Tales Of The Horror Inducing Kind (1) There, in the deep seclusion of his magnificent study, sat Sir Vincent DeGalle Valentine, pen poised and thoughts flowing. He had, for so very long, been weeding through the mass of entries that were positioned round and about his desk in the form of manilla paper stacks. But the dread and drudgery work would soon give way to utter excitement, for the time had come. As he sat there, he reflected on what would be hailed as an uncontested success... When I had first made it official that I was to be accepting true-to-life accounts of events that have left individuals with a certain tinge of the psychological, I was completely unprepared for the volume of responses that was to come. Even as I write the preludes to some of the pieces that I have looked over and accepted, there is still a large number of which that haven't been as much as touched, which I attribute to the silliness of some submissions. It was very distressing to be presented with--at some junctures--stories that were clearly not aiming to be considered for publication: authors (dare I call them so?) who had no real interest in the contest or its rewards. To say that I was shocked by these occurrences would be--of course-- incorrect, as I was expecting it to a degree, but not to the degree of which I encountered. This encounter has left me with a reluctance to relive even a shard of what was the contest, and it may be some time before I embark on a similar endeavor. Disappointments aside, there have been some stories that I've come across that were absolute jewels, and--with a little editing on my part--they will forever shine in the pages of this anthology. Let us now begin with this remarkably disturbing psychological piece, one that Daniel Marrow of Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, coins as "The Centipedes." Oh, the horror! Every waking moment of my existence is pitted against them. How I so despise them! To me, they possess nary a virtuous quality. Nary a virtuous quality indeed! Some may say that I am mad because of my obsession with these creatures, but if you were to see them as I see them then you too--like me--would hardly see yourself as mad. Should a man be considered mad because of justified aversion? Should a man be considered mad because he is the target of a group of hundred-legged monstrosities? Hardly! No, my friend, I am not mad. Far from it. As I stated earlier, I am simply the target. There may be more, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of targets, but I only know of my own woe. Perhaps it would be best now to explain my most extraordinary predicament. Yes, that would be a very wise step to take. I shall let you decide for yourself who's mad and who's not mad. What follows is a very detailed account of my encounters with them, the centipedes. Well then, how shall I begin? It is possible to describe how I first came to a state of repulsion with the centipedes. All throughout my early childhood I possessed a certain fascination with creepy crawlers. I can remember very vividly how I used to bury ants in holes in the concrete with spittle and dirt, thus forming mud. And then, when the concoction dried up, I'd dig the creature out of the dirt and let it be on its way. The removal of rocks and observation of active bugs was another pastime that I frequently indulged in. It pleased me to see the intermingling of the different species of bugs, so I'd find as many as I could and place them in a jar and watch, watch as they moved about. I enjoyed watching the tiny ants rebuild their soil paradise after I'd disrupt it. I also enjoyed watching the ants communicate with their little antennas. As you can see, as a child, I had erected a very significant pastime with bugs. What you may or may not have noticed, though, was the complete absence of me hurting these tiny creatures. As a child, never would I ever think to injure or maim these creatures. I was in complete harmony with them, and they with me. But that all would change with my first viewing with a centipede. That first encounter is intensely burned in my psyche. I remember every little detail, every inlet, every dimly lit corner. I was around twelve years old at the time. I was watching one of my favorite television shows, Scooby-Doo, Where Are You, when--quite suddenly--my attention was captured by a singular creature scaling up the wall and heading away from the television in the living room. What it was I could not tell, I had never seen one before. I was suddenly torn by two emotions: curiosity and intense aversion. The thing was so much bigger than any of the other bugs I'd played around with. The thought had come to pick the creature up and stroke it in my hand, but I was hesitant, and for good reason. I kept asking myself why did it have to be so big? I struggled with curiosity and aversion for a good while, as the creature stood motionless on the wall, laughing at my trepidation, mocking me. After a time, an urge to kill the creature began to supplant all of my other feelings and I quickly ran into my room where my shoe was and ended its life right then and there. It was the first time that I had ever slaughtered an insect, but I didn't care. I was glad to see the thing dead and gone. That day, that singular moment, would change my view of creepy crawlers forever. I no longer cared about the harmony that existed between me and them. All I cared about was seeing battles and great struggles between the varied species of insects. For instance, after that fateful day, I was wont to see ants struggle for their lives in spider's webs. I was wont to see grasshoppers and big ants engage in combat in glass jars. I was wont to see any and all displays of physical combat between the myriad of different species that existed in my backyard. Peaceful observation could not appease me anymore, only war between small creatures. But this was not the full extent to which I was newly afflicted. In the home, I began to see more and more of the creature that I soon discovered was called a centipede, and I began to come up with diabolical ways to end their lives. Once, I captured a centipede in a glass jar, closed and tightened the lid, placed some flammable liquid in one of those holes in the concrete of my backyard, watched as I placed the centipede inside of it, and lit a match. I watched in glee as the centipede ran out of the now burning liquid and crumpled up and died because of the fire. Another time, I put on some latex gloves, picked up a centipede and tore it in half. Another time, I busied myself by pulling out the legs of the creature, one by one, then two by two, and then again three by three. Yes, my entire outlook on bugs had changed. I was completely reborn and all of this was thanks to that fateful encounter with my first centipede. Well, as it so happens, I began to grow up at around the age of fifteen. Torturing bugs no longer pleased me. Other, much more positive things, began to take my interest. I became immaculately interested in watching sports on the television. Specifically, it was football and basketball that grabbed my attention. After church on Sundays I'd come home with great merriment to watch Sunday's games and I'd stay up incredibly late on Monday nights to watch Monday Night Football. And, as a teenager, I had the incredible fortune of watching my hometown Detroit Pistons win two championships back to back. Yes, those were my golden years. My cruel actions perpetrated against the many bugs in my backyard and the centipedes in my house began to sink into the deep recesses of my mind. I graduated from high school in the 1991-92 school year. It was an exciting time to be sure. I was not what you'd call an introverted lad, I was very much an extrovert and had made many a friend throughout my high school years. I might even go so far as to say that I was quite popular. This was evidenced in the riotous celebration when my name was called to receive my diploma and I walked across the stage. Next on my doorstep was college. I had maintained, throughout my high school years, a 3.0 average, and I was determined to repeat if not exceed those numbers in my college years. My major was journalism. I had discovered a penchant for writing around the tenth grade and decided to explore the possibilities of such an undertaking. I worked for the school paper throughout my four years of chasing my bachelor's, and after I received that recognition I went on to capture my masters. Finding employment after college proved easy enough. I found a job as a full-time journalist at the Detroit News. Mostly I would write about topics affecting the social conditions of the city, such as a racial injustice here, or a mayor's foul up there. However, there were many other times when I'd write about criminal activity and the like. I lived with my parents for a while after graduation until I found a very nice home in a suburb of Detroit that set me back $350,000. In terms of establishing relationships with the opposite sex, there was a few women at my place of employ that caught my eye, but dating women was something that I had set aside for the time being. I wanted to get situated in my new home, to have the freedom to decorate it as I choose without a woman to interfere. It was true, things were going quite well for me. And then something inexplicable happened... I had experienced a very vivid dream. I was alone in my newly purchased home, watching a little television, when it suddenly turned off. I tried to turn it back on but my endeavors proved fruitless. The thought came that perhaps there was a power outage so I stood to turn on a light and it worked. The thought came that perhaps the plug had been placed carelessly inside of the socket, so I checked and it was firmly inserted. I tried turning on the television again but it was to no avail. I was completely baffled. Thus I sat there in my recliner, wondering what might've went wrong. Then, quite suddenly, the television switched back on and I saw myself torturing bugs from my childhood. It was a rather queer occurrence to say the least. I was utterly awestruck as I watched attentively to every minor detail of the actions that I had committed against the insect kingdom. Then, my attention was directed towards a centipede that walked up and along the wall from behind the television. My eyes were transfixed, I couldn't move them. From my spot on the recliner I could tell that its antenna were moving about wildly. Suddenly, the television turned back to what I was watching previously and I awoke in a cold sweat. What had just transpired? I knew not what it was. And so I sat there in my bed, unable to come to terms with what I had just experienced. After a time, I decided that it was just something resurfacing from my childhood years and that I really didn't have to worry about it. But worry I did. I remember that day at the office. No matter how long I tried to forget about that dream it just kept resurfacing. The details were fresh in my mind. The bugs that I tortured, that centipede on the wall and its antennas, all continued to tug at me as if I had committed some extreme crime that was beyond pardon. When I got home that night I was too afraid to sleep, so I stayed up and watched television. Then it happened. I saw a centipede crawling along the wall behind the television. Immediately I went to my room where my shoe was, but as I drew closer to the creature I discovered that I couldn't follow through with my planned action. Every time I'd hold the shoe up to strike I'd feel queasy and intensely disturbed. Finally, after a time, I decided to leave the creature be and get some rest, but rest is not what I received upon the closing of my eyes. I had the dream again. But this time something different happened. I watched as I tore a centipede in half in the backyard of my childhood home and then I noticed a myriad of bugs converging on my spot. They all seemed intent and determined on one singular purpose: to frighten me. I ran to the front of the house, but they followed. I ran around the block, but I noticed that bugs were coming from other peoples houses. I saw a bike on the front lawn of someone else's house and picked it up and began to ride. My purpose was to escape the bugs that were converging against me, but then another horror happened. A centipede was on my hand! Oh, even today I can still feel every single one of those legs as it climbed up my arm. I tried getting off the bike but I couldn't. I tried to swat it away with my other arm but something was holding me back. The centipede climbed up my shoulder and then its antennas began to move in an extreme manner. Suddenly, I rode into a parked car and went flying into the air, and at that moment I awoke, again in cold sweat. This being the third incident that I experienced as an adult I began to take serious consideration to see a shrink, and so I did. I scheduled an appointment with one Daniel Marrow who resided in Bloomfield Hills, another suburb of Detroit, Michigan. His office was easy to find, and so there I was in the waiting room, hand in hand, head bowed low, waiting to speak with Dr. Marrow. There were others situated in the room, but I cared very little at the time for polite conversation. A man dressed well enough came into the waiting room and called my name. "Jonathan Friar?" he called. "Yes, that's me." I said with incredible anticipation. "I'm Doctor Daniel Marrow. It's good to meet you," he said, placing his hand in mine. "Well, let me show you to my office." Doctor Marrow led me down a corridor or two and I found myself in a quaint office befuddled with medical dictionaries and the like, books about the human brain, plants sprinkled here and there, and a ceiling fan that spun around and around. He sat at his desk and I sat across from him. I wondered how he'd respond to my proclamations. He turned on a tape recorder, placed his hands as a support for his chin, looked at me for a short while, and then finally spoke. "So--Jonathan--what's exactly is it that's bothering you?" "Well," began I, "I've been experiencing these vivid dreams." "Ah, dreams you say? I see. Tell me about them." "Well, I've only had two, but I was compelled enough to come see you because of them. It all starts with me watching television. Then, quite suddenly, the television turns off. I try several techniques to restore power but nothing works. Then the television turns back on and I--I see myself as a child--torturing insects." Doctor Marrow nodded his head. I was quite wary about continuing. I didn't want the man to think that I'd gone mad. "I see," said Doctor Marrow. "Please, continue." "Well, in one dream I continue to watch my actions as a child, and then my attention is turned towards a centipede scaling the wall behind my television. At this point I am transfixed on this creature, unable to budge in the slightest. Its antennas begin to move wildly and then I wake up in a cold sweat. In the other, more recent dream, I tear a centipede in half and then insects throughout my backyard converge on me. I head for the front yard but they continue to follow. Finally, I find a bike on someone's lawn around the block and begin to ride in an effort to get away from the bugs. But then something horrible happens. I find that a centipede is crawling along my hand!" Doctor Marrow paid attention to the rest of the circumstances of my dream. After I finished, he remained quiet for a time. I eagerly anticipated his diagnosis. I had never experienced anything quite like this before. My hands had produced sweat, I was altogether uneasy after sharing my dreams. It was almost the way I felt when I couldn't kill the centipede in my house. I tried to hide my uneasiness from the doctor, but I think he could tell that I was unnerved quite easily. Finally, after a protracted wait, he spoke. "I see. So these dreams you've been having, they are as a result of actions that you took during your childhood years, and now they've resurfaced. Hmm--interesting--I think what's really going is that you were traumatized as a child by these actions and that your subconscious is bringing all of that trauma back to the forefront of your mind." "You mean to say," said I, with a glimmer of hope, "that all those things I did as a child is coming back because of childhood trauma?" "Exactly," said Doctor Marrow as he folded his legs. "Torturing insects as a kid has left an indelible impression on you. You were young then, just about anything of that caliber would have. What you have to do now is face your fear. Buy insects as pets. Feed them. Take care of them. Then you'll be free from your dreams." The solution seemed probable enough. I was greatly relieved to hear anything closely resembling a remedy to this newfound problem that I had acquired. "In the meantime," said Doctor Marrow, "I'll prescribe some medicine for you to take that will help to calm your mind." After I received my subscription, Doctor Marrow led me to the exit of the facility and I left. I was to return in a month's time for a reevaluation. I cannot explain to you the great relief that coursed through my bones as a result of Doctor Marrow's diagnosis. He led me to believe that I was only experiencing childhood trauma and that facing that trauma would cure me of my symptoms. So I did as he recommended. I brought a pet tarantula and took care of it liberally. I fed the ants that lived along the crevices of my house with bread. Anything and everything that I could think of I did. And I watched as I didn't have any disturbing dreams that first night. I watched as I didn't have any disturbing dreams that second night, nor third, fourth, or fifth. I was cured, or so I perceived.. Then, one night, out of the blue, I dreamt that a giant centipede picked me up from my bed and dropped me in a giant's spider's web. I was incredulous. The spider came closer, and closer. It injected me with its venom and spun me in a web. It then placed me in a corner of its web, and I awoke screaming like a mad man in cold sweat. I had mistakenly forgotten to take my medication for the day so I decided to take it, hoping that it would clam my mind. It did its job, and I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night. I lived, for the most part, normally throughout the remainder of the month. I made sure that I took my medicine every night and I was able to rest because of it. But, while watching television, I did notice a centipede here and there. By this time, I had long since given up trying to kill them, as I wasn't able to. All I'd do was simply observe them as they crawled and crept along the wall, stopping midway through, and moving their antennas, sometimes wildly, sometimes peacefully, until finally moving along. When I finally returned to Doctor Marrow's office, I told him the tale of the giant centipede dropping me in the spider's web. He listened attentively to every minute detail. I also told him that I had forgotten to take my medicine, and that when I did take it, I was able to sleep with little to no disturbance. He vocalized his opinion on the matter and reminded me that I must take my medicine every night if I am to be cured of this illness, my spilled over childhood trauma into my adult years. I continue to see the doctor every month. The dreams have subsided greatly, thanks to the medication, but I still find that I am not able to harm the centipedes that crawl along the walls of my home. And so they stand there, laughing at me, mocking me. Oh, the horrors that I have seen! I can't find rest in any avenue. At work I think about them, at home I see them, and yet if I only had the gumption to get rid of them, I would, but I don't. They just stand there on the wall, greatly upsetting me. It's as if they know the crimes that I've committed against their kind, and they've come back to execute justice. But I must win through! One day I will be able to rise up against them, to strike them down. But until that day comes I must endure, I must endure the antics of the centipedes. Oh God, have mercy upon my poor soul! Sir Vincent DeGalle Valentine was putting the finishing touches on the conclusion to the first story in his newly announced anthology when suddenly he was disturbed by a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning. He glanced out of the window that sat behind him and caught sight of droplets of rain pitter pattering on the concrete. It startled him immensely, the thunder, as he was intensely focused on sharing his thoughts about Daniel Marrow's "The Centipedes" with his readership... As you can see, I have selected only the most disturbing and psychologically moving pieces. I knew from when I first began reading Daniel Marrow's "The Centipedes" that it had to be in my newly announced fan anthology. It possess everything that falls under the guidelines of my criteria for publishing short stories by my intensely devoted fan base. Perhaps now it would be best to share with my readership some of the details concerning the case of Jonathan Friar that the psychiatrist and writer, Daniel Marrow, shared with me. Included with the story, Doctor Marrow wrote about how he discovered about my anthology competition and wondered if Jonathan Friar's case could be put into print. He then asked Friar to write down a chronological history that revealed the root to his problem, which Doctor Marrow then used to form the short story "The Centipedes." Marrow claims that it took him only two days time to start and finish the story and he hopes that it proves to be a bright and lasting addition to my fan anthology. I don't think he has to worry too much about that. It is my belief that "The Centipedes" will be a long cherished addition to this anthology. Well, let us continue. The next story comes to us from Dublin, Ireland, by a man who goes by the name of Kent Rezner, the title of his story being "Those Omnipresent Eyes." I can't recall when it started happening. I only know that I am tormented by them, those eyes. Usually they'd only appear to me after I'd indulged in the desires of my flesh: smoking, drinking, an assortment of promiscuous sexual behaviors, but the frequency of their visits has been increasing as of late (even to the extent of showing up before I infuse in my activities). Once, I had engaged in a staring contest with the eyes. I sit propped in my comfy, charcoal-inspired recliner, gazing upward and sipping on a sparkling glass of Chardonnay, of which its source had ran empty. The eyes, staring toward me. Never blinking and always looking. Transfixed. There's only so much of this one can take. It was during that time that I decided to speak to the eyes for the very first time. "Must you torment me so? Haven't I suffered enough?" A muffled response. Something along the lines of I torn at me and sobering up. Whatever that meant. "What's that now? Come again? I don't quite understand you." The eyes grimaced, which is very strange indeed, considering they were just eyes. "You speak nonsense! You need mouth. Return to me then. As for now, begone!" Still the eyes muffled on. I vowed to retract from the staring game and decided to retire that night. I stood and stumbled clumsily, then headed toward my chamber. And that is how my days were to be carried out, confrontations with the eyes. There was another time worth mentioning. After meeting a woman at a bar, and talking, and laughing, and drinking, and lusting, and sharing a few cigarettes, she followed me back to my apartment, and upon entering we immediately succumbed one to another: kissing, licking, embracing, sucking on face and nibbling on ear, any and all that tickled our fancies. I lie there, in bed, with her beside me, unable to sleep because of the eyes. They stared toward me from the ceiling and I returned the favor by staring back at them, although rather timidly. Despite all this, I was determined not to submit to the will of the eyes. In fact, my abominable activities were to be taken to another extreme with the manipulation of Irene. Irene was new to me in every sense of the word. It was her first time at the firm, and she was to be assigned a few cubicles down past me. I had never once beheld or come across such unfathomable beauty. I was especially drawn to her hair, which was wonderfully long and as soot, and the light from the fixtures of the room refracted off of it, producing a most eye-pleasing effect. She was of the pure type, as I could tell, and if I wanted to get along with her I'd have to play nice. So I did, and it was many things that won her over. She'd drop a pen and I'd pick it up while smiling from ear to ear. Lunch breaks would come and I'd pay for her meals. "Oh please, allow me," I would say. "Oh, I couldn't possibly impose," she would say. "There would be no imposition, I assure you," I'd say. Concerning work she'd remark, "Ben, am I doing this right? What do you think? Oh OK, so it's easier to do it this way?" Much respect was given unto me from my male counterparts as well, whom were flabbergasted at how I was able to work my wizardry. Me and my conniving ways indeed. All was going smoothly, but I knew that I could not request of her, doing so I felt would mar all that I had worked for. So I bided my time and waited for her to ask of me: and so she did, and I accepting, feeling all together good, considering how I'd managed myself over the last few weeks. She sauntered away from me and I noticed a pair of eyes engraved in her back, much different from those just floating around. I called back to her promptly. "Irene, I...I've just had an epiphany. If my recollection serves me true, I have a prior engagement to attend to that evening." Her face, it drooped upon hearing the news. "Oh...OK. Well umm....what about Saturday night then?" I spotted another pair of eyes, which casually strolled right past her, staring directly at me. "NO!" My commotion caused the heads of my coworkers to pop out of their cubicles. "I mean...I've come down with something. And I certainly wouldn't want to put you in any danger of contracting it." I made an attempt at a cough, which was flimsy and didn't come off too well. "I do apologize for this. Perhaps some other time then." Irene thought on this for a moment and nodded rather dumbfounded. "...OK. I...hope you feel better." Irene strolled away with those eyes still there and I couldn't bear to watch. But...I couldn't help but to wonder if they had gotten to her as they had me. The days, they came and went, as days often do, and my condition worsened. I had developed a most bothersome twitch that plagued me from time to time; I was always dosing off during work hours, and because of the oversleep I found myself skipping appointments with soap and water, so as not to be any later for work. As a result, my personal hygiene was suffering; my hair often remained a mess, buttons were almost always in the wrong slots and my tie awkwardly thrown together, stains from yester-week abided about my outer garments, I hadn't shaved in quite some time and the small strands on my cheeks were becoming more akin to underdeveloped whiskers than a poorly done shave. Many times I contemplated the sadness of it all. But hope did present itself unto me. I had uncovered that the eyes held no interest in me when I wasn't dwelling on or practicing the things they disliked. Upon discovering this, I decided that the Chardonnay and cigarettes had to go. Their destinations? The trash receptacle. The sex would be no more. None for me, thank you. I was a changed man. But it did come at a price. At work, I all but had to keep to myself, so as not to be infected by the wiles of my male cohorts. And as far as the women were concerned, I couldn't possibly bring myself to look upon them, for fear that the eyes might make an unexpected return.
Copyright © 2004 Michael Harris |