The Muse - 1. The Muse

“Lighting arced across the sky, and a peal of thunder rent the air.”

No, Joel decided, that was far too clichéd a way to begin the story. It was supposed to be a horror story, a plot that had been rolling around in his head for quite some time, but try as he might, Joel couldn’t get past the first few sentences.

Joel stretched, closed his laptop, and then stepped away from his desk. After pacing awhile in front of his window he donned a dark greatcoat, then stepped outside into the chill of the October night. Surely, he thought, a walk would help him clear his mind so that, his Muse willing, he could concentrate on his writing. Turning the corner, Joel huddled against the chill wind gusting down the dark country lane, fervently hoping that tonight, his Muse would strike.

Trudging up the lane, surrounded by the eerie silhouettes of the now-leafless trees, Joel reviewed his story in his mind. It was always so clear in his mind’s eye, but whenever he tried to put pen to paper, or in this case pixels on a screen, his Muse failed him. Yet, the story would not let go. It haunted him, lately to the point of obsession.

It was a simple tale, of an ancient and nameless evil prowling the land, stalking its hapless victims and feeding upon their fear. Cliché, perhaps, but Joel believed in its merits, if the tale was told correctly. It was, however, the telling itself that was the crux of his problem.

Joel felt that the story needed, nay, demanded the feel of a first-person narrative to capture the feeling of foreboding laced with fear. However, it also demanded the aloof perspective of the third-person narrative, and worse still parts of it cried out for the intimate yet disparate voice of the second-person perspective .

Earnestly, as any young writer might, Joel had wrestled with this dilemma, often crying out for his Muse to strike, but he could not find a solution to this paradox. He needed the three voices, a choir if you will, to give full shape to his vision. Joel, though, had consulted the experts, who had without fail told him that the Author must pick one voice and hold to it, that it was not, under the oft-vague rules of writing, possible to use three voices in any one story.

Joel had reluctantly acceded to their sage wisdom, resolving instead to tell the tale as well as he could, in spite of the constraints that the rules placed upon him.

A distant mutter of thunder reminded Joel that he had walked far from home, on a night that was far from placid. The night, indeed, was windswept, dark, and eerie, lit only by the pale moon. So fitting, he thought, for this night was All Hallows Eve. Surely, he hoped, his Muse would strike on this, of all nights?

Stumbling in the dark, Joel reached for a flashlight, then fumbled with the switch before it flickered to life, its pale beam lighting his way. As the lane came to its end, he proceeded up a familiar rutted path and on into the dark woods beyond. Soon, he came to a rock which was sheltered by the trees, and as had become his occasional custom, he sat down upon it and then took out his notepad and pen. Perhaps the traditional implements of the writer, so seldom used in this electronic age, would suffice where modern technology had failed him?

The wind moaned through the trees, dark shadows moving in the chill, damp air, perfect, he thought, for a work of horror, perhaps enough to draw his Muse?

Come to me, Muse, I need you…

Joel concentrated on his vision of the tale, and by the feeble light of the moon, sometimes obscured by the ragged, scudding clouds and accompanied only by the wind as it moaned in the branches of the trees, Joel set forth to bring his vision to life.

“The beast, ancient beyond the scope of man, evil incarnate, stalked the land. Incorporeal, as yet, it kept to the darkest places: A glimmer in the dark, a shimmer in the pale moonlight the only signs of its ephemeral passing. Questing forth for a victim upon whom to sate its appetite, the ancient entity, nameless yet, though known in ancient times by many names, listened for the echo of a receptive mind. Finding the telltale trace for which it sought, the creature reached out to touch that mind, and by the subtlest of means planted the seed from which it, itself would soon spring forth.”

Joel, with a sad shake of his head, reviewed his words. They were good, that much he knew, but they, as had so many prior attempts, failed to capture the essence and feel of the tale that he had conceived.

Ripping the page from his notebook, he released it to the gusting wind, sighing as it disappeared into the dark groves beside him.

Perhaps, he thought, a second-person voice? Setting pen to paper once more, Joel began anew.

“What was that, you ask, as the hairs on the back of your neck, unbidden and for reasons unknown, begin to rise. The chill wind outside rattles the shutters, though you are warm by your cozy fire. The reason for your disquiet lies elsewhere, but have you a clue as to the what, and the where? Shivers possess you, the subtle harbingers of foreboding and fear. Something is amiss, though you know not what.

Feeling the need to clear your mind, driven by the desire to dispel your dark notions, you step beyond your abode and into the night. Carefully, cautiously you advance into the night, the rustle of the leaves renewing your qualms.

Onwards you walk, on this the darkest of nights, the fear growing stronger as you cross from the light. Further, further you walk, the fear growing stronger with each passing step.

Where, you wonder, will this journey end? Surely, you think, it is all in your mind. Only later, much later, will you realize that the darkness of night will lead to your own bitter end.

The darkness engulfs you, and you walk faster still. So fast, in fact, that the first subtle echo of a footstep escapes you, as behind you takes shape the fate that awaits you.

You quicken your pace, the fear growing inside you, hearing now as you do the rustle of something approaching behind you.”

The sudden snap of a twig caused Joel to jump, but as he listened, he heard nothing but the soft moan of the wind in the boughs, and the rustle of the fallen leaves. Shaking his head, laughing at his own nervousness, Joel read the page he had just created, gnashing his teeth as he ripped it from its bindings and cast it upon the wind, to join the one before it.

Angry now, his frustration rising, Joel shouted out, “Damn, you, my Muse, either come to me, inspire me, or let me forget this accursed tale!”

One last and final time, Joel set pen to paper and tried to capture the essence of his vision, fighting against the constraints imparted by the rules imposed from without on his use of words and phrases. “Second and third didn’t suffice, let’s take a stab at the first,” he thought.

“Restlessly, I sit beside my fire one windy night, glancing out my window to see the moonlight dancing through the gnarled and leafless trees and play upon the cold, damp ground.

I stretch, feeling the need for something to shake the cobwebs from my mind, something to subdue the subtle tickle that plagues my thoughts. It’s a sensation I cannot place and try as I might, I cannot evade the vague feeling that something’s amiss. Donning my coat, I flip up the collar as I step out into the dark night.

A dank and heavy smell is carried upon the wind, the smell of fall, of winter’s approach. Trudging through the night, my way lit by a small handheld light, I feel the chill of the wind on my face as I hurry my pace down the dark country lane, seeking peace for my mind, somewhere in the dark night ahead.

The tickle, that feeling of subtle dread, seems to grow stronger so I quicken my pace.

A distant rumble of thunder adds an uneasy, uncalm feel to the air, the mood meshing perfectly with that of my soul on this dark and eerie night. I fervently hope that the wind will take away with it my troubled thoughts.

The deserted country lane comes to an end, so I continue upon a rough trail towards the dark woods beyond. This is a route that I know well, though always before I have felt safe. Tonight I do not; I know something is amiss, as the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. I hear a twig snap behind me so I break into a run, terror driving me. I glance back, seeing in the shadows as I do a dark shape following behind me. Suddenly, the”

The sudden crackle of a breaking twig impelled Joel to leap to his feet, his heart in his mouth as he whirled around to look for the source of the noise behind him. Seeing nothing, Joel laughed, attributing it to the wind. Joel looked down upon what he had written, and knew that it would never suffice.

Regretfully, he ripped it from the book, tossing it high over his head, allowing the wind to catch it and take it away like its brethren. Joel glanced around at the bare and eerie trees as the moon slipped behind the scudding clouds of the approaching storm, leaving him in near total darkness.

Joel reached for his flashlight, but before he could find it he heard, again, a noise in the dark, this time a footfall amongst the dry leaves. Joel trembled as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A rustle of leaves, closer still, removed any doubt from his mind. Joel, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow, turned to make haste, and head back the way he had come.

Stumbling, falling, driven by fear, Joel fumbled for his flashlight, only to drop it as he stumbled again. Desperately, he dropped to his knees to search for it, only to hear, close behind him, the rasping, ragged sound of breathing.

In panic, now, Joel leapt to his feet, his writing implements forgotten behind him, dashing madly down the path, losing it in the darkness. Running quickly, driven by his fear, Joel collided with branch after branch, finally tripping and falling onto the rough, cold ground.

He froze, listening, the wind all he could hear, as a glimmer of hope began to return. The sudden crack of a large branch near beside him brought back his terror, full force, so he struggled to his feet to flee again, running hard, not caring where, just away. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, lighting his way.

Crashing through the moonlit forest, his heart pounding, every shadow suspect, Joel could clearly hear the noise of something large pursuing him. He knew it was there, he felt it.

The sounds of his terror-filled flight echoed through the dark woods, though Joel’s footfalls were no longer alone: They had been joined by the louder noises of the heavier thing that was steadily gaining upon him. In panic, he ran faster still, not caring about the many scrapes and bruises he was suffering from his headlong flight. Joel never saw the gnarled root that hooked his ankle, sending him sprawling, his head striking a tree.

Slowly, he awoke, aware, first, of the many cuts and scrapes he suffered and of the searing pain in his now-broken ankle. Laying in the dark, on his back, he remembered his pursuit. His fear returning, he glanced around the moonlit forest, quiet now except for the wind. The only thing he noticed amiss was the two glowing red coals looking back at him from a dozen feet away.

Joel cried out in terror, trying and failing to get up from the ground. The cold sweat on his brow began again as the panic, the terror, consumed him in full. He glanced back at the glowing orbs, as the creature moved closer, out of the shadows and into the moonlight.

The creature, the beast, was a thing to behold. It shimmered, it changed, its form not fully set, though its intent and design was now beyond doubt. Long dark limbs, sleek black fur, a predator’s face set by two glowing red eyes.

Closer it came, the moonlight glinting off its claws. Joel felt, inside his own head, an inhuman chuckle, a snicker, and a sensation of malevolent intent.

Joel could not move, for the beast was upon him, his vision now filled by the sinister fangs, as a clawed foot pinned him roughly to the ground. His terror was far too great to notice the scent of brimstone that now filled the air.

Again, the sinister laugh echoed inside his mind, causing Joel to gasp at the specter before him, “What are you? What do you want with me?”

Glinting like steel, almost too quick to be seen, razor sharp claws descended. One swift blow of incredible power rent Joel’s chest asunder, exposing his still-beating heart.

Shock, terror, pain and disbelief wracked Joel, as he watched the fearsome head of the beast sniff, lower, and then begin to feed. As the great fangs pierced his heart, ripping, tearing, Joel felt it beat its last, the coppery taste of his own blood filling his mouth.

Joel drew his final, ragged breath, hearing at last in his mind, as the eternal darkness reached out to engulf him, the answer to his final question.

“What am I, you ask? How odd, that my creator should ask such a thing. You have called me a thousand times, beseeching me to come, empowering me to enter this realm, endowing me my present form. For I am that tickle in your mind, that echo you have felt. Yes, it is I, your Muse…”

Finis~