a panda was pictured sucking cough drops, I was struck by an errant ray of light. Shielding my eyes with a hand, I looked to discover the light's source, and saw it emanated from a table an aisle away, one we had somehow missed in our perambulations. Curious, I stepped away from Beth and toward the light. Unlike other tables, this one was not overly burdened. The objects on it included an axe, a small portion of a railroad tie, several pencil nubs bundled together, three long, golden feathers, and the origin of my blinding. In a mahogany case upon crimson satin lining, laid a singular knife of approximately ten inches in length, with a blade that tapered to a remarkably fine point, it's edge so honed as to look to split atoms, and it's cherry haft so firm as to look to survive such an operation. The blade was polished to a mirror-like reflectiveness in which I saw myself and the aisles behind me. I leaned nearer, looking deeply into my own eyes, when I felt myself sway, overtaken by dizziness. Steadying myself, I looked again at the knife and was astonished: Instead of my eyes, I saw a cobblestoned alley in moonlight, and a woman, not young but trying to appear so, smiling and gesturing as she raised her petticoats above high laced shoes. A flash of light, as off polished metal, and ... "Interested in knives, sir?" The speaker sat behind the table. I jerked, feeling freshly awakened. "Ah -- yes. Or no, not really. Except this knife strikes me." The speaker rose slowly and revealed himself as an old man of so pronounced a frailty that one sneeze would seem capable of shattering him into a pile of powered bone and flesh. Yet, in spite of his skeletal appearance, he maintained an air of dignity. I know not why, but that he felt disdain for me, I doubted not at all. "It strikes many people, sir, and many people feel strongly about it. Something in its crafting, perhaps, or the sense of history it carries." "History?" "Yes, sir. It was made in London in the late 1880s, sir. I believe there is an inscription on this side, a date--" "Yes. I see it. -- 1888. January of 1888." "You have a fine eye, sir. Many men cannot read that." "Really?" I wondered if such pandering netted him higher returns from his usual customers. "Quite. As I was saying, it was made in London by a master cutler, one Patrick Dalmish, who disappeared shortly afterwards. His body was never found and he was believed murdered. Indeed a tramp was convicted and hung for it. The knife was rumored to remain in London into the autumn of 1888, then it, too, disappeared. Since then, it has traveled around the world while the property of various--surgeons. I lost track of it during the war, but came into possession of it when it was smuggled from Russia. Supposedly, Communist troops found it in Hitler's bunker and presented it to Stalin, but since that is not in the journal, I tend to doubt it." "Journal?" "Yes, sir. Each owner has seemed compelled to record his ownership of the knife. Naturally, the journal is included with the purchase of the knife." "How did you come by it?" He shrugged. "My grandfather bought and sold this knife several times, as did my father. I have bought and sold it five times. My family have been tradesmen for generations and we have found some objects have an affinity for us: no matter how often we sell them, they return to us. Were you to buy it, I should not be surprised to see it again within a few years." I smiled. "You spin a wonderful yarn. How much are you asking?" "Twenty-five dollars, sir." "Is that all? Is something wrong with it?" "Nothing, sir. The blade is neither nicked nor dulled, neither is the handle cracked or significantly worn by an eventful -- life. I assure you, sir, this knife is as fine today as when it was first honed." "Yet you only ask twenty-five dollars?" "It's history precludes most from taking an interest in it. Some even find it repulsive. Only a -- special -- man appreciates it." I cannot adequately convey the dryness of his voice, but it made me pause: did he have more to tell if I knew the right questions, or was I merely a fish on his hook? I decided I did not care, and handed him the money. Proud of my new possession, I hurried off to find Beth. "What a beautiful box," she said, running her fingers along the mahogany. "What's in it?" I opened the lid. When she said nothing, I looked up from the gleaming blade. "I don't like it, John," she said, and I could see she had turned pale. "Really, I dislike it. Intensely." I did not know what to say, except, "I'm sorry. Well, I'll keep it in the den, out of the way." She did not say anything for a moment. "I suppose that's okay," she said. "Perhaps it's time to go." "Of course." And that was all we said. I didn't know what to make of her reaction. Beth is not prone to sudden intuitions, so her immediate dislike of the knife disturbed me. I followed her out of the market and laid the case in the back seat. All the way home, she sat with her back partly against the door, tightly gripping the strap of her purse, and frequently glancing behind her. On reaching home, I went directly to my den, cleared a place on the shelves behind my desk, placed the case there and opened the lid. The knife shone wonderfully against the dark cherry paneling. "Will you insist on keeping it?" I felt an unfamiliar irritation with Beth's voice. What normally fell husky and warm on my ear, then sounded course and petulant. I turned, smiling to hide my annoyance. "Why, yes, dear," I said. "I thought you were joking. It's unlike you to be so vehement." "Why are you talking like that?" "Like what, dear?" "So -- stuffy." "Not stuffy, dear. Mannerly, as befits the pedigree of my new purchase." I grinned and briefly recounted the old man's yarn. Beth shook her head, and managed a slight smile. .... 8 October 19-- ... [A]nd now I think on it, last night was quite odd. Beth's mood lightened appreciably when I suggested dining out. I was famished and drove us to a small, homely restaurant. Of course, that was not unusual, but my craving for liver was quite odd. Normally I detest the stuff, but last night I could hardly get my fill. We returned home after dark. I do love this house, enclosed as it is by the woods. Though we have several neighbors with in a mile of us, still the seclusion among the trees makes us feel miles away from others. I believe our slow ride along the winding driveway contributed to a suddenly romantic mood between us. After eight years of marriage, each of us knows the other's needs and appetites; still, for all our ardor, neither of us were satisfied with the result. I do not mean to brag, but even at our worst times, neither of us has ever been disappointed when making love. Yet Beth seemed unable to relax, while I -- well, I found my mind wandering to the den and the knife's journal, and so I made a decision. Beth works part-time at the Veteran's Hospital. This morning I awaited her departure patiently, but hurrying her along when I could do so unobtrusively. Once she left, I called my office, and feigned illness, though I assured them I would be fine on the morrow. I had no qualms, since only one of my patients was truly ailing, and she should have died five years ago, anyway. I proceeded to my den and, upon entering, extracted the journal from the case. Oh, what wondrous adventures my knife has had! What excitement it has seen around the world! All together there have been forty owners, some circumspect, and some audacious when wielding the knife, like the owner from London's East End, and the owner from Dusseldorf. In truth, I read and reread the journal through most of the day, grateful that Beth delayed coming home, though curious what she might be doing. I feel satiated with its history, now, and need time to contemplate the owners and their stories. Before Beth returns, I think I shall take a stroll. 9 October 19-- The most curious thing happened yesterday afternoon. I cannot recall how far I walked -- odd, since I am normally alert about my surroundings -- but I enjoyed the walk, quite taken with the reds of the maples and sumac, the reds and yellows of oak, and the thriving roses in the back yards of some of our neighbors. I must have walked over two miles along a trail behind our house when the curious incident occurred. But I dramatize, for I merely heard several screams from behind me. Still, they were not the screams of children frolicking, but those of an adult at the height of terror. My first instinct was to rush back and find what had happened, but my better sense keeps me out of other people's affairs. By the time I returned home, Beth was cooking steaks and baking potatoes--which annoyed me since I was not hungry and they did not smell appetizing. I ignored her and the smells, and quietly slipped into the den. There, I deposited the knife in its case. I had carried it in my belt on a whim, as a precaution, though I cannot say what it was a precaution against. .... 10 October 19-- ... so I feigned illness again today. I could not face the parade of aging women groaning about one ache or another -- it's all in the old biddies' minds. And, frankly, I was distressed by the morning newspaper. Mrs. Emily Amworth, a neighbor of ours, was at work in her garden early yesterday evening when someone leaped her fence, and viciously stabbed her repeatedly. Though the news offered scant details, still mutilation was implicit in their choice of words. Apparently, the police lack clues as to the killer's identity, and are still investigating. .... Again, Beth is late arriving home. With the news of Mrs. Amworth's death, I am most uneasy. I hope she arrives before dark. 12 October 19- .... Another bloody murder nearly on our doorstep last evening, again the police are baffled, again it occurred along the route I walk and, by all accounts, about the time of my walk. The reporter on the scene spoke of rage and viciousness; she had seen the victim uncovered before stammering her report. Patrol cars pass along the main road constantly, now, for all the good it does them. I think I shall change my route. ... .... Beth has been distant of late, hardly saying a word at night. She often looks at the den door as though expecting someone to burst through it. I have attempted tenderness, but she treats me like a stranger. I catch her watching me quizzically, worriedly. She shrinks from my touch, flinches at my voice. Perhaps she, too, is troubled by the recent murders. Yet, of late, I have begun to wonder if she has a lover. 15 October 19-- Again, I stayed home and reread the journal. I was particularly intrigued by the story of Herman Welcome, a farmer outside what is now M------, mere miles from my house. He was a member of the Underground Railroad, and greatly respected for his hard work. Respected, that is, for about five years, the time it took for his cohorts to notice that, while young men in Herman's care moved on safely enough, many young women disappeared. Their suspicions quickened upon learning that Herman always bought bags of lime when visiting town. Several of them forced entry into Herman's house and, among other things, dug up his cellar floor. In one corner, beneath a thin layer of dirt, they found great quantities of lime, and in the lime, bones. Excavating further, they amassed a pile of bones that took up a section of floor over four foot square, and rose over three feet in height. They concluded from those least eaten away by the lime that they were human bones. By that time, Herman had escaped into the wilds of Canada where he finished his journal entries and, according to the next owner, froze to death in the Yukon. .... I know Beth has a lover. When I finished reading the journal, I decided to wait outside the Veteran's Hospital until Beth left work, and follow her. She met a man for lunch. He was tall, handsome and, I concluded from her expression as he talked, witty and charming. He seemed quite familiar and comfortable with her ways. I was so angry when I returned home, that I did not dare meet her on her arrival. Donning my coat, I grabbed the knife and left for my walk. But now I am not sure that was wise. I am bothered by something I saw upon returning. As I went to replace the knife in its case, something near the handle caught my eye. Turning on the desk lamp, I looked closely and saw a smudge of red staining the blade and part of the handle. I thought perhaps it might be blood, but on examining myself where I had secreted it in my belt, I found no cuts or abrasions. When I again looked at the knife, the smudge appeared smaller and, even as I watched, it disappeared, as though absorbed. I do not know what to make of this. 19 October 19-- Beth dissembles. I have continued following her, and she has met the same man twice more for lunch, twice while walking into work from her car, and once while leaving work. Oh, those last look innocent enough, like "chance" meetings, but I know better. She must suspect me, though. She has mentioned a project she shares with an administrator planning methods of attracting more volunteer workers. ... ... Again blood on the knife; again it disappeared, as though lapped up by the metal and wood. I have decided to stop my walks, and I will no longer carry the knife; he disturbs me. Besides, with six murders in nine days, our streets are far too dangerous. I would not wish to meet such a madman, yet each time I look in the mirror, I pray I haven't already seen him. 25 October 19-- We have had it out. Though Beth denies the affair, I see the lie in her eyes. She swears he is her boss, that they were business luncheons for planning their project. I merely raised an eyebrow. Beth was enraged and accused me of spying. "Who are you to follow me around?" she said. "For that matter, who are you anyway? I don't know you any more. You walk around like the lord of the manor, strutting through the house, frowning all the time, treating that goddamn knife like you're in love with it, and then you have the gall to accuse me of an affair." Slut, I thought, holding myself back. Seeing my hands clenched and my mouth shut tight, she turned pale, then fled to the bedroom and locked herself in. It was all I could do to restrain myself from breaking down the door and throttling the harlot. ... I have not walked in days. I want to, desperately. I want to feel the fresh air against my face, to feel Little Jack nestled against me under my coat. Little Jack. It's silly to name a knife. I must check the journal to see if other owners named him. 27 October 19 I will not. Yet I should. I need the exercise. I will not go. But I need to. I crave the freedom of walking. I will not go walking. Oh, yes, I will. Little Jack is hungry. I will not go walking. She's cuckolded me. Beth's cuckolded me. She's a whore. A whore. A whore. A whore. =AC 31 October 19-- She has locked me out again tonight. She caught me after my walk, my face and mouth red, my coat red, even my pants red, and not time enough to wash it off. Poor Beth. Before I could catch her, she ran into the bedroom and locked the door. I heard her dialing but, quick down the stairs and snip with Little Jack, and the phone died. Poor Beth. I have sat for hours, now, outside her door, listening to her pace, telling her to leave the windows alone or I'll surely punish her, me and Little Jack, considering aloud what to write in the journal, and recalling aloud how she lied to me, how she cuckolded me, then reminding her this is my home and she is my wife. I am the master; I have Little Jack. I think I will do a double tonight, I do. Poor Beth. Yes, I think I will. Soon, very soon, poor Beth will come to appreciate Little Jack as the others have, she will see how he extends and strengthens my arm, she will learn the terror of his sheen in moonlight, the sharpness of his biting wit, his thirst and hunger. Poor Beth, her door shall not stay closed much longer. No, it shall not. Poor Beth. I wonder what bags of lime cost these days. -- the end -- -- ---------------------------------*=*=*=*=*=*-------------------------------- Robyn Herrington,Editor rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca InfoServe www.ucalgary.ca/~rmherrin New Currents in Teaching and Technology Communications Media MacKimmie Library University of Calgary Ph: 220-3716 (temporary) == Inter tormentia latitia == ---------------------------------*=*=*=*=*=*--------------------------------