| "You alright Max?" The plucky little officer called out when he saw Max Martin enter the station. �������� Even at his best, Max never managed to look healthy.� The nine years of late night stakeouts, donuts, whiskey and Camel's had made Max a walking condo for physical unhealthiness.� Today, however, Max managed to surpass his former gritty appearance and look just plan, about-to-throw-his-lungs-up sick. ����������� "Where the hell have you been for the last four hours, man?" Max didn't even look his way. He was an insect; compared to what Max had witnessed, this little dweeb of a cop was spit on the sidewalk.� He stalked, looking like a man possessed, into his office and shut the door.� He sat in his squeaky green chair and lit a cigarette.� It was his last on, but he knew he would need more. ����������� "I only gave them what they asked for." ����������� The words repeated in Max's mind over and over.� His nine years of New York City Police Department experience had show him the darkest sides of mankind.� He once arrested a man for crunching a poodle's head under his boot.� And then there was that one teenager who had ran amuck downtown, firing an automatic weapon at strangers in a fit of rage.� Max had seen blood, bodies, fires, explosions, graves being filled, parents weeping and just about every other nightmare a cop hopes never to see. ����������� "I only gave them what they asked for." ����������� When Max Heard the alchemist say those words, he was more terrified than he had ever been in his entire life. ******************************************************************************************************************************************** ����������� These kinds of shops always scared the hell out of me.� Who the hell opens up a shop like this in the middle of downtown Brooklyn?� What use do people in this part of town have for shit like lucky charms, love potions, and body parts of just about every type of insect, animal and bird anyway?� I could tell this was going to be one of those days. ����������� On the wall next to the door was a rack loaded with vials and jars filled with God knows what.� Containers full of liquids of every color, every texture, and every viscosity sat in silence.� No doubt the owner of this place was housing some illegal substances here, but that would have to wait for one my future visits. ����������� The opposite wall, behind what appeared to be the front desk, (although a rag with a gallon of that pine-smelling cleaner shit would probably make it far more convincing) was covered with artwork of a rather negative sense.� Pictures of wars being fought, demons, monsters, and bodies were scattered all over right up to the ceiling. ����������� "Can I help you sir?"� The voice was deep and loud.� I spun around to find a little man standing right behind me.� His appearance was sudden and alarm had gripped me at the sound of his voice. ����������� "Jesus Christ, don't do that, man."� I was trying my hardest to recover from the shock.� He was funny looking man.� He seemed to fit right in with the store itself.� Dressed in black, unwashed, torn cloak that fell to the floor, he stood only five and a half feet tall from what I could tell.� There was a corrosive stench that seemed to accompany him. ����������� "Forgive me sir."� He began chuckling. "Now then, is there something I can do for you?"� His words fell slowly from his tongue.� The cracked pair of lips formed a smile as he talked.� It was as if he had something in mind for me already. ����������� "Uh.. Ahem.� I am Detective Max Martin of the NYPD.� Do you own this store?" ����������� "This is my collection, and this is where I conduct my business."� He slowly moved past me and approached the front desk.� He turned his head back to me.� "You will ask your questions to me." ����������� I had almost forgotten what my question was.� Quickly, I retrieved the photo from my inner jacket pocket.� "Do you know this man?" ����������� He peered at the photo for an instant, smiled, and then turned and moved behind the counter. "That is Mister White.� I assume that, since you are here, he got what he wanted?" ����������� "What do you mean by that, mister....?" ����������� "I am Krevess, but most people refer to me as,"he began chuckling again, "The Alchemist." ����������� "Well Mister Alchemist Krevess, do you know anything about what happened to Ronald White?" ����������� The little creep began to laugh out loud.� "I know that he very much loves his wife." ����������� "That is pretty funny isn't it, Mr. Krevess?� Do you also know that his wife is responsible for what happened to him?" ����������� "You think that I have something to do with that do you?" ����������� He was dancing around me.� "You knew who he was.� I just want to know what else you know." ����������� "Mr. White was a customer of mine.� He came in about a week ago to purchase a gift for his wife." ����������� It was obvious that this rotting figure of a man was hiding far more than some red liquid and dissected frogs and birds.� "Go on,"I said. ******************************************************************************************************************************************** ����������� I first met Mr. White when he entered my store last Monday.� Like most people, he was a bit skeptical about venturing into a store like mine.� He didn't look as though he had intended to wind up in the Black Moon. ����������� Mr. Ronald White was by no means a small man.� He stood tall. A proud high school football team captain perhaps, before he had met the world.� His manner was quite the opposite however.� He was unsure about every action and every move he made. ����������� He jumped when I greeted him. "Can I help you?"I asked. ����������� Before too long, he mustered up a response.� "Um, I was wondering, uh, um..."� He was experienced in being unprepared, and it showed.� "I was looking for something." ����������� "Well, there are a great many things here to be looked upon, sir." ����������� My response had made him aware of his own nervousness.� "Yeah, well I was looking for something for my wife.� It's our anniversary." ����������� His manner remained hesitant.� "Well sir, your wife must have exquisite tastes if you are seeking to give her a gift from the Black Moon." ����������� "Well, the thing is, I've looked all over the city and I can't seem to find a store that sells anything truly unique.� I'm sick of these stores sell nothing but chocolate, diamonds, and flowers." ����������� Mr. White was dressed in the attire of a businessman, and a successful man at that.� For him, money wasn't an object.� However, profit wasn't my goal when I opened the Black Moon. ����������� "Sir," I said, "you seem quite intent on getting you wife something that she will see as meaningful and important." ����������� He gave a sigh and began speaking as though he had just been caught stealing.� "I need to get Mary something that will show her I lover her." ����������� "Ah, love.� Many people seek to revive their dead relationships." ����������� He seemed to, once again, become apprehensive.� "Yeah well, I love my wife so much and I don't want to lose her." ����������� "How do you believe she will be lost?� Is she sick?" ����������� "No, but she just..." he struggled.� I could tell it wasn't Mary White, but her stout husband who stood before me now that suffered.� His wife had fallen out of love with him.� I could tell by the look in his eyes. He was yearning for that which he was about to lose. ����������� "Let me see if I can find something for your lovely wife."� Moving to the wall, I selected the Pendant of Medusa, a lovely little item that I was surprised to find still hanging on my walls.� Upon presenting it to Mr. White, his character immediately brightened up. ����������� "This is beautiful," he said, taking the small golden pendant into his own hands.� It was a simple looking piece of jewelry.� A golden chain supported a ring the size of a silver dollar and in the centre of the piece, a small black orb sat as peaceful as the night itself.� Mr. White stared at it for the longest time.� He seemed to be lost in the blackness of the jewel.� Finally, he asked "How much?" ����������� �I began, "It's value, you will see, is far more than any price you could offer.� The Medusa Pendant --" I tried to explain, but I was interrupted. ����������� "Medusa?� What, is this going to turn her into stone?" ����������� Although the idea of Mary White petrified in a bowing position as her husband lowered the necklace around her neck was amusing to me, I decided not to frighten my guest more than he already was.� I replied, "I can assure you, Mr. White, this pendant shares its name only with demon you are referring to.� The only power it contains is in its beauty.� This pendant will bring love back to your wife's heart.� She will desire nobody but you after gazing into the jewel. �She will love you forever." ����������� My words once again seemed to pass the customer before me, as his eyes and attention were once again focused on the artifact in his hand.� This simple trinket in his hand promised to bring back the romance and desire his now dormant wife had once felt towards him... How could he say no? ����������� "I'll take it."� He got his wallet out and began removing bills.� "How much?" ******************************************************************************************************************************************** ����������� Mary didn't come home from the hospital until 7:30.� She would be tired, like she always is.� Ronald tried his hardest to make the kitchen as romantic as he could. He never was very good at this sort of thing.� Candles and flowers and all that other sappy stuff only worked in the movies.� He had just managed to clean the kitchen up and set the table for a late dinner when his wife reached the porch. ����������� He heard the door swing open and his wife stumble in. She wasn't the most graceful person in the world, especially after a long day of changing bedpans and distributing medicine. ����������� As she stepped into the kitchen, her purse falling to the floor just before she entered, she stopped suddenly.� On the kitchen table was a neat little setting of candles, silverware, and flowers.� Ronald had made several stops on his way home from the Black Moon and had spared not one cent to ensure this night would be a success. ����������� "Mary," he spoke from across the room.� She turned and looked at him. ����������� "Ronald.� What's going on here?" ����������� "Happy Anniversary, Mrs. White."� Mary stood silently.� Beginning to speak, she found no words to say.� Finally, she moved across the kitchen, cautiously inspecting every detail to ensure its reality.� She stopped when she noticed the small gift wrapped box on the table. ����������� "What's this?" she asked, lifting the box up in her hand. ����������� "I hope you like it," he replied.� It wasn't the clever little response he had spent an hour before preparing for, but it would have to do. ����������� Slowly, she undid the ribbon.� She couldn't believe that her workaholic husband and found time to even consider doing such a thing.� The ribbon glided to the ground, and Mary made no effort to rescue it.� She was too absorbed in the box in her palms.� The lid came off, and Mary stood staring at the contents. ����������� "It's called the Pendant of Medusa."� He explained.� "It is said to create a love that is stronger than stone."� There was the clever little line he had slaved over so long.� He congratulated himself in his head on successfully timing it after one failed attempt. ����������� "It's...." she stuttered.� Without another word, she threw herself upon him.� He could feel tears running from her eyes onto his shoulder. ����������� "I love you."� She said.� "I love you, I love you, I love you.� She repeated.� They stood there embraced in the silent light of the single lit candle burning on the table.� "I will always love you." ******************************************************************************************************************************************** ����������� For a week after he gave her the pendant, Ronald received a phone call at work from his wife everyday.� She would keep him on the line for at least ten minutes each time, expressing her deepest love for him.� The following week, he had received flowers, cards and an assortment of small gifts.� The success of the pendant became more and more evident with each passing day. ����������� However, on the day the man from "Tell It With A Song" arrived at his office with a singing telegram from his wife, Ronald figured that he had been basking in his wife's restored love for long enough. ����������� Saturday evening, Ronald came home and sat Mary down in the living room.� The Medusa pendant, which had not left its home below Mary's neck since she first wore it, rested in the field of Mary's red sweater.� It was odd, Ronald thought, that his wife, who wore jewelry only on special evenings, (and by jewelry I mean studs and one or two rings) hadn't removed the pendant from around her neck at all.� He couldn't recall a single moment when he saw her without it.� Perhaps this new love that Mary had began to express with so much force and persistency was not for him, but for his gift. ����������� "Are you feeling alright, my love?" Mary asked immediately, as if he were about to expose some crisis that he had wanted to keep a secret from her.� She sounded as though she truly didn't require an answer; yet his presence was more than enough to satisfy her. ����������� "Mary dear," his throat felt as if it was coated in warm glue, "you really are being too kind by sending me all these gifts and things.� It's a bit much, don't you think?" he asked.� For some reason, his thoughts returned to the first conversation he had had with me in my shop.� At that time, he was plagued with the lack of love, but now he sought to suppress the abundance of it that he had been given.� "It's not that I don't like them, but I just don't think that they are necessary." ����������� Mary sat there gazing at him.� Her girlish smile had dissolved away into nothingness.� Her eyes searched in every direction for a response.� She didn't look hurt, she just seemed to lose the spark that had always been there and had recently kindled into a white-hot passion. ����������� Finally, she bowed and spoke.� "I'm sorry Ronald" she began breathing hard.� Raising her head, she began speaking louder.� "It was just such a wonderful gift that you gave me and I wanted...wanted to prove to you that I loved you as much as..." she began crying. ����������� Ronald was confused.� He had never seen Mary act this way.� She was always so strong, and she never went without defending herself in an argument.� "Mary, dear.� Please calm down." ����������� She jumped up immediately.� "I'm sorry!" she shouted before running to the stairs whimpering.� Before long, she was up the stairs and out of sight. ����������� He was left sitting alone on the loveseat in his living room.� His thoughts began circling the room as he sat motionless.� "How could this have happened?" he thought.� "The Alchemist said..." he didn't finish.� His confusion boiled into frustration.� He felt as though all his efforts succeeded only in bringing him back to his torturing beginning. He heard the thumps from above his head that signaled that Mary was in the bedroom.� She would no doubt be crying.� Ronald was exhausted with thoughts and decided to just leave his wife alone.� Turning on his side, he stretched out on the love seat and closed his eyes. ******************************************************************************************************************************************** ����������� Awoken by some foreign noise, Ronald rubbed his eyes and brought them into focus.� The living room was dark and Ronald had difficulty making things out in the blackness.� The only light was that of a pale greenness emitting from the VCR clock. Ronald sat up and stretched out.� The glue in his mouth had solidified now, and as he swallowed it felt very dry and cracked. Becoming more and more conscious, Ronald realized he wasn't alone.� There was a pulsing noise, like a soft pounding of a slow heartbeat.� Ronald concluded that this noise was hammering its way through the floor of the upstairs bedroom.� What could be happening in the room he had his wife enter just hours ago that could be causing this noise? The conversation with his wife began to float back into his head.� She had stormed off and cried, looking so hurt and disturbed.� Surely, being the stout woman that she was, she would have come to her senses by now and would be ready to talk this whole thing out in the way that they had always had in the past.� However, this logic didn't seem to fit the unusual atmosphere that the sounds from above were making. He moved to the staircase, his attention never drawn from the pulse of the ceiling.� "Was Mary alright? Perhaps she was pacing back and forth," thought Ronald to himself.� She may be thinking of how she could make it up to him with a delivery of balloons or something.� The possibilities bounced in his head as he climbed, one stair following the other. ����������� After what seemed like a dozen staircases, he found himself in front of his bedroom door.� It was closed.� The cute little flowers hanging in the center of the door, which his wife had brought back when they were in what Ronald at that moment had believed to be their happiest years together, were protruding right at his face.� The noise had not died, but merely lost strength. ����������� The handle turned and the door opened.� Although it made no sound, Ronald could just imagine the noise it would make to suit his nervous, in-the-dark trembling if he was in one of those horror movies he never really liked.� No light shined from inside the room.� The window generated only enough light to make itself apparent, nothing else.� Ronald could identify the now muffled sound that had stalked him from the living room.� It was the sound made so often by his own feet as he made his way from his bed to the door every morning. The creaking sound of the floorboards groaning from the pressure of his weight made his stomach churn in the creepy blackness. Just ahead of where he was standing, huddled on the floor, was his wife.� He was sure that there in the silence he could hear her gasping for breath after tiny breath. ����������� He finally found the strength deep down inside himself to muster up something to say. "Mary?" he whispered.� The soft grinding noise of the floorboards faded. She had been rocking back and forth in her spot on the floor for some unknown time.� Ronald wondered exactly how long she had sat there silently in the dark with only her thoughts to converse with.� A twisted sense of silence entered into the room. ����������� Ronald reached his now shaking hand out to touch his wife.� "I'm sorry if I made you upset.� I love you, Mary."� His hand came to a pause as it made contact, not with her sweater, but with her flesh.� He moved his hand upward, never letting his touch leave her naked skin.� His fingers passed the chain of the Medusa Pendant, which she still wore even in this chaotic state.� His damp palm came to rest on her cheek, which felt warm and moist to the touch. ����������� Panic began to steam into his chest and he could feel it expanding, pressing his lungs together and squeezing the air out of them.� There were scratches across the face of his wife.� Deep cuts covered her, some of them recent, some of them already beginning to coagulate. Ronald's toes curled as he felt around the rest of her head for any other injuries.� Before long he found that her hair was a tangle mess that seemed to come freely away from her head without any effort.� Mary sat silently as her husband surveyed the damage she had done to herself.� His breathing began to violently accelerate.� He was on the verge of crying. She knew then that is was time. ����������� There was pain.� Ronald felt a sharp, cool sting in his stomach.� If bore its way into him like a drill, making him gasp in terror.� "Mary..." was all Mister White could say before the pain in his stomach consumed his ability to rationalize any further.� He grasped the handle of the weapon he had just been attacked with.� His wife had just stabbed him with her pair of sewing scissors.� She leaned forward and wrapped her other hand around his neck. ����������� "I love you too, Ronald.� I promise we will always be together." ����������� There was a final jerk, and then Ronald heard nothing but ringing in his ears before he fell silent. ******************************************************************************************************************************************** "So you see, officer, poor Mr. White didn't expect what he got, but it was what he had asked for.� I just gave him what he wanted." ����������� I hadn't noticed the sweat that had collected in my palms.� Was this guy for real?� He had just stood there behind his disgusting counter and accounted each and every detail that had happened to both Mary and Ronald White. ����������� "Tell me, Alchemist, how did you learn so much about the demise of Mister White?� I doubt very much that the Sunday New York Times included as much detail as you seemed to have picked up."� I was sure this little troll had more secrets for me to find. ����������� Once again he coughed up that stupid little laughter and smirked at me.� "My artifacts all seem to find their way back to me when their owners no longer have need for them." ����������� A collaborator; I knew it.� The Alchemist had a friend helping him out.� This new guy probably had some fucked up name as well, like the Wizard or the Boogieman.� Well, whatever his name was, it was going down on the list right below those disgusting looking jars of contraband the Alchemist was hiding right in the open. ����������� "Well I am sure that those of us down at the station would be more than interested in what you have to say.� Maybe you and I should go for a little ride?" ����������� "Oh I am sure," he said as if to finish my sentence off for me, "that I can tell you and your friends a great many things indeed." ����������� Dammit, what was he up to now?� He was trying to intimidate me.� Well, I had to hand it to the little son of a bitch; he was good at what he did.� I figured, fuck the station.� This little creep was going to tell me everything even if I had to squeeze it out his asshole.� "What do you know little man?" ����������� He said nothing.� Turning, he moved slowly towards a doorway that led into some other unseen room.� Raising his open palm, he motioned for me to follow.� "Mr. Martin, please?" ����������� He led me into what I figured to be his storeroom.� All the really creepy stuff that didn't show up in the front window or around the supersaturated desk in the front was in here.� The stench of rotting vegetables and turpentine made my nose hairs burn.� The shifty man crept over to a dusty bookcase leaning up against the wall.� It was overstocked with papers and books that looked ancient. ����������� "Do a little reading in your spare time there?" I said.� Appreciating the joke, he cracked a smile. ����������� "It is, by far the greatest source of wisdom known to man, mister police man."� Turning to the books, he began running his finger across the spines of the dozens of tomes. A thin layer of dust trailed behind where his bony little digit slid. After searching through three whole rows of books, he came across what he was apparently looking for, and began to remove it from its slot between two other books. It was a monstrous collection of brown fading papers that almost tipped the little man off his feet. ����������� "What the hell is that?" I asked.� It looked as though it had more than ten thousand pages in it, and it had been sitting long enough to match a year to every page. ����������� The Alchemist dropped the book on a small dusty table nearby with a potent crash.� "This, Mister Martin, is perhaps the oldest book in my store." ����������� "No kidding?� I couldn't tell." ����������� The mischievous little man looked at me without blinking.� "Do you believe in the undead, mister police man?" ����������� I froze.� There was no way in hell that his little freak was going to tell me that he had brought people back to life.� It's impossible.� "Get real.� You can't scare me with that Halloween bullshit." ����������� He remained where he was.� It was obvious that he was trying his hardest to creep me out with that dead look in his eye.� He laid his hand down on the book.� "I had a costumer once that believed, very mush so, in life after life." ����������� I should have just left right then and there, but I didn't.� The old man began prattling on, once again. |
| Dan's Notes: This was my final project for my OAC writing class. Pretty much all I read is Stephen King, so I thought I would take a shot at some horror material. WARNING: There are elements of violence and some course language involved in this story. Just FYI. |
 |
|
|
| This is my writing. If you want to rip it off, there really isn't much I can do to stop you, but you will be shunned in your next life. If you have something to say about it or want to comment, critisize, or question something, then head to the guest book and speak your mind there, or e-mail me personally. |
   |
| My e-mail: [email protected] |
 |
| Part two: |
 |
 |
| The Medusa Pendant (C) Copywritten 2001 |