I need
another glass of it… please!
Long arms didn’t
answer.
What are
you doing? You can’t take it away from me, not right now, I beg of you!
Long arms felt
his grief but didn’t make one noise. It had the last bucket right in front of
him.
You
terrible monster, why are you doing this to me?
A cold thick
mist came slowly upon the Odenkirk’s manor. Winter had arrived a little bit
earlier than last year.
Mr. Abraham
Odenkirk drove parsimoniously towards the grounds that his father and his father’s
father had use commonly for one sole purpose, writing.
This man wasn’t
ill or financially compromised; the family business was steady enough to bear
with this arrogant old person. Everything he knew was how to write novels and hate people. No one really
liked him, no one really cared for him… not one bit.
He arrived
that afternoon just like every year with a couple of dark brown leather bags
and his creature pet, the one he thought was the closest soul to his dried
rotten heart.
The hall
which he used more often to write his pieces was huge, a classic mixture
between wood and rock that gave a cold atmosphere to the place. At the end of
the hall there was a very long staircase that led guests to the upper lever
where all the rooms were. The staircase brought Abraham terrible memories.
His room
was just as he had left it the year before. Long reddish drapes and the huge bed
with white sheets perfectly set; two gigantic pillows and a small gas lamp on
the floor. There wouldn’t be a sun ray that dared to enter that place for it
would have died absorbed by the very grey abysm that roamed between those
walls.
Odenkirk
went down as usual holding on to the reel; cursing and cursing with every step.
Getting down was a strange odyssey, his heart would pound with strength, going
up and down was a very difficult task for a man who hated doing exercise.
Once sat in
his old burgundy and dusty chair he would take out the Odenkirk’s pen, a tool
that had gotten his forefathers to write novels of great reputation amongst
literature enthusiasts around the globe. He would put his parchments down and
start writing carefully, relentlessly…
The
fireplace would be lit the entire night if needed, acompaining him until the
end of his hours, but that night something strange happened. Something he had
never experience or at least not since he was a young lad with nothing more
that magical creatures in mind.
A mourn
came from the outer part of the dying building.
His bones
shivered in fear.
Could that
be possible? – He asked himself.
He remembered
it perfectly… as if it had happened yesterday…
One dark
night darker that rest of them, as a kid, he went out to the grounds in what
meant a tremendous act of disobedience. He was after a very odd sound, at first
he thought it was a wounded animal that was crying for help, but as the time
went by he got himself lost in the mist.
Then he saw
a figure coming out slowly from the thick night’s fog. It was a tall humanoid
without eyes and mouth, his face was plain as a chest but still it managed to
make that horrible noise. A mourn that sounded like a soul yelling a desperate
cry for help.
His body was absolutely pale but what he thought was the most
brutal aspect of that monster was his arms. They were long, twice as long as
its legs and his hands were full of blood and his finger were red pointy nails
with a thirst for pain.
Young
Abraham stood quietly behind a tree, everything he could do was try to handle
his breath so the terrible creature wouldn’t notice his insignificant presence.
The monster
seemed to be headed towards the manor. He never saw it again.
That memory…
That night…
That night
his father disappeared from the face of earth without leaving any trail. Just
like his father before him and the one before him as well.
Abraham was
terrified; once again he went out to explore the grounds, to follow the mourning
as if it had some kind of enchantment upon his mind and soul. Once again he was
committing a tremendous act of disobedience but this time against his own,
against a promise he had made himself long ago.
He walked
and walked as the mist kept embracing him like a son and then… he found it.
Amidst the
manor’s backyard there was a small rock solid cylinder with what seemed to be a
sophisticated mechanism on top of it.
A well? – He
thought.
Abraham got closer to the mysterious structure
and started using the pump which brought a heavy bucket full of a strange liquid
with an even stranger smell.
The
mourning stopped.
He went
back to the mansion without really understanding what was happening. He had
never seen such a thing; at least not in his very own backyard.
The bar had
been covered with dusty sheets.
Odenkirk uncovered the bar for the first time
in God knows how long and placed the bucket on top of it. The liquid was black
and thick, it smelled not like something that could’ve gotten out of a pipe
line, no. it had an earthly aroma, soft and elegant, seductive and secret.
He poured a
small glass and saw it for a brief instant… and then he drank it all at once.
The clock
kept ticking with its regular cadency.
The mist
kept coming upon the manor in a soft way.
His heart
kept beating which meant he was not dead but something had changed…
He felt a sudden
impact of inspiration.
Abraham
Odenkirk then started writing words, phrases and complete pages of the
unexpected. Everything seemed to be falling in place. He of course went bucket
after bucket after bucket, and then…It
happened.
The
mourning came back.
He stopped
for a second; he heard the steps outside…
The
creature moved his monstrous arms and opened the manor’s wooden door. The wind
came in like a thousand ballerinas, whistling and moving elegantly all around
the house.
Odenkirk
kept drinking, he kept writing…
Step by
step long arms got closer to the disgraced sad writer.
It then
stopped right next to the old man.
Abraham didn’t
dare to look at the creature which had taken so many dreams away from him.
Instead he kept drinking, he kept writing…
Long arms
waited and mourned.
The bucket
had only one drink left inside of it.
Odenkirk’s forehead
was ripping with sweat; his eyes were filled with blood, red like his very own
blood.
He kept
drinking, he kept writing…
Long arms then
stretched his enormous hand and picked the empty bucket.
I need
another glass of it… please! – The old man shouted
Long arms didn’t
answer.
What are
you doing? You can’t take it away from me, not right now, I beg of you!
Long arms felt
his grief but didn’t make one noise. That was the last bucket Abraham was ever
going to take a look at.
You
terrible monster, why are you doing this to me? – he started crying.
Ughh Ughhh –
The monster enounced as if it was about to express something out of his mouth
less face.
Abraham
fell to his knees with a terrible pain in his chest.
Little black
drops then started to come out of his eyes and nose.
No! no! plea…
please! – He cried.
Mr.
Odenkirk started puking what seemed to be an eery mixture of blood and ink. His
lungs were expelling the very vice that had gotten him to be awake for four
night straight out of his system.
He was
dying.
Long arms was
there, mourning.
A big chunck
of solid ink came out of Abraham's mouth, he now was fighting for his life,
trying not to choke in his own dark fluids.
It…it is a
master… Piece….
He drowned
in his own ink.
Long arms
grabbed him by his feet and dragged him out of the mansion.
It then
cried and laughed with a ghoulish delight and threw the old man’s body into the
well. Just like he did to his father and his father before him.
