Shattered Delusions

 

Don Ehrenhaft

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

 

“I remember my mother’s face; it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.  Her sparkling blue eyes smiled at me when I pleased her and stormed when I did not.  Her skin was smooth, soft and white as fresh milk.  I loved to stroke her face with my stubby little fingers.  Her wide mouth could split into a smile or turn into a glower in a heartbeat.  I was never sure whether she was about to pat me on the head or slap me with a backhand.”

“My name is Derrick Nox, but my mom always called me ‘the kid’, as if I were one of the neighbors.  The neighborhood boys hung around just to look at her, maybe catch a brilliant smile.  She was a striking woman and the men drooled over her like they had lost their minds; and maybe they had.  There are no words in any human language large enough to describe the degree of her beauty.  Her magical eyes hypnotized men and flashed like lightning, striking them directly in the heart.  They gave her everything she asked for, without question; without remorse. 

All men loved my mother, until they hated her.  She went through men like chewing gum, enjoying their taste, sucking them dry of all of their emotional flavors, crushing them thoroughly, and then spitting them out.  She crushed me in that same way, when I was little; when the bad thing came.”

“I was about three years old when it happened.  I’ll never forget that day.  My nanny was named Miranda, one of the many names that my mother called her.  She was hired to occupy me while my mom was ‘entertaining’ company. 

Miranda was teaching me the alphabet.  I was mesmerized by her pale blue eyes as we recited the letters in song.  My mother did not sing to me; Miranda gave me music. It was as if a light came on in my head; a sudden understanding.  In a rush, the song came to me; pictures running through my very soul, etched upon my raw essence. 

I sat on the floor and made letters on the paper that Miranda gave me.  I suddenly understood how language and writing harmonized with music and the images flowed into my head from god knows where.  I struggled to form the symbols as they appeared in my mind.

“Look, Momma.” I presented the paper and tugged at her skirt.  She ignored me at first and then her eyes focused on the paper.  My mother dropped what she was doing and snatched the bad thing from my hands, oblivious to the breaking glass as her drink hit the floor.

“Where did you get this?” she demanded, her eyes flashing between fear and hatred.

“I made it for you.” I smiled up at her, but her eyes burned a hole into me.  “I wrote the letters.”

“Did Miranda show you these words?” she looked from me to the paper and back again.

“I saw them in my head, Momma,” I said proudly. “And I wrote them down.”  I pointed at the paper.

“Miranda!” My mother screeched.  She paced frantically across the room, rereading the words that I had written; all the time shaking her head.  The visions and music ran through my mind every time that she recited the lines.

Miranda crept into the room, her pale eyes wide with fear.

“You called for me, Madam?” she trembled before the anger in my mother’s eyes. 

“Did you think yourself clever?” Momma thrust the paper into the young girl’s terrified face. “Teaching him to write in Fae?”

“I never showed him that, Madam Sidhe,” Miranda cowered before my Momma’s fury.

My mother slapped her across the face and the young girl fell to the ground.

“Did you read this?!” Momma pointed her crossed fingers at Miranda as the girl wailed.

Miranda shook her head profusely, but my mother had a special gift for seeing through lies.

“You must tell no one of this,” Momma threatened as she slapped the young girl about the head and arms, “Ever! Do you understand?”

Miranda squealed out a response as she covered up her face.  I could see the terror in her teary eyes.

My mother dismissed the girl and scowled at the words that I had written.

“Damn you, Derrick,” she said.  I knew by the tone of her voice that I had done a bad thing that could not be taken back.

“I made it for you, Momma,” I tried to make it better.  I wrapped my arms around her legs, begging to fix what I had broken.

“You have ruined everything,” she said softly as she pried my hands off of her.  “What you have written is true! I can see the truth in it.  Now comes the darkness; the endless night.”

My mother then did something that I had never seen her do before; she cried.

“I’ll wipe out the words,” I begged as I tried to take the sheet of paper from her hand.

“The prophecy has been written, my son,” she whispered. “It can not be undone now.  All that matters is who knows about it.”

“Don’t be mad at me, Momma,” I whimpered.

“We must go now,” she responded, coldly. “The end is in sight. Now is upon us.”

She took my hand and led me to the car.  We traveled silently for a long time and then she stopped in front of a large discolored house with tall weeds growing all around it.  The paint was peeling and two of the windows were boarded up.

“Where are we, Momma?” I stretched my body trying to get a better look at my surroundings. “Why are we here?”

She said nothing, but opened my door and took my tiny hand in hers.

“Don’t be mad at me, Momma,” I cried out as I climbed down from the car seat.  I didn’t know how bad the thing was.  I remember crying, but my mother remained cold; removed.

We went to the door and she knocked impatiently.  After a while, the door creaked open.  A tiny woman, her face distorted with fear, gazed up at my mother.

“Madam Sidhe.”  The woman bowed her head and then looked me up and down with her beady rat eyes.  I crept behind my mother’s legs trying to hide from the strange little woman.

My mother pushed past her into the house and a dreary entry room.  The shabby interior was partially hidden in shadow. 

If I could have gnawed my hand off at that time to keep from entering the abode, I would have, but I followed my mother into the gloomy parlor.

“Kiss,” my mother said as she stooped next to me. “I have to take this paper to a friend.”

“I won’t kiss you,” I pulled back from the cold embrace. I could see her intentions in the words in my mind.  “You’re never coming back.”

“Have it your way,” Momma said and with a quick turn, she was gone; just like that. I was left standing alone in the gloomy living room with the strange little woman. 

My mother never did come back; the end result of my second prediction. I wish that I would have kissed her good-bye; and stroked her face one last time.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

“The prophecy was written by a three year old boy,” Carver Balrog announced to the others gathered around the low round table.  The crooked little man waved the paper covered with the uneven writing of the boy.  Balrog cleared his throat and read the words aloud, his hoarse voice resounding among the elite.

The prophecy played through the minds like a three dimensional retelling of the actual vision; complete with music and sound.  All who saw the symbols and read the words that the protégée had fashioned became linked to the event.  They called it Now; the time that the words become true.  The images of the events were tattooed into each soul that experienced the foretelling and they were from this instance forth eternally linked to the moment; until Now arrived.

The room held a collection of extremely powerful men from around the world.  They were beings who possessed riches beyond belief and bonded together to form the ultimate alliance.  The Dule Reknown, as they called the secret society, met in this hall and decided the fate of the world and all of the beings who inhabited the three planes of existence. 

The sour expression on the old man’s face told of his contempt for the other members of the council.  Balrog was a force to be reckoned with and demanded the respect of all others in his presence. 

“The child is a phenomenon,” said Brian Spencer, a smallish, impeccably dressed man, as he stood before the others and spoke.  He held a black bowler-type hat in one hand and tweaked his handle-bar mustache with the other. “The words were confirmed by the child’s mother.”

“Liannon Sidhe is a self-serving bitch, with the emphasis on the word bitch,” Balrog laughed, viciously; as did others.

“Nevertheless,” Brian continued as he took his seat, placing his hat on the table, “She is a truth-seer.”  He searched the faces of the others for confirmation of his statement.

“As well as a bitch,” Brian added.  The old men about the gathering laughed, many had experiences with Madam Sidhe.

A heavy man with a large face cleared his throat, but did not stand.  His jowls shook as he coughed again.  He waited for everyone to look in his direction.

“The prophecy is written in the Fae word,” Owen Grimfeld started. “The fact that the Clan Danann have gone into hiding should confirm the prediction.  They fear for their youngest, Flaura.”

“She is your sister, Grimfeld,” Balrog sneered at the rotund man.

“Half-sister, Carver,” Owen Grimfeld corrected as he adjusted his sturdy frame in the chair. “We shared a father and that is all.”

“How do you know that they are in hiding?” Balrog demanded.

“I have my sources, Carver.” The Grimfeld nodded his head to accent his answer.  “They have left Midguard and set up a barrier about their mansion.”

“If we are to believe these words, then we must ensure that the DaNann girl lives.  Her future son will release darkness upon the world.  That was the purpose of the founding of our organization.” 

“I have waited a lifetime for Erebus to escape his prison and this could be the chance to avenge my father’s untimely murder,” Balrog clenched his fist.  His eyes darkened and his face twisted with the hatred in his black heart. 

“How can we guarantee that others won’t interfere?” Brian Spencer interjected.  “What about the guardians?”

“The guardians?” Balrog pounded his fist on the table.  All eyes about the table were on him. “Those misguided zealots will not stop us again.  We shall put an end to those meddling bastards and I personally will deal with their leader.”  The old man closed his eyes tightly, his lips drew into a scowl as he spit out the name of his father’s killer.

“Redcap.”  Balrog’s features twisted with an all-consuming hatred for the guardian.  His scowl morphed into a slick grin and he laughed.  The others gazed at him as if he were a madman.

“We will offer help to the DaNann clan,” Carver Balrog laughed at his own cleverness.  “We will build the girl a house, a citadel, to protect her from harm.  There we will keep her safe and under control.”

“They will never accept assistance from you,” Owen Grimfeld shook his head; his hefty jowls shook from side-to-side.

“We will make it a gift from Diana.” Balrog clapped his hands together.

“How will we do that?” Grimfeld sat forward.

“You shall ask the Goddess for her assistance in protecting your sister,” Carver Balrog drank from his wine glass. “Diana will not refuse to aid the DaNann clan.  She is such a bleeding-heart sucker.”

They all laughed.

Carver lifted his glass and gestured to the others.  They all raised their vessels.

“And we shall take the threat to the girl up a notch to force the clan to place her under our care.” Balrog’s face became a hideous caricature of a human.

“To the Dule Reknown,” Balrog toasted. “And the end of the reign of the light!”

They all downed their drinks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

“Mother,” the young girl begged.  Her golden hair hung past her shoulders; her green eyes accented the request. “Please don’t make me go there.”

“You have seen the words, Flaura,” the Lady DaNann stroked her daughter’s slender hand.  “You see the truth within, my dear.”

“I will be all alone,” Flaura stated.  Her eyes fell to the floor.  “I can not stand to be alone.”

“I will stay with you for a while,” the Lady promised her daughter. “Diana has done what she can to make it bearable.  It is a beautiful mansion, cast from the very woodlands itself.  That should please you.  The forest will be your home.”

“Why can’t I stay with you, Mother?”  Flaura grasped her mother’s hand and brought it up to the side of her face.  “Father will protect me and I am not helpless.”

“There are those who want to see you dead,” the lady held the girl. “Father can’t watch you all of the time.”

“The guardians could protect me.” Flaura leapt upon the last hope.

“They will not,” Lady DaNann looked into her daughter’s young face. “The guardians will not meddle with destiny.  The prophecy says that you will live and they will do nothing to guarantee that result.  It is the way that they are.”

“Then I am doomed to die of sadness, Mother.”  The young girl collapsed to the floor.  “For I will never see the wonders of Midguard again.”

Flaura wept as her mother watched helplessly.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

 

There is a house at the edge of dawn, forged from the fabric of nature; and to the dreaming boy, an unreachable citadel.  His futile race to attain the safety of the magical structure obsesses the frightened youngster.  The relentless pursuer closes in on the boy as he sees the wondrous mansion just ahead.

Darkness fills the room like a heavy fog, stealing the freshness of the air from young Peter’s lungs.  His breathing is heavy and hastened as he sucks in the stale black air with every draw.  He gasps as if he is out of breath and exhausted; a marathon runner hitting the wall.  The boy’s legs jerk slightly as he runs in his dream, racing the demon that haunts his nightmares. 

Outside, the wind blows with a vengeance, dashing the soft branches against the cedar siding, scratching like an animal looking for a way into his room.  His forehead covered with droplets of cool sweat, his nightshirt soaked with the dampness of his growing terror.  The dark demon of his nightmares pursues him relentlessly.  The muscles in his young face grow taught and his lips pull tightly into a grimace. 

Peter tosses his head from side-to-side, striving to toss the weight from his person.  A low moan grows between his clenched teeth, as his white knuckled fists grasp the protective covers. 

“No! Leave me alone!” Peter cries out, jolting up into a sitting position, his dark dilated eyes ridden with terror.

“Mom,” he sobs as he supports himself with trembling hands.  His wild eyes dart about in the rich darkness, searching every nook and cranny, hunting for the perpetrator of his torture.   The closet door stands ajar, the inner darkness beckons to him.  Someone; something calls a name in his direction.

“Islgoode,” a raspy voice whispers in the wind.  The boy jerks his head around toward the window.  It is here; he senses it!  The thing is in his room, hidden in the darkest recesses of shadow. 

  The silhouette of the trees sways in a wild dance across the window frame to the melody of the howling wind.  There is a face and a faint scent of cinnamon.  A pale reflection of the scarecrow man watched him from the window pane.  His deep sunken eyes stare at the boy, his mouth parts as if to speak. 

“Islgoode,” the wind cries.

The boy turns quickly toward the closet darkness.  The black shadows are impenetrable.

“What is wrong, Peter?” A woman’s voice cries out as the light turns on.  Her white hair hangs loosely about her face, the gentle wrinkles about her mouth and eyes expose her true age.  Peter stares at the closet door, which stands ajar.  The darkness survives in the deep recesses of the cloak room.  She rushes to his side and her arms wrap around him.

“He was here, Mom,” the boy answers hysterically, his eyes fixed on the closet opening.  “I saw the scarecrow.  He’s in my closet. I saw his face in the reflection.”

“Oh, Peter,” The woman sighs.  “There is nothing in your closet.  We have searched a hundred times.”  She runs her hand through his curly brown hair.  “Have we ever found anything in there?”

“No,” the boy admits as he gazes at the window.  “I was having that dream again.  I was running and the dark kept finding me.”

The tree branches slap the house, but the wind no longer calls the name.  The darkness is locked outside again. 

“I saw him in the window,” Peter stares at the closet.  “He was standing there,” Peter pointed at the darkness that existed in his closet.

The woman stands and walks to the closet door.  She opens the door slowly, steps partially into the shadows.  Her white hair is tied back and her skin is pale against her pink nightgown.  The flowered robe hangs open, the belt drags on the rug.  Peter’s mother sticks her head into the darkness and whistles softly.

“Is someone in there?” The woman calls, and then she turns.  Her soft blue eyes calm her son; her caring little smile makes him feel secure.  She slowly closes the door and makes sure that it is latched. 

“I think that we are quite alone, Peter, but if you wish, I will sit here with you until you fall asleep.”

“Would you?” Peter lay back flat on his bed, his head thrust into the pillow.  “Could you leave the light on for me?”

“If that is what you want,” the woman says, pulling the covers up to his chin.  She kisses his cheek.  With a small smile curled into her lips, she eases into the chair and takes a book from the table drawer. 

“Why don’t we see what Tom Sawyer is up to?”  She flips open the book to the marker and begins to read.  As her voice drones on, Peter’s eyes slowly relax and close against his strongest efforts to keep them open.  His breathing slows and his mouth opens slightly.

The woman closes the book silently and watches the sweet sleeping face of the boy; her son.  She carefully places the book on the table and rises quietly from the chair.  She stands over him, making sure that the covers are tucked in, making sure that he is asleep.  She kisses his forehead lightly.

The woman turns toward the door and then with one quick look back at the boy, she goes to the closet.  Carefully, quietly, she opens the door.  The old hinges moan as they give access to the darkness within.

“You must leave him alone, Ifl,” the woman whispers into the darkness.  “I will not allow you to terrorize my boy.  If you do it again; I will tell them where you are.  I will have you removed.” 

She waits for a moment, staring into the deepest shadows at the back of the closet.

“I understand, Dorothy,” returns the voice; a cracked whisper in the wind.  “I do not bring the dream; I only wait for Now to come.  Now will come soon!”

“Until then,” the woman looks down into the darkest recess of the closet.  “Let my boy rest; let him be for awhile.” 

The woman closes the door gently and tiptoes from the room.  As she exits, she flips off the light switch, out of habit.  She turns back, her face a patchwork of shadow and light.  Her eyes glow slightly as she looks back into the darkened room.  Her hand comes up and flips the switch back on.  She looks upon the sleeping boy; a tear trails down her weathered cheek.

“The darkness will come for you soon enough, my son,” the woman whispers in a shaky voice. “I can’t keep them away forever.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

 

“That fool Nox has published the prophecy!” Balrog screamed.  His dark eyes cut through the gloom that filled the stone walls.  “I will destroy him.  He has jeopardized the integrity of the prophecy.”

“What about Islgoode?” Brian Spencer asked, cowering slightly before the rage of the little man.

“I have already placed a watcher in the area,” Balrog paced as he ranted.  “She will report to me and anyone trying to harm the boy will be dealt with harshly.”

“Harshly?” Spencer asked.

“I have sent Legion to eliminate any immediate threat.”  Balrog said as he took a seat. “Erebus will be rescued from Hell!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

 

 

I was sitting in my living room one day, listening to a demo record that my promoter had sent me.  I am Derrick Nox, lead singer for the band called Dark Prophet.  My first album was doing quite well and the bosses wanted to capitalize on my success.  I had recorded over twenty songs, but we used only ten on my breakout album.  I was going to be a big star; I was going to make millions, until destiny betrayed me.

I heard a knocking rhythm.  I took off my headphones and opened the door.  There stood this tall man in a dark suit, holding a badge out toward me.

“Are you Derrick Nox?” the detective asked.  I nodded my response, unable to speak momentarily.

“I’m Detective Grey, Chicago Police. Could I have a word with you?” he put the badge into his pocket. “I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning a recent homicide.”

“Do I need to call a lawyer, or my agent?” I asked.  It was all that I could think of.

“You are not a suspect, but some strange things are happening and somehow, you are connected.”

I stepped back and beckoned him to enter.  He started forward and a second man stood behind him.  He looked me up and down with a bit of contempt in his eyes and showed me his badge.

“This is my partner, Sergeant Massat,” Grey stepped into the room, but his sidekick waited at the threshold.

“Come in, Sergeant,” I turned and went back to the couch where I had been sitting.  The two men followed me and sat in the matching chairs that faced me.

“A man was murdered yesterday and we had a hard time identifying the body. He was literally torn to shreds,” Grey began.  I grimaced at the horrible scene that drew itself in my mind.

“We found a small piece of his ear and finally tracked down an interested party.  We cross-referenced the missing persons list and a girl had filed a missing person’s report on him.

“Apparently, he had bought your record and listened to it for days, non-stop.  His girl friend told us that he knew you personally,” Grey held out the picture.  I looked at the face of my old friend, Ritchie Chance.

“Yeah, I knew him well,” I choked out.  “I talked to him a couple of days ago.”

“What did you talk about?” Grey nudged me with his words.

“We talked about the world,” I said. “Life and things like that.”

“He was seen stalking a ten year old boy.  A witness said that he was about to attack,” Detective Grey read his notes. “Do you know what he was doing there?”

“Actually, I do,” I answered truthfully, although I could have lied to him and removed myself from suspicion.

“He was trying to save the world.” I almost laughed.  One can’t actually change the prophecies; what is going to happen, will.

“You think that this is somehow funny, Mr. Nox?”

I looked the man in the eyes.  Grey’s hawk-like eyes stared at me as if I suddenly was the prey.  The slight smile drained from my lips and I looked again at the image of my dead friend, first victim of the protector.  He had not listened to what I said; he had been blinded by the truth he saw in the prophecy.

“I didn’t tell him to do it,” I said as I stared at the picture of my lost friend.

“I didn’t tell him to try and kill the kid,” I sobbed as I gripped my head in my hands. “I just told him who the kid was.”

“And who is this kid?” Grey leaned forward as if he would miss the response.

“That McNaughton kid,” I answered as calmly as I could manage. “He is the one from the song; the prophecy is about him.”

Grey looked me in the eyes and then he looked over at his partner.  Massat was a large man with a piercing stare.  His muscles were all tensed, ready for action.  I thought that he was going to get up at first, but he remained seated.

“So if I listen to this song, I will understand what in the Hell is going on?” Grey growled in frustration.  “Listen to me, Mr. Nox.  I want you to cooperate and explain this mess, so that I can figure out why a grown man wanted to kill a kid just because he listened to your record.”

“I am cooperating, sir,” I started, “But the song won’t make any sense to you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the song is in a different language.” I closed my eyes and silently prayed for help.

“Explain it then.” He took out his notebook and pen. “Tell me what happened.”

“I had a vision.  I wrote the song about the vision,” I ran my fingers through my hair.  “This kid, McNaughton, is going to bring about the end of the world, as we know it.”

“What?” Grey laughed, and then looked at Massat who was shrugging his shoulders.

“I told Ritchie that the song would come true and I pointed out the kid to him.”

“You picked this kid out of the hat and sent a crazed vigilante after him.”

“The song is true. It is a prophecy,” I tried to make sense of it, but it sounded crazy even to me.

“And you are some kind of psychic world-saver?” Grey’s brow furrowed tightly as the implications sunk in.

 “I am the dark prophet,” I stated the fact. “My visions always come true.”

“I think that you will have to come down to the precinct with us, Mr. Nox.  Get your jacket and let’s go.”

“Why?” I protested.  “You said that I wasn’t a suspect.”

“Do you realize that sending an assassin after a helpless victim is against the law?”  Grey stood up. “Get your coat.”

“I told him not to do it,” I stood slowly. “I told him that he couldn’t change the prophecy.”

“Are you currently seeing a psychiatrist, Mr. Nox?” Grey stepped toward the door.

“I am not insane,” I stated.  Saying the words made me feel a little crazy, just like the killer in Poe’s Tell-tale Heart.

“Who do you think killed your friend?” Grey turned back to me.

“There are a lot of people who want the darkness to come,” I told the detective.

“Let’s go,” Grey turned as if I hadn’t responded.  He headed toward the front door and Massat followed me closely; quietly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

 

 

“Peter,” Dr. Wesley said as he adjusted his thick glasses. “Could you tell me about the incident?  I believe that it would help you sleep better, maybe stop those nightmares.”

“I had the nightmares before,” the boy stared at the window as he spoke. 

“You had the nightmares before what?” Wesley sat back and scratched his forehead.

“Before I saw the demons in the alley,” Peter said without emotion.

“I always had the nightmare,” the boy looked over at the doctor and then back at the window.  He followed the dust floating in the bright shaft of sunlight.

“Tell me about the nightmare then,” Wesley encouraged.

“You won’t believe it.” Peter eyed the old man with distrust.

“It’s a dream, Peter, it’s not reality,” the old psychiatrist grinned as if he understood more than the boy.

“The dream is real.” Peter stood and went to the window.  He ran his fingers along the wooden sill as he watched the sunlight flowing into the room.

“Was the incident in the alley real, Peter?” Wesley queried.

Peter thought about the answer as he followed a dust mote that entered the column of radiance.

“Yes, Dr. Wesley, it was real,” Peter turned to face him.  “A man came out of the shadows with a knife.  I could see him clearly.  His eyes were crazy and he was coming to kill me.  I could tell that he wanted me dead.  Is that reality?”

“And then what happened?” Wesley asked, slightly intimidated by the odd look in the boy’s eyes.

“A second man appeared next to him,” Peter said without feeling.  “He looked at me and then he split into four black and white demons.”

Peter looked the old man up and down.  He stepped closer.

“Those four demons grabbed the man and tore him into little pieces.  I saw them; I wasn’t the only one.  Mike Ellers saw them, and Melanie Grey.  The demons were real; they were taking pleasure in the torture.”

Peter stepped closer.  He was now toe-to-toe with the old man.  Their eyes focused on each other intently.

“Does that sound like reality?” Peter asked.

“No, Peter,” Wesley said. “It sounds like you may be in some sort of shock to me.”

Peter backed to his seat and sat down.  His eyes lost their fire and he gazed out the window again.

 “I know what I saw,” Peter muttered.  He folded his arms in front of him and leaned back in the chair.