The Dark Visitor

On a dark and stormy night, I met a man. I had just kindled a fire and settled in. I was reading a book written by a fellow named Tolstoy called The Cossacks.

This man was not such an odd looking fellow. He was not red and had no horns. He was not carrying any obligatory pitchfork. His only tangible baggage was an old suitcase. The case was once new and it was once mahogany. It was now much like its owner. Dull and tired.

The visitor spoke softly. A few times I interrupted to clarify what he had said. Once or twice, I had questions. I did not think it odd that the nearer I was to him the warmer I became. It was quite a stormy night. The storms and the darkness always brought about a chill. I sat in the parlor with the dark visitor and I was warm. Outside the storms subsided and it began to snow.

The evening grew long. The visitor was on about current affairs. He was nonchalant and avoided eye contact. Mother had not inquired of her tea service.

The service was never much and was always of the sleepy time variety, but habit was habit. I thought the lapse was strange. I begged pardon of our guest and took my leave.

I had forgotten my lantern and climbing the stairs was arduous. It had been longer than I remembered. Children seem to have mythic qualities. They are capable of things and harbor imagination. This wanes in time.

At the top of the stairs mothers door was closed.

I knocked.

Silence.

I opened the door.

“Mother, it’s near quarter to nine, you have not called ..”

Her arm hung limply. She was forever lost in slumber.

Mother had taken ill months earlier and had been confined to bed. It was late May. This was when Jeb, my younger brother, took off and joined up to fight for the cause. Somebody’s cause.

It didn’t matter to me who won the war. Even had we had not lived in Missouri, which was “neutral,” I wouldn’t have much cared who won. It was a stupid war. They were fighting and killing one another like idiots.

They blatantly ignored the Good Book and carried on like a bunch of braggarts and drunkards. They were fighting and killing in the name of slavery. They manipulated and wielded the almighty dollar in the same way they might haphazardly wave around a loaded gun.

They were fighting and killing in order to lay claim to own negroes and for their “God given right” to do so. These were not patriots. These were purveyors of serfdom. They saw no problem ignoring the rights of others as long as they had their amendments and made their money.

There were a lot of people around these parts that weren’t as considerate as I thought I was. We may have been a neutral state, but that is not to say that people here were progressive. Folks here didn’t refer to them as negroes anymore than anyone back east or in the south did. They called them niggers and didn’t see anything wrong with it. Folks here thought they were better and smarter than the southerners, but they weren’t. They were just as bigoted and ignorant as the rest of ‘em.

I am of course in reference to the Civil War. I don’t know what was considered so goddamn civil of it. As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t no man and there ain’t no woman can own another man or woman. To me, their issues damned sure weren’t worth killin’ over, but they didn’t ask me.

Jeb knew momma was sick, or at least knew she was wasn’t quite right and he took off anyway. I get it. He felt he had to. Somehow this was was his duty. This was about 28, June. I made a note of it in my diary.

Before Jeb left, he said a prayer and wished for momma to get better. He asked the lord to look after me, so I could be there for momma. He prayed that he would come back safe. Everyone did. He told me that he would do anything to make sure that momma and me was both okay. I wanted to believe him, but we weren’t exactly on good terms.

I don’t know exactly what was said between Jeb and whoever he prayed to, but someone heard him. It was late in the afternoon, the day before the battle that would be forever known as Gettysburg.

Jeb was sitting against an oak tree trying to catch some sleep. The dark visitor appeared and sat down beside him. He spoke in riddles and he danced around the point, but with a little assistance, Jeb put his message together. The dark stranger was the devil and he had come bearing news. He had come to make a deal.

The stranger spoke of a great battle that was to be fought on ground not far from here and in less than a day’s time. He spoke of massive casualties and of the Earth running red, not of fire and brimstone, but of the blood of countless men. Men young and old. Stubborn old men and stupid young boys too damn foolish to lay down their arms of war and pick up the branches of peace.

The dark visitor told Jeb his mother had taken a turn for the worse. He told him that in two days, she would be dead, dead as a door-nail in her bed. The visitor told him that he could change this. He told Jeb that he was to die. He spoke that his death was unfortunate, but not unavoidable.

He said a fellow Union soldier, younger than even he was, would accidentally shoot and kill him. The soldier was 15 years old and ran off from home to join up and kill him some rebels.

The young union soldier that would shoot and kill him, was trigger happy and was himself attempting to get some much needed sleep. Jeb startled him as he nodded off and the young soldier bayoneted Jeb. The blade entered his chin and exited out his left temple. Jeb was dead before he even knew he had been stabbed.

The dark visitor said it was a terrible mess. He also said that my mother’s death was unfortunate, but neglected to mention it was also avoidable. Mother had a bad heart. She had for sometime. Something about a valve sticking or what not. Whatever that meant. The dark visitor said there were ways, or rather a way, that her life could be prolonged. There were terms of course. There were always terms. You do not get something for nothing in this world and certainly not when you deal with the devil.

Both of their deaths were of circumstance, but alas, the devil could not be two places at once. It would be my brothers life, or my mothers life. One would die so that the other might live. He posed the question to Jeb and the sadistic grin began to unfurl. The slow, howling laugher followed. He slowly opened his tattered brown case and inch by inch exposed its eerie green glow to the dark Gettysburg night.

Back at the manor, the dark visitor placed his eerily glowing case on a small table near the foyer. He snapped the latches and slowly lifted the lid as he dramatically flung it backwards. The sound reverberated throughout the manor and the content of the mysterious case lit up an otherwise dark den.

At the corner of the dark visitor’s mouth a small, but sinister grin emerged. He began to howl with laugher and the sound was not unlike that of a pack of wolves. Inside the case was a single piece of paper and a pen. The words were red and written with what appeared to be blood. Human blood. I wondered who’s blood it was.

The pen glowed green. The dark visitor plucked the utensil from the case and licked it. As he ran his serpent like tongue over it the glow intensified. The heat was overwhelming. His sadistic laugh returned.

“This is sheep’s blood,” the dark visitor said to no one in particular. He went on. “It also contains the blood of a virgin and rumor has it, the blood of Jesus Christ. It was found among the Dead Sea Scrolls and was stolen in a misguided attempt at immortality, but you will not live to see those events. They happen many years from now.”

“Your bother Jeb, is dead. He was killed today at a place called Gettysburg.” I stared at the pen.

“Most unfortunate,” he continued. “As you now know, your mother is also dead. She’s as dead as a door nail upstairs in her bed. It doesn’t have to be this way William. I can fix things. I can take it back.”

“….For one of them.”

“All you must do, is pick up that pen and sign.”

What I haven’t yet told you, is that I was glad they were both dead.

Jeb had recently been married. Mary was a beautiful bride and I say that with a fair amount of bias. Mary was my first real woman friend and I loved her very much. I loved her with all my heart. Mary said she loved me too and we were to be married shortly. Mother objected strongly to the marriage and in no uncertain terms told me so. The marriage was not to be. The burning love soon turned to cold animosity.

I was incensed with anger when only months later, Jeb and Mary were married. He had mother’s blessing. I wanted him dead and I cursed him. I cursed my mother too. The hell with both of them. I’d have my revenge if it was the last thing on this Earth I ever did.

It so happened that scores of angry people wanted to take up arms and fight in the war and for lots of different reasons. It wasn’t hard to find someone that wanted Jeb dead as much as I did.

Killing mother was far more difficult than finding an impressionable young moron with a gun and bayonet. I underwent a long trip to Michigan and managed to procure some nightshade. It’s not entirely tasteless, but mixed with chamomile it was fairly undetectable. She was never the wiser.

I stared at the glowing pen and my hand refused to move. The room grew very hot and very bright. I turned to see the dark visitor standing in a doorway. The frame melted around him and the house folded away around us. The beautiful Victorian style staircase disintegrated. The dark visitor and I were now standing on the threshold to hell.

He motioned to the glowing green pen laying on the table. I picked it up and felt it pulsating between my fingers. I licked the tip of the quill. The unforgettable taste of mercury lingered in my mouth.

The grin began to emerge from the corners of my mouth and the howl followed.

Afterword:

It’s cold. So very cold. I miss my Mary. Our young daughter, Claire, is very ill. Wednesday of last, we used the last of the medicine. It won’t be long now. The trail is unforgivable and the attacks, brutal. Some of the others have started to panic and abandon the journey. The damned fools think they can make it back to Springfield.

Mitchell, our lone doctor has taken ill. He is not long for this Earth. I don’t know how I survived that day at Gettysburg, but I’m sorry for what I have done and for what I am about to do. Getting tired and hungry and Claire is crying again. I’m stoking the fire. It’s about time I give everyone peace at last.