Dark Messenger

Friday Flash Fiction

Dark Messenger

By Nomar Knight

He vanished, leaving me standing with my mouth open.  I scanned the surrounding woods with my only aid being a full moon and a sprinkle of sparkling stars.  Gripping the porch banister, I recalled the oddity that struck my gut when I first laid eyes on the man.  He had to be over six feet tall.  A black overcoat and dark fedora made him appear real to me.  But how did he disappear?

I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye.  On such a breezeless night, a pair of bushes swayed as if something had pushed through them.  Every fiber of my being screamed for me to forget what I saw and go back into the cottage.  The allure of safety was disrupted by more movement.

Once again the man reappeared, this time to my left.  He tilted his black fedora yet I couldn’t spot his eyes.

“Trickery of light,” I mumbled.

He had gaunt cheeks and a sturdy chin.  It seemed his gray complexion fused to his countenance.  It was almost as if he wore a surreal mask.

“What do you want?”

I could have sworn I spoke yet my voice didn’t carry through the night air.  The stranger spun and vanished for a second time.

Logic abandoned me, though I wondered if he was a magician.  Something about the man sent a burning sensation spiraling through my gut.  As if my soul had access to ancient knowledge that I couldn’t attain in this lifetime.  Somehow, the man’s identity remained hidden within the confines of memory.  However, I sensed those memories didn’t belong to me.

“Atticus!  You shouldn’t stay out there too long, honey.  The insects will eat you alive.”

“Yes mother!”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.  Although my mother spent most of her hours catering to her new boyfriend, she still found time to baby me.

I whispered, “I’m eighteen, not eight.”

I spun, upon hearing movement by the bushes.  The man in black stood facing me with his head lowered, the hat still shielding his face.  I decided to speak to him with my thoughts.

“Where do I know you from?”

He lifted his head.  Like a sculpture coming to life, his facial features became more detailed.  Thin lips curled into a snarl.  A chiseled nose filled his face.  And the blank eyes formed into what appeared to be cat’s eyes.  Shades of gray surrounded his shiny gold pupils.

Without moving his lips he said, “I’m your reminder.”

Speaking aloud, I asked, “Reminder of what?”

Once again my words didn’t carry into the physical realm, but remained trapped within the threshold of my mind.  It was as if I could not break through an unseen barrier.  Before I could ask for more clarification, the man faded into the night air.

“You’re not gone.  It’s a trick!  Tell me, a reminder of what?”

“What did you say, honey?”

My mother opened the front door, stuck her head out, and stretched her neck to peer behind me.

“Who are you talking too?”

I shook my head.  “No one.”

Sleep became difficult.  Every time I shut my eyes, I kept hearing the man in black whispering, “I’m your reminder.”

It wasn’t until I actually slept, that corridors of time began to send clarity my way through a beam of white light.  I stepped through the rays, shielding my eyes.  Once my vision adjusted, I spotted the man in black.  He spun and faced me with his eerie snarl.

“What were you supposed to remind me of?”

He glared at me with his catlike eyes and shouted, “Save your mother!”

Screams!

I woke to piercing screams.  Then I jumped out of bed with my heart practically in my mouth until bursting through her bedroom door.  My vision focused on a man dressed in black, his body on top of my mother, strangling her with a chord.

“Get off her!”

I tackled the monster and we both fell off the bed.  His fedora scooted away revealing his face, leaving me numb.

“Father, what are you doing?”

He punched my face.  The sting on my cheek sent a nauseating pain to my head.  While I was dazed, I heard my mother choking.  From the corner of my eye, I spotted her current boyfriend sitting on a chair.  A knife protruded out of his bloody chest.

“No!”  Mother pleaded.

Once again my father jumped on my mother.  I didn’t understand how he had gotten out of jail.  I pulled the knife off the stiff and lunged at my father, plunging the blade in his back.

As my father struggled for life next to my terrified mother, I spotted the stranger in black.  He grinned at me, tipped his hat and vanished.

Till this day I could never fully understand who the stranger in black was or where he came from.  Though I suspected he came from another time, a dimension beyond my current understanding.  Each night, before I slept, I prayed to see the dark messenger so I could thank him for helping me save my mother.

Each day I’d wake up and say, “We will meet again, my dark friend.  I’m sure of it.”

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2012. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Flash Fiction Presentation.

Till Death Do We Part

Till Death Do We Part

By Nomar Knight

I glide through fog, dodging dying trees, listening for your heartbeat.  Anger beckons me like a moth to a flame.  Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t find you?  With one furious strike you plunged the blade into my chest and left me to die in this godforsaken forest. 

The sound of splintered branches stops me cold.  I tremble, not from fear, but intense anticipation.  I shut my eyes to allow your retreat to guide me, when chills run along my spine as your broken whimpers lift up my spirit. 

I whisper, hoping my voice can break through clouded barriers.  “I’m coming for you, darling.”

Never one for confrontation, I had shied away from revealing the truth, that I knew you had a forbidden lover.  I clutch my aching chest, still in awe of your reaction to my illuminating revelation.  Peeking up at the starless heaven, I wonder how you could plunge the blade and destroy all that we once were. 

More whimpers lead me to adjust my course and travel west.  The sound of something dragging on drenched terrain, just ahead, adds to my desire to make things right.

The temptation to call out and ask if you’re hurt is silenced by my need to surprise you.  How could you know that I’m extraordinary?  Your violent reaction forced me to tear my shirt and make a tourniquet to control the bleeding. 

Somewhere in the midst of white blindness, I sense you rise, step hard on the ground and hear you cry out as your body lands with a thud. 

I step closer and at last the fog lifts just enough to reveal you holding a swollen ankle. 

“Who’s there?”

Desperation rings from your voice.  I stop, surprised that I don’t attack you.  There are so many things I want to tell you, so much love left inside me to give. 

I glance at my right hand and realize my knuckles turned white for the tight grip on the knife’s handle serves to transfer my pain. 

“Honey, I’m coming for you.”

I step through, marveling at how the purity of the clouds surrounds us.  Your gaping mouth and trembling body increases my desire to have you. 

“This can’t be.  You’re dead.”

You bury your head in your hands and shudder.  Each sob stabs sorrow into my heart. 

“I’m sorry, Nestor.” You say, “I didn’t know what else to do.  I panicked.”

I drop the knife, step closer and gently pull down your hands.  Our eyes meet.  “We’re married for better or worse.”

With nose running and cheeks filled with tears, you sigh, “I cheated.  I’m sorry.”

“We can get passed this.”

“But I stabbed you in the heart.  How can you be alive?”

I reach to stroke your hair, never expecting you to push me to the ground.  I land on my back and watch with horror as you lunge for the knife.  

“Why won’t you just die?”

You take the blade and jab at my foot, coming within an inch of reaching my shoe. 

“This doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Die!  You bastard!”

You slither forward and plunge the knife down, narrowly missing my crotch. 

I grab your wrist, reverse our positions, and put my weight on your chest, struggling to keep the blade off both our necks. 

“Stop it!  I love you!”

“I hate you!”

Your words maim me more than any weapon ever could.  I gather enough air and whisper, “Why?”

“Because you’re my brother.”

I disarm you and roll on my back until I’m sitting against a tree stump.  I watch as your body shakes and you reach into the back of your jeans pocket and pull out a folded paper. 

“Take it.”

I yank the paper, unfold it and read your birth certificate.  Low and behold, your father’s name matches mine. 

“I didn’t know.”

Without warning, you reach for the knife, shoving it while still in my grip toward my wound. 

“Die!”

I had heard rumors about father being locked away in a mental institution.  Schizophrenia they called it.  I read about how it’s possible for a family member to suffer from the same illness. 

I push the tip of the knife off my bleeding chest and with one swift motion; slice the blade across your throat.  Blood squirts on my face, forming sanguinary tears. 

“I’m sorry you got father’s sickness.  I could have helped you.”

I stroke your matted hair as you lie on the ground, choking on your own blood.

“The funny thing about genes, I inherited another condition he had.  I inherited situs inversus.  That’s when the organs are reversed.”

I guide your hands to the middle of my chest, closer to the right side.  “This is where my heart is.”

I cry when I see the sparkle of life abandon your eyes.

“Till death do we part, my darling sister, my darling bride.”

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2011. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Flash Fiction Presentation.

The Mirror Sees You

By Nomar Knight

The Mirror Sees You

By Nomar Knight

They say if you stare at a mirror long enough, your reflection may disappear and otherworldly manifestations may show you either past lives, or provide spiritual guidance. 

            Constance stared at the black mirror for over an hour.  Smoke from the incense coiled up past the mirror.  Two candles at opposite sides remained lit, but out of view.  Religious statues sat on opposite sides, including a pendant of the archangel Michael.  The Triangle of Solomon stood closest to her in the makeshift altar.

            She sighed, “Come on!  This Scrying stuff is hard.”

            Apprehension tied a noose around her throat.  She stretched her neck, doing her best to crack tension away.  It had been a month since her husband, Lyle, died.  She had heard from a woman in her culinary classes that this method was effective and cheaper than seeing a psychic. 

            “Take a deep breath, Connie.” 

            She inhaled and slowly exhaled.  After another twenty minutes, smoke seemed to come out of the mirror.  Triangle shapes floated inside, replacing her reflection.  She struggled to maintain her posture and concentration. 

            Constance whispered, “I need to talk to you, Lyle.  Please come, it’s important.”

            A bat flew around the inside of the mirror.  Its red eyes scowled at her, gnashing sharp teeth.

            “Come on Lyle.  You lazy…”

            A man’s image appeared.  At first, a haze revealed the silhouette of a head, but like a camera’s lens focusing to provide clarity, she stood stunned to see her late husband’s baffled expression.

            “Connie?”

            “Lyle, you look amazing.”

            “I may have been thirty years older than you, but I was young at heart.”

            Constance snorted, “You died trying to make love to me.”

            “We have mirrors here too.  I saw what you did.”

            Constance slammed a fist on the altar. 

            “Where did you put the insurance policy?”

            He shook his head and glared at her.

            “I swear…”  She bit her lip.  After a few seconds, she grinned.  “Guess who I’m going to pick up tomorrow?”

            “Who?”

            “Your precious grandson.  I have a special meal prepared for him.”

            Although she enjoyed taunting her late husband, she fidgeted and tugged at her blouse.  The room’s temperature increased.

            “If anything happens to him…”

            “What?  What can you possibly do to me?  You’re dead and useless.  Some things never change.”

            His eyebrows furrowed.  A glimmer of violet flashed in his gray eyes. 

            “The papers you need are in the attic, inside the antique armoire, taped to the bottom of the top drawer.” 

            “Thank you, Lyle.  You’ll be happy to know that I’ve met someone new.  He’s older than you and thanks to a magic blue pill; he keeps me satisfied all night.”

            “Just remember, we have mirrors on this side too.  I’ll be watching.”

            He vanished behind a cloud of black smoke. 

            She stared at her reflection, beaming.  “You can watch me all you want.”

            She hurried to the top floor of the house and pulled down the stairs which led to the attic.  She flipped a light switch, illuminating the dusty space.  She pulled the drawer, found the insurance policy with her and Lyle’s grandson named as sole beneficiaries and danced. 

            “Three million dollars!  Thank you Lyle, I’ll feed your grandson the same poison I did you.”

            Constance took the stairs with a new zest for life.  In fact, she didn’t concentrate on something as mundane as descending steps.  She tumbled, rolled, and landed with a harsh thud. 

            When she woke, excruciating pain shot up her right leg.  Her knee was shattered.  She checked her pockets and recalled leaving her cell phone on the altar below.  As she negotiated the hall, she glanced at a painting of Lyle.  The eyes followed her every move.  She thought she heard an echo.  It sounded like his voice saying, we have mirrors here too.  I’m watching you.

            She dragged herself, amid a ton of screaming, into her bedroom.  Her affliction for mirrors took on new meaning.  On every wall, a mirror showed her struggling to reach her bed.  She tore a sheet and yelled as she tied it around her knee. 

            Whispers!  A whispering wind bounced off the mirrors.  A white mist showed itself from each reflection. 

            “What’s happening?”

            At first it she thought bees buzzed, creating an eerie echo.  But then the sound became clearer. 

            “I see you.  Killer!  Killer!  Killer!  Killer!”

            “This isn’t real.  It can’t be happening.”

            Lyle’s angry image surrounded her.  On the mirrored ceiling his imaged seemed to peel through and descend upon her. 

            Just when she saw his face inches away from her nose, he vanished. 

            Constance laughed. 

            “I don’t care what you do.  You can’t hurt me.  And do you know why, Lyle?  Because you’re dead!”

            She clutched the policy in her hand and kissed it.  As soon as she looked up again, the mirrors shattered.  A busted knee became the least of her worries.  Shards of broken glass sliced into her body.  A big chunk cut through her throat.  Constance bled to death. 

            Her last thoughts: as long as you have mirrors, you’re never alone.  We can see you.  We know what you’re doing.

-          849 words

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2011. All rights reserved. 

A Knight Chills flash fiction.

A Stranger Among Men

This is what the character saw .

A Stranger Among Men

By Nomar Knight

To be trapped within human skin is depressing.  A different breed of man walks the snow filled streets of New York in search of the ultimate vision.  Everywhere he turns the promise of adventure— less than a stone's throw from his ragged life form.  As he flies out of his body the view of rugged walkers, pouncing on packed ice, shifts to a concrete ant farm.  Busy humanoid insects scurry to and fro, all with a specific purpose.  Some with survival on their minds, but most dilly about lost in their world of problems and aspirations.  Sensing he’d get blown away with the angry wind, he pops back into his borrowed host, his skin warm as gloves cover hands, boots protect feet.  

At first he moves toward a large window.  Sea creatures displayed in barrels, waiting for the humans to consume them, reminds him of the natural law of life.  The weak succumb to the strongest.  Stuck in the land of earthlings with nothing but a fragile host to maintain him, he sloshes across the icy walkway, wondering the significance of his journey.  

“Get out of the way!”  

A miniature female with hunched back and a walking stick shoves him aside.  Before he could inquire as to her pressing manner, she sneers at him and utters, “Damn slow foreigners.” 

He continues along the narrow shoveled path, dancing off patches of ice as if hitting the ground will be the end of him.  He stops in front of another large display window.  The red sign above it reads 99 ¢.  He enters the store and is immediately greeted by a smiling gentleman with narrow eyes.  In the land he’s in, he notices many humans have the same features.  In addition to the eyes, they appear smaller than he in size.  Soft black hair covers their scalp.  Most of them wear hats, others hoods.  He wears a black hat covered by a skull hood sweater.  

“Can I help you?”  

A soft voice gets his attention.  A woman with shiny black hair and narrow eyes grins.  

Sound.  He needs to generate sound out of his mouth like the rest of them.  “Just observing.”  He rubs a gloved finger against his throat. 

He spots a pale green box.  Upon opening it, he discovers two brass balls.  He thinks about eating one, but decides against it.  Just then, he hears voices booming by the front of the store.  

“I ain’t paying for nothing.” A thin, dark skinned male waves dismissively at the older gentleman. 
 

“You pay or I call police!”

The young brute flattens the old man with one kick.  The lady, who moments earlier offered hospitality, screams obscenities at the violent offender.    

Out of sheer instinct, the observer decides the two balls are not for nourishment.  He flings one of them at the disturber of peace and strikes him on his right temple.  The kicker of old men drops as if his life is plucked away by an angry god.  

The observer pockets the other ball and leaves the worried patrons as he rushes back into the cold street.  While he stumbles along China Town and makes his way to a section called Little Italy, filled with places for humans to dine, he surmises that the concrete jungle is not designed to withhold all this snow.  

-          552 words

These were a few observations I made on my journey through New York’s China Town.  Real life isn’t so bad.  The real villains weren’t the people, but the dreaded snow packed ice, slush, and slick streets of the concrete jungle.   

After all the holiday eating, I welcomed the opportunity to lose a few pounds.  

Don’t worry, I didn’t harm anyone.  I think. 

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2010. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills presentation.

I Can See Clearly

The new neighbor flashes a smile. Yellow teeth intersperses between thin lips. Peach fuzz paints a thin mustache. Most girls would fall for a face like his, at least until he smiles, but something doesn’t seem right. At first I think one of his eyes is lower than the other, but the illusion wears off when he stops beaming. There’s something about the way he looks at me. I recall seeing that same stare when I was a child and I didn’t know any better than to hold the lion’s steady gaze at the zoo.


The guy brushes his black hair off his left eyebrow and says, “Howdy neighbor. I’m Ben,” extending his right hand. I don’t take it, concerned about the red stuff on his fingers. He chuckles, “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s ketchup.”


“I’m Morgan.” I leave him at his apartment door, alone with his stupid grin. I sense his stare penetrate my backside as I ascend the stairs. My internal evil detector works well.


Upon entering my studio apartment, thoughts of my ability to see people for what they truly are allows me to focus on my purpose in life. Ben lives in apartment 1A. He probably fools everyone else, but I know that on the first full moon he’ll turn into a werewolf.


I go to my nightstand and load regular bullets into my .38 caliber revolver. I’ve dealt with his kind before. The whole killing them with silver bullets is a myth. My attention deviates toward whimpers originating from the bathroom. I unlock the door and enter pointing the weapon.


The shower curtain is ripped off its aluminum pole. “Good morning Cassie.”


My neighbor from apartment 3B remains partially covered with the plastic curtain. Wide, brown eyes full of tears blink at a furious rate. I think about stripping the duct tape off her mouth, but I worry she might cast a spell.


I grin, “Cassie, you really shouldn’t have made that doll.” She had told me a lame story about it being a Barbie, but like me, it has red hair. My grandmother taught me that nothing’s a coincidence.


I turn on the water faucet, plugging the drain. “Is it true that in the old days they drowned witches?”


She whimpers, squirming in the tub, trying her best to slither out of her restraints. “Guess what Cassie? We have a new neighbor. He’s a werewolf.”


The evil witch pleads with her eyes. I check my watch. “Oh my goodness, there’s only an hour left before sundown. I have to go next door to your boyfriend Carl’s apartment before he wakes up. I never knew witches dated vampires.”


With gun in hand, I trot out of my apartment. I don’t have a wooden stake, but I am wearing a crucifix. Anyway, I believe a good old bullet through the heart will work just as well. I break into Carl’s place and am stunned to find him sleeping on a bed. I imagine coffins are too expensive, with the recession and all. Right then, I vow to get rid of the vermin in Washington as soon as I clean this place of evil monsters. It’s amazing how many people are blind to their surroundings, but not me. I can see clearly.


I guess it’s true what my grandma used to say. A woman’s work is never done.




- 560 words


© Copyright 2010 Nomar Knight. All rights reserved.

Monsters Need Jobs Too

I stepped inside the unemployment office expecting people to react to my presence. Instead, I found everyone worrying about their own problems and distracting themselves with the latest gadgets. I waited behind a tall teenager with spikes for hair. His jeans looked like they were shot with an Uzi sub-machine gun. The random holes showed pale skin. He bobbed his head as if he had Parkinson’s. A set of skull faced headphones covered his ears. I thought about asking him to turn the music down when I noticed a foul odor. A woman in her mid fifties stood behind me jabbing her fingers in one of those high tech phones.

I loosened my shirt collar, annoyed that the multitude of destitute souls soaked up the air-conditioning. I decided to see if I could freak her out so I faced the woman and asked, “Excuse me Miss, but do you have the time?”

Without glancing at me she said, “It’s eight o’clock.”

I almost fell back when her breath hit my face. I wanted to peek inside her mouth to verify if she had a dead possum in there. Disappointment struck me again. I longed for the old days when my life had purpose. The fact she didn’t react to my charred face irked me. About forty-five minutes later, I stood in front of a Plexiglas window trying to look through the clerk’s dark glasses.

“I need your name and social security number.” The woman’s voice revealed she was three packs away from dying of lung cancer.

I gave her my number, but not my name.

Looking at her computer screen, the old lady said, “It says your name is Bogey Man.”

“No, that’s Boogey Man.”

She sighed, “What did you dedicate your life to doing?”

“Exactly what the name implies. I was a boogey man.”

She took off her glasses, rose from a chair and gazed into my eyes. “You don’t look scary to me.”

I balled my hands into fists, tempted to punch a hole through the glass. “I’m here because kids don’t believe in me anymore. All this damn technology’s driving me crazy!”

The crowd’s murmurs stopped. I hadn’t realized I was shouting. Lowering my tone I continued, “I used to hide under the bed and even tried shaking the darn thing, but the freakin’ kids played their video games, or stayed talking on cell phones for hours. Eventually, hiding under the bed turned into sleeping under the bed. So I tried hiding in the closet and making noises. They couldn’t hear me with all the loud music coming out of their ears!”

I had attempted to stop raising my voice, but I couldn’t. The woman put her glasses back on and sat down. She gathered a few forms and shoved them at me. “Fill these out. Times are bad. There aren’t enough jobs to go around.”

I wiped sweat off my brow and tried not to sound desperate, “There has to be something I could do.”

The old lady grimaced. I couldn’t tell if she was thinking or constipated. “There are two positions you might qualify for.” She struck the keyboard with two fingers. “You can become a priest which takes time to train.”

I knew most priests were good men, but after a lifetime of scaring children, I didn’t want to be labeled that kind of monster. “What’s the other position?”

She leaned toward the glass and gestured for me to get closer. “This is unofficial of course, but the government is looking for ugly guys like you who won’t mind torturing terrorists.” She flicked her fingers to create quotes around the word terrorists.

At last I could feel hope oozing out of my hairy pores. “How much does the job pay?”

She said, “You get room and board in a cell next to the captured heathens, a thousand dollars a month in expenses and all the sex you can muster with that woman.” She pointed at possum breath.

So it came down to becoming what many people distrusted—priesthood, or doing the zombie. “I’ll be a torturer.”

The clerk smiled and when I faced zombie breath again, she batted her eyes at me. I mumbled, “Oh goody.”


- 703 words

Odd Surprise

Six-year-old Mona Peterson watched a quartet of flies buzz in and out of a gap in the wooden planks on the living room floor. Her hazel eyes followed the pests as they flew in a circular pattern. Every few seconds one fly would break ranks and plunge into an opening. The others followed, disappeared for an instant, and then came out to begin the strange routine again.

After three minutes of witnessing this odd behavior, Mona peeked in the dark hole. Nothing was visible. Each time the flies exited the gap, she moved her head out of the way. When they flew in, she opened her right eye wide, hoping to discover the reason for the insects’ odd behavior.

“Honey, what are you doing?” Mona’s babysitter asked.

The little girl glanced towards the sofa but quickly returned her gaze to the floor.

“Mona, are you sad that your daddy was rushed to the hospital? Don’t worry, he’ll be alright.”

Mona continued to focus on the morbid aerial show.

“Mona?” The babysitter rose from the sofa and stood over the little girl. “What are you doing?”

Mona pointed at the flies and said, “They’re playing peek-a-boo.”

The sitter crouched next to Mona and with a key, jimmied the loose floorboard. All of a sudden, the four flies sprung out followed by ten more. Mona’s loud screams carried throughout the house. Inside the hole lay a bloody finger with her father’s gold wedding band still on it.


245 words