The Malignant Son of the Sun

H.L. Dowless

The sun was nearing the tree tops on that crispy, lightly blustery day in late October. I had seen the unsettling image of a ghastly phantom with hoodlike voids where the eyes should be, rippling in a natural pool of water half filling an old well by the gilded classical-styled plantation home the day before, said to be oozing nectar from a nearby stand of sacred ambrosia trees. The image instructed me carefully in regard to what was expected of me. The enemy is all about, it informed me. My expected duty to be performed was simply programmed into my very inner being.

The prevailing sensation of the present day felt to be timeless. I fantasized that a native warrior was lurking somewhere behind the larger tree trunks. I was born a day late and a dollar short, I always said, I thought to myself as a powerful motivation inexplicably pulled me toward the thick yaupon, cat claw, and pokeberry woods.

Every time I entered, the ground was nearly always damp. The terrain abruptly sloped. On the high side the thickets were scattered with black oak, loblolly pine and bay trees. As the ground sloped, the oak trees vanished, and even midday sunlight was shaded in a type of lingering darkness. A strange intoxicating vapor hung heavily in the air after twelve in the day. Might it be the scent exuding from the many lotus lilies found in the swamp runs, or the mandrake growing along its banks? Could it be a vapor emitting from the many wild poppies found growing throughout the wood stand, not to mention the mystifying belladonna rose so common here? Might this enrapturing vapor be so common in these parts due to the actions of midnight sorcerers, timeless cults, phantom spectra moving about, or mysterious reasons I could never begin to fathom?

The wrens, warning thrush, bluebirds, blue jays, cardinals and sparrows sang cheerfully while they fluttered among the gumtree and bay tree limbs above and around me as I moved silently on the damp forest floor. Since early childhood I had mastered the art of harvesting game and collecting wild edibles from my surroundings. Fish and reptiles were easiest to harvest and my environment was filled with them. Next came birds. Number 8-12 fish-hooks collected them both on my behalf. Ducks, bass, catfish and alligator snapping turtles didn't stand a chance with me around. Maypop, reed shoots, blackberry leaves, deer cabbage, rock tripe, wood tripe, and ramps kept me and many other people sustained throughout the year. I had barnyard rat traps set and other sets made, but these were not what was calling me into the woods today.

As I moved along, an invading entity seemed to possess me in spite of all that I could do to prevent this from occurring. I resisted with all that I could muster at first, then I kind of relished the general sensation. Now I was a panther, moving silently along. I ignored the deer munching green grass thinking he was veiled, yet he never saw me. I ignored the scampering rabbits who bounced a few hops away, then paused. I could have easily nailed any one of them with a simple slingshot, or much better yet, my small Cricket loaded with CCI shorts.

Once years before, I actually walked up on an adult rabbit, seizing him before he was aware enough to escape. He scratched me, but I killed him by slamming his head up against an oak tree. Once I caught a baby deer with my bare hands in the woods. I carried him in the house to my mother, saying, "Look mother, at what I caught!" I placed him down on the living room floor, but then carried him back where I caught him and let him go. Mother was astonished and highly approving of me returning this baby deer to the wild.

A squirrel scampers, barks a few raspy barks, then briskly scampers up a tree with his tail curled up over his head. In an instant many squirrels leap here and there from limb to limb above. I could have easily collected a month's worth of meat, but I let all of it go free. I had my share already salted, dried, and packed away.

Forward along I move, taking each silent step, moving always ahead. My shirt was dull green and yellow stained, as were the leaves still yet in the trees. My face was smeared with soot and mud. Here inside the thicket I was invisible. I had power, especially at night. My eyes had adapted to traveling in the forest and fields by the light of a crescent moon. Not only did wool make me silent and invisible, it retained my body heat. Not even the most fancy expensive thermal imaging devices could spot me to a degree adequate enough for making a solid human identification. I was fully aware of this fact and therefore took complete advantage of it.

Perceptions of time fled from me while in this state of being. Gradually darkness prevailed across the land. That being said, the stars and the crescent Moon gave light. My eyes adapted well. In the shadows I could clearly see possum and coon, moving deer, and humans, especially those seeking me out. These mattered not a single twittle to me. Still I moved forward along.

Soon, I silently approached the ruins of a magnificent plantation estate, while remaining veiled in good leafy cover. The vision I beheld was beyond spectacular. The spectrum I perceived immediately beyond me from where I paused, was inviting. Hark! I perceive a voice, a singing, poetic serenade! From whence cometh the source? An angelic source and an echoing, enchanting, singing heart song. Truly a marvelous soul serenade! Might she dwell amid these dilapidated ruins? I move forward, compelled by the divine, this sweet cherub wonder, such a delightful inviting spectrum.

A form behind a stand of evergreen leaves I spy. She did not realize I had located her. She continued singing her bedazzling wind song, though her lips and her body remained totally stationary. My mind raced, flicking perfect portraits of standing, dense, leafy autumn hardwood trees, these same leaves and limbs now thrashing wildly in the wind, thunder, lightning, nude female bodies laying upon beds of rose petals, beautiful beckoning female faces with dripping blood red lips on those delicate bodies. Lightning flashes, multidirectional winds howl. The astonishingly beautiful faces instantly transform into those of a reptilian, with lizards' bodies, then pigs, then half decaying corpses, then back into their original form again, while the arms and hands motion for me to move intimately inward.

My name whispers on the howling wind. I abruptly reappear inside the plantation ruins, standing inside the foyer, now in the parlor room. I sense a heavy imperceptible presence filling the parlor room. I instantly reappear inside a bedroom with an elegant canopy bed standing near a light sapphire wall before me, yet somewhat away from it simultaneously. Suddenly a mysteriously heavy compelling passion overwhelms me as a flash of lightning illuminates the pervading bleakness inside this room.

Her form appeared in a flash of lightning and an extended roll of thunder, seated on the edge of the bed in a light peach-tinted silken Empire-waist dress. Her hair of sandy flaxen enticingly splashed upon her delicate shoulders. Her cleavage protruded marvelously from behind a very mistlike diamond-studded veil. She smiles broadly, opening her legs and motioning me inward with her left index finger. My heart races wildly, to a point where I first felt my front torso might explode, then I felt as though I might hyperventilate.

She gracefully reaches behind her back and her delicate silken dress slides from her immaculate body. I glance down upon mine and I am totally nude! However, I silently vow to myself I will never lay my hand on this tainted diabolical doll! I behold a heavy bleak void in an instant, then suddenly I am standing immediately before her nude body, with both of her legs spread wide apart. I stoop to kiss the ruby lips, now suddenly dripping with thick blood.

The bleak void instantly returns, then it vanishes in a flash of lightning and a lengthy roll of thunder. She is delighting me with an indescribable, unimaginable fellatio performance. After the passing of some time, I know not how much, I sense a swelling rise inside my body. When I reach a point of near explosion, the bleak gloom suddenly returns.

A delicately arched nude posterior is now immediately before me as I suddenly find myself underneath a Louis XV-style feather bed and canopy. The passion surges white hot throughout my own entire being with so much ferocious intensity that I simply cannot forebear. I leap without any forethought or hesitation, thrashing wildly until my torso feels as if it might suddenly give way, or my back will crash out on me. I grit my teeth in my intense savoring of the exuding pleasure found in my actions, to a point where I felt they might shatter.

This delicate face turns backward, facing me as I hammer away ferociously, giving in totally to the motivation inside. I kiss the ruby lips energetically as I continue thrashing wildly with all the strength I have to give. The lips drip heavy runs of thick blood in profuse streaks across my own lips, across my face, from my chin, down my neck and throat exterior. At first the taste is repulsive, being salty and metallic, like timeless pennies to a child, then like alluring, powerfully magnetising milk and honey combined. I gulp the blood down eagerly and heartily.

The lightning immediately flashed, brilliantly illuminating this room, while us two laid unabashedly entwined as the thunder abidingly rolled. This immensely elegant face is now reptilian. The once-ravishing body underneath me is now that of an ancient, wrinkled woman, then a young demonic child with very dark rings around her runny eyes, then a stye-stained pig, then a large gator, then a half-decaying corpse, then a series of multicolored lights, then a hideous pool of blood, then a more grotesque putrefying puddle of bleached bones and fresh dung there inside the elegant bed with me.

I wreath backward first in utter breath-sapping astonishment, then heavy disgust at myself and the level of depravity found in my own debauched actions. This sensation exuding itself inside my own inner being now was one of being a necrophiliac in a way I simply could never fathom, let alone explain.. I utterly detested the immense pleasure I felt during my nefarious actions, then hated myself dearly to a point of being suicidal afterward. The dense gloom instantly returned and when the sapphire lightning flashed again, an ageless ruin of a wooden room cracked and exposed to the outside exterior was all that remained of my unnatural experience, save the heavy irradiating inexplicable compulsion lingering inside me for more life-giving juice.

The lightning flashes, and in a drawn out roll of thunder I find myself outside again in the ancient forest, totally lost as far as my natural sense of direction goes. Here there are massive tulip poplars and beach trees. Every now and then I will encounter a chinquapin chestnut tree. The tulip poplars and the beach trees are often twelve feet or more in diameter, and well over one hundred feet tall. I have no idea where I am or how I arrived in this area of woods. I am aware that such timber tracts exist along the Waccamaw River. Is this where I might be at the present moment?

I've hunted, fished, and trapped the area many times over in my life. People claim buffalo reside in these parts of the forest along the river. I know large black bears thrive in the area. I have also witnessed the large mysterious black panther there. Often I dream of trapping one. His hide would be worth its weight in gold, especially if it was tanned out well and crafted into a coat or vest of some type. I'm good at such endeavors, just for the record. The area is interesting, to say the least.

Often one encounters hollow trees of these types mentioned. The insides of these trees, when they are hollow, are astonishing to spend time in. I found several once with a fire hearth constructed in the center of the floor. There was a bench large enough for a fully grown adult to sit comfortably on or sleep on. I found a rusted out pot and a tin military style canteen inside. A folded mess tin sat beside the hearth. The place appeared to have been lived in for some time. When I explored around inside the tree I noticed the wood rolled, forming a niche area along the wall of the tree. Here I discovered a sword with a brass handle and the letters CSA in the center. The entire setup appeared to have been created a week or a month ago, maybe. Here, where I presently am, I have yet to encounter any kind of hollow tree.

The light persisting throughout this wooded area is a mixture of shady dark areas and scattered spots of golden light. I amble along slowly, cautiously and silently. I possess power, I sense inside myself. I have allies, but I also have enemies. Often I do not know who my enemies are, but I can sense them. An eerie aura exudes from their very being. I can sense their very thoughts. Like the deer and the wolf, I can sense danger. Like the black panther, I persist in moving through the woods silently, forward along, motivated only by my external environmental sensations and gratification of my internal needs alone. There is no advance consideration of consequences or possible negative consequences. I seek out sources, or my sources stumble upon me, if they don't seek me out first. Often I discover new sources in those who I sense posing danger therein to me. Forces, or entities overtake me from time to time, and I find myself on these journeys, yet I recall not what acts I engage in while out. Why am I out like this down in the woods? I sense a presence inside the vegetation ahead, though I hear or see nothing. I immediately take cover inside the thick yaupon and reeds around me. I instantly freeze.

My stomach growls. It feels completely empty. I move my eyes alone, glancing all around. I see nor hear nothing, yet I know it's immediately ahead in the bush. Then I perceive a faint sound of dry twigs and leaves snapping and crunching. Might something be searching for me? Strangely enough, I hold what appears to be an infantryman's saber in my hand. Where did I find this? I glance down at the sword. The metal is solid heavy steel of the type that takes an edge very well and holds it to an acceptable level. The handle is of brand new white marble, with a perfectly clean, shiny golden brass guard. The guard and the handle ball tip are of this same metal. The sword itself appears to be brand new. In the center of the handle is an oval plate, with the old English capitalized letters, CSA, stamped into the center. Where did I find this at? My right hand gently glides along the edge of the blade. It's nothing less than razor sharp! My stomach growls again, but this time more loudly. I feel weak from the yearning for fresh blood and meat. Like the prowling panther, I immediately crouch behind a huge poplar beside me.

A form takes shape in the vegetation ahead of me. I perceive a sound of sniveling emanating from this form. I hear a muffled whisper call for "mother?" The form finally breaks cover very gently. It's a young female, a wood stand elf, from all appearances. She ambles, now nearly staggering in my direction, growing ever closer. What am I to do now? I freeze into a crouch behind the tree. I glance all around and spy nobody else to give concern. When the female is nearly upon me, I instinctively leap.

I find myself stabbing with the sword, utilizing all the might I had to give, until she lies face up in a pool of her own thick blood. Eagerly I rip the clothes from the child's body, lapping up the blood covering her corpse. In a low purring growl, I then rip into the succulent filling flesh with my teeth, tearing away entire chunks, chewing them while the luscious addictive flavor fills the eternal void of my entire being, and eventually swallowing them. The tasty pork-like flesh was soon gone from the female's upper arms and thighs. I had my complete fill after some time.

In the distance I could hear a flow of water. Indeed, there was a river! I tossed what remained of the child into this river. The turtles and the catfish would soon get what the 'gators and the red-breasts didn't take. The clothing saturates, slowly sinking to the bottom of the slow-moving river. What possessed me to do what I did? Did I truly commit this heinous act, or was it some sort of terrible dream?

A flash of new lightning and an extended rumble of thunder finds me easing through a rolling timber woods, approaching an old overgrown shack covered in wild ivy and morning-glory vines. I gently amble up, turn the door knob, and walk inside. There in the inside lies a crossbow on a very dusty table. This crossbow glitters in the shady day gloom of the wooded area and the inside of the overgrown cabin I'm presently in, and is both compact and powerful in appearance. I pick it up, butting the stock up tightly against my shoulder. My senses have not led me astray. The bow is small, yet compact rather than bulky and heavy. I draw back on the bow string, confirming what my senses already knew. I placed the firing end of the bow down on the floor of the shack, drawing the string back with my hands until it snapped firmly into the catch. I glance upon the table where the crossbow lay, and four razorhead bolts now lay where the crossbow once did. I don't recall seeing them there before.

I step outside the cabin door. In the distance I hear the hum and buzz of what seems to be a busy metropolis. Now it's the dark of night. The emitting sensation radiating forth from this metropolis buzz resembles one of an unsettling, incompatible, unfamiliar, imported, unexcelled and unaccomplished presence. This sensation subtly demands an accommodating address, I suddenly come to feel.

"Why replace sophisticated elegance and grand achievement with dung,"the question firmly whispered into my ears from lips I cannot perceive, "when astonishing accomplishment and elegance had already intermarried with the natural panorama and long established itself throughout the majestic landscape?"

I pass through an area of dark, narrow streets in the night gloom. I find myself taking cover in the many flowering hedges and behind the scattered trees. I soon stand before a Snagov style home inside an outward-spreading Appealathon community, tucked away in a different kind of hedge. A middle-aged man and an early teen youth exit out the door, ambling down the steps. Several more homes are nearby, in what was once from all appearances a fine stand of Greenbriar plantation estate timber I hunted, trapped, and camped in. The names on their mailboxes were names I could barely read, let alone pronounce, such as Noviak, Gomez, Horvath, Jean and Jovsnovic. This middle-aged man and the teenage boy stand in a distance before me totally unaware of my presence, chattering in a speech I know nothing of. The man appears angry at the boy, and the boy holds his ground in obvious defiance. I think I hear the words research, computer and workriding on the light night breeze.

A bitter resentment in an ideological conviction of displacement suddenly bears down firmly upon my inner soul. The crossbow raises, then butts up solidly against my right shoulder. The string is somehow cocked, the bolt lies in perfect place. The razor tip somehow aligns itself up on the middle-aged man's central breast area. The string releases with a light twang.

When the man collapses, the string automatically notches back and a second arrow now rests in place as the youth races back up toward the steps on the home, breathing heavily and turning to gaze outward toward the trees, but not in my direction. Again the stock butts itself tightly against my right shoulder. Somehow a second razorhead arrow rests in place. My index finger, seemingly on its own independent of my control, firmly and steadily pulls back the release. The youth melts down upon the steps leading to the large somewhat elegant porch of the home these two dwell in.

An inexplicable possession overtakes me, motivating me to move forward. A razor-edged Marine Corp Kabar knife is tightly held in my right hand. Where did this knife come from? Quickly and methodically I slice around the heads of the youth and the old man, from the eyebrows all the way around. I grab the still warm skin at the eyebrows, then peel the skin backwards from the skull, until it comes off. The hands of the youth and the older man are virtually studded with gem-laid rings. The youth sports a set of diamond-studded earrings. All of these rings I collect, placing them with a comfortable snap inside a silver decorated ivory inlaid pocket box I found inside the cabin where the crossbow was. To my utter astonishment, the man even carried a pocket watch inside a case with strange hieroglyphic writing engraved upon it, of what most certainly must be solid gold. These I smoothly drop inside my pants pocket. I turn, then step inside the waxing moon shadows of the nearby hedges and scattered trees.

Instantly it is now the light of day. I walk along the edge of a scattered wood stand surrounding an unfamiliar municipal district. I am in likeness of an entranced sleepwalker, compelled along and totally possessed by a mysterious power I simply cannot explain. I find myself instantly and inexplicably approaching a contemporary home I actually like to a small point, since it possesses an ultra-modernized version of classical architecture.

This home possesses a stone exterior, with a series of plain, undecorated stone columns attempting to imitate the texture of marble, yet possessing a type of pink terrazzo coloring. I take cover inside a set of nearby hedges. I have a powerful inner conviction that here inside this home resides the chief organizer of this community, the primary individual responsible for this Jovian society relocating into and residing where they presently do. Constantly these leaders congregate among themselves, occupying municipal admin offices out from the places where they dominate, utilizing their own ever-swelling numbers to forcefully pass laws robbing native citizens of all individualist rights, and to make them and their properties vulnerable to further displacement and future encroachment.

I perceive chatter and movement inside the home. There appears to be a household gathering. I will estimate maybe fifteen or sixteen individuals. There is a stir inside the foyer. Four men step outside upon the steps to drink among themselves, speak, and to smoke. They shift from a strange incomprehensible language into a heavily accented version of English I can barely comprehend. Yet indeed, I can comprehend a certain amount of this speech.

All of these individuals are donning long-sleeved outer coats. They are collarless, fall below the knees, and are buttoned down the front. They are colored black, dark green, sky blue, and red-orange. They don pants of an identical color. All four sport hands studded with gold jewelry, inlaid with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Around their necks are thin chains of gold, studded with gems and charms of bizarre hieroglyphics-like religious figures. One, in green, wears Shambala lotus II styled spectacles and has his hair shoulder length. Another in a sky blue coat wears his hair cut short, yet appears strikingly feminine in character. He sits around out on the steps twisting his head and smiling, appearing to deeply desire attention. The two in black and red appear to be inquisitive and attentive, awaiting some sort of address from the others.

This motley group chatters for a time in some incomprehensible language, then switch over into English. I can barely comprehend their heavily accented English. I imagine they must have originated from somewhere deep inside the bowels of the earth. I gasp as I simply can't get over how many of them there are now inside what was once a beautiful natural oasis I cut wood in and hunted not so long before.

The one in green suddenly laughs as he takes a stinking drink of something foul I can smell from the distance where I assumed perfect cover, and puffs a cigarette of tobacco and unrecognizable exotic herb combined. He gazes hard toward the individual donning this crimson overcoat in likeness to those they wear.

"Isn't it amazing how we come here, leaving our possessions back home, telling these people here we have nothing and are so oppressed in our native lands, and this government just rolls out the red carpet for us like they do!"

He laughs heartily after speaking.

"Have you figured it out yet?" the one in red takes a heavy drink and asks, in his own laugh. "This government feels its heritage citizens are a hindrance to the further enrichment of the elites among its own."

"I mean, they literally hand us everything on a platter," said the one in green, chuckling over his drink and a cigarette held tightly between the index and middle finger on his right hand.

"I used to be a doctor's assistant back home in our own land. I tell these people I am a master surgeon and these medical authorities never question it, placing me here inside one of their best university medical facilities! Imagine that! One of these locals died on my operating table. Hell, he had brain cancer or something like that. I didn't know anything about this cancer, let alone how to treat it! The damn bastard died right there on my fucking table. His family took me to court, but their government paid my legal fees, and this government paid-for judge simply kicked out the medical negligence charges. I go free and clear to do it all over three more damn times.

"I drug these local women up on my table and get more cookie from unconscious dirty blonde and filthy greasy-wet redheaded whores laid out on the table in my office than I ever did on a bed in any Cock-a-Moochie Bawdy House! Yeah!" He hangs his head and laughs as he chokes on cigarette smoke, "One absolutely must askwhat's upwith this garbage. I made one hundred eighty-eight thousand dollars last year on my job here alone. I honestly struggle to believe it all! And these sons of bitches around here wonder why I walk around like I swing a rock hard twenty four and carry a damn gold chip on my shoulder. I mean, hell yeah I got a damn attitude, all you local bitches! I just want one of you to try and fuck around with me now!"

"I know what you mean," sneers the one in black, "I told them I was a computer engineer the same way, and here I am with no questions asked!" he laughs, over his own smoke and drink.

"What about these fancy homes?" asks the one in sky blue. "They ask no questions and give us all government grants on the house," he laughs in his girlish manner. "I haven't made a payment yet from my salary! The heritage citizens here look impoverished more during the past four years since I moved here, and their own government takes from them and hands it over to us? We would never get any such treatment where we are from!"

He laughs to a point of nearly collapsing.

"It's all done courtesy of their own citizens, eh?" he laughs again to a point of nearly spilling his drink. "I mean, these poor bastards cry and complain, and their own news media make them all out to be horrible antisocial, antimodernist rude racialist fiends of some sort!"

"You haven't figured it all out yet, I see," says the one in green. "There is only one reason all of this is occurring. Their president meets up with ours all the time on the news. Our president gives their government elites covert funds as individual people. Their president sells their own country over to our government," he laughs, as he takes a smoke and a drink. "Look at it like this. The citizens inside this country have been sold out! Their own government invites our people in by the millions to displace them on their own land. These sons of bitches are going to have to really work hard for what they can get from now on, and move with multiple families into single-family homes, if that is what it takes for them to get by. They can't live high and mighty any more, walking around thinking they are so damn good like they've done for so many years now."

"Yeah!" the one in blue laughs, "We simply walk across the border without any resistance, then their own government hands us everything, the homes, our spectacular jobs, our children's school, free food, and free medical care for all! I guess before long they'll send one of these poor sap local-yokels in here to wipe our asses for us, and pay him one dollar an hour to do it, with no benefits whatsoever! All of this is done on the dime of their own tax-paying citizens. It's all bankrupting their entire nation to a point nothing makes sense anymore about it!"

"Now you are catching on," snickers the one in green. "Don't ever forget their limp-dicked stool-pigeon fool of a president their government frauded into office. We all owe the damn dimwit a great big thank you! Hell, he walks like he might have spent the night with you," the man in green says with a laugh and a crude finger point directed toward the one wearing blue. "There has never been another King of Fools so easy to push-over like him, ruling such a previously healthy and wealthy nation as this one."

The one in blue laughs to a point of collapsing into hysterics, then slowly arises.

"I'll let you in on some more details here. There are some ladies-in-waiting in this place, let me be up front with you. I mean, this citizen scum living here is corrupt beyond all righteous salvation."

"Nobody has to ask for anything. You can just take it!", replies the one in red. "I broke inside three of their homes in that Sunnyside Community to the far west and raped seven damn good-looking blonde and sandy brown-headed bitches. Three might have been twelve years old if they were lucky, for crying out loud here. When I went to court the judge just threw it all out like that, man, even though the evidence was ripe beyond question!"

"Yes," says the more intellectual one in green, "it's all amusing and unbelievable until we begin to ask why. Why is their own government allowing this? What might they be planning for us? Are we really supposed to believe they love us? What kind of fools are we for doing so?"

The moment goes blank with those words spoken. My crossbow raises itself to my shoulder. Two of the four suddenly lay dead with bolt shafts sticking out from their bodies. A third body the bolt passed slam through, then vanished into the beyond. The fourth one is butchered by my own sword. I stand back at a distance, watching my own body race into the home, slashing the others to death with the sword and shooting them with a pistol picked up from a drawer beneath a desk inside the parlor room. Three of the dead were two young boys and a girl the same age. When the melee concludes, seventeen finally lay dead inside a huge pool of their own blood.

I watched the hands carefully select the many rings and fine necklaces from the dead, placing them into an ivory pocket box, then tucking away the box into the body's pocket. Carefully the hands drew a large Kabar knife from the left hip and removed scalps from the heads of the dead. One lady had a face so beautiful the body couldn't allow it to go to waste, so the hands sliced it across the throat, then peeled back the face over the head, with the scalp included A well-carved wooden manikin head discovered inside a local wood stand trash dump would allow for the face to be replaced so that it might be admired by posterity in the future, once the skin was preserved with alum.

In an unnerving murky dream I find myself walking through a large live-oak stand covered in gray Spanish moss, carrying a forest-green military laundry bag filled with goodies across my left shoulder. A splendid leather-sheathed Marine Corp Kabar knife gently taps my left hip as I walk. I had no idea where I had found it, but I most certainly like wearing it. I walk up a gentle slope, finding myself standing before a massive elegant, classical-styled home. This enchanted vision is so murky specific details are inexact.

I vaguely behold expensive brick steps leading upward to a plateau porch emitting sensations of secular divinity. Two large heavy wooden double doors painted black with bronze rings hanging in the center, stand before me. With my left hand I lift one ring, lightly smacking it down thrice on the solid brass card. The doors open by themselves. I am utterly bedazzled by a general sensation of angelic mysticism found inside this realm.

In the murky gloom of my trance I observe the phantom-like figure of a specter manifest inside the room where I stand. In an instant this unclear phantom with empty orbs for eyes, stands immediately before me. In the ripple of my dismal vision I felt that somehow this unsettling figure may have been hooded, but I could not tell with any defined exactness, since he didn't appear to possess feet touching the heartwood floor of the home as he moved about. Waves of terror jolted through my entire body as I gazed into this phantom's face. It stood with both bony hands extending toward me. I instinctively handed him my bag. These bony hands open the bag, examining the scalps and other harvested artifacts.

"Very well done, my dear son," said the phantom. "By the tattoos still in the flesh, I can clearly behold where both the community leader and his wife have been promptly liquidated."

"Yes, my lord," I replied.

This phantom carefully removes and examines each and every artifact.

"The mighty Christo Mazda shall be very pleased with your efforts. Come inside, my dear son. You are a true son of the Sun. Let us celebrate the first shot being fired in this coming war to end all wars. Our imperceptible legions have already simultaneously fanned throughout the entire countryside, melting into the metropolis mainstream, mixing evenly into the daily life rhythm. It shall only be a matter of time before terrible astra are released, and the great defining conflagration commences."

Many elegant angels instantly surround us, chanting ancient tunes and sacred poems, cheerfully playing lyre, flutes and rhythmic drums. Several knights and painted warriors join in this blessed celebration. The sacred ambrosia is poured by a delicate cherub waitress into crystal glasses shaped like multicolored tulip blossoms, and we all drink. All of us make merry for hours, yet I do not know the number of individuals present or hours passed.

The sun at last arises, finding me awakening in my cot. The floor of my time-tested log bungalow is dusty. The bear-skin rug before the cot is eerily filled with fresh sand and worn holes. The entire inside of the bungalow consists of brown dull dry wood. The room scent is one of hickory smoke and age, apples, magnolia, lemon, and cinnamon.

What about this disquieting dream I had? Why am I still laying in my clothing and boots? An unsettling sickening sensation suddenly fills my body and mind. I am out of breath abruptly, to a point of near hysterics.

I instantly stand beside the antique military cot I slept in. I glance down. Dried mud covers my boots. My heart instantly drops into my stomach. I am pulled toward the tattered time-worn dresser up tight against the right hand wall, for reasons I simply cannot explain. I walk until I stand before this dresser. A highly decorated silver pocket box with an elegant marble-covered lid sits in plain sight upon the top of the dresser. What might be the source of this mysterious box? I certainly know nothing of its presence!

I strain my mind in my reflection. My breath immediately flees my body in heavy gasps. What might I behold, should I raise back the lid on this box? What ultimate horror might await to astonish my watering eyes? I hesitate to touch the lid, but I know deeply inside that I must. No alternative choice remains! I mentally compel my hands to seize this lid, snatching it backward in an instant …!

All light instantly vanishes from the entire world, and in its place, only eternal darkness …

The End

Copyright 2025, H.L. Dowless

Bio: Good things often come to those who wait. The author is a thirty-five year veteran writer who loves traveling and living life on the edge.

E-mail: H.L. Dowless

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