Evil in Mind

When Michael woke up, his head pounded. The concrete, cold, wet and sticky, felt good against his head, but something stank of copper—something familiar, but he couldn't place it.

“Where am I?” Michael said. He flopped on to his back.

Night pressed itself over the suburban sprawl. Orange light formed a line on asphalt and tires buzzed overhead. Michael lay on a concrete incline, and his beige Volvo sat on the side of the road with its hazard lights pulsing, and the passenger-side door open.

“How did I get here?” He said. Another car buzzed on the highway overhead, and Michael swore he heard a chuckle—the dark kind.

Michael rubbed his face and felt something smear across his skin. He swung his hand away and the coppery stench invaded his nose.

“What is that?” he asked.

He shook his head and pushed himself up. His hand slipped on the concrete and he tumbled to the bottom of the slope face first. His forehead smacked asphalt and a new shock of pain fired through his head.

“Am I drunk?” He said. He grabbed his head. He hadn't been drinking, he didn't think. He wasn't sure.

Michael pulled himself up by the hood of his car. He didn't feel drunk.

He shut the passenger door and looked around. A dark streak marked his path down the concrete, and a sign down the road declared “welcome to Levi.” His clothes stuck to him. He pulled at a wet spot on his shirt and it sucked at his skin, but the orange light drowned out the stain's color.

“Ugh, I'm filthy,” he said.

He got into the car and stared at the sign.

“What am I doing in Levi?”

He strained to remember.

“I think I visited Dad earlier,” he said. “I must be going to see Mom. I don't know anyone else in Levi.”

He torqued the keys in the ignition and the car kicked to life. Over the rumble of the engine, he swore he heard someone say “yes” with greed.

Michael snapped his head around.

“Who said that?” He said.

No answer.

“Am I losing it?” Michael asked himself.

He pressed the gas and puttered into Levi.

***

An old man in Burlap robes grabbed Michael's arm on the sidewalk.

“You!” The old man yelled. He stared at Michael with wild eyes and wild hair.

“I don’t have any change right now,” Michael stammered.

The old man laughed darkly.

“Heh heh heh. I don’t need your money,” The old man said. His voice sounded like a coffin's creek.

“I want to ask you some questions.”

“I’m really busy right now. My lunch break is over. I have to get back to work,” Michael said. He pulled toward mirror-faced tower, but the old man held tight.

“It will only take a moment,” The old man said.

“Okay,” Michael said. “Just let go of my arm.”

The old man released.

“Would you be a man of family?” He asked.

“Umm… yes. I’m married and have two kids if that’s what you mean.”

The old man grinned. “Good. Good, but tell me, are your parents still alive?”

“Yes,” Michael said. His palms sweat and he shifted from foot to foot.

“One last question. What’s your name?” The old man said. He grinned with brown teeth.

“Michael,” he said.

“You're full name,” the old man said.

“Michael John Gray.”

***

“Oh, it’s you,” John said.

He lay on the couch watching the glow of the TV. A news anchor chattered about a murder in the inner city. His walker waited for him by the reclining chair.

“It’s nice to see you,” John said. He smiled and sat up. Dust stirred and mixed with the stink of old cigars, body odor, and air fresheners.

His visitor thumped forward with heavy steps and a grin on his face.

“Something wrong?” John asked. He shut the TV off and dropped the remote on the table. The visitor shambled closer.

“What’s wrong with your eyes? Why are you so quiet?” John said.

He stood up, but his legs wobbled. He stumbled a step toward his walker.

“Is everything alright?” John said.

The visitor stood still, breathing lightly, slowly, and deliberately.

“How did your eyes get that color?” John said.

He reached for the walker, but the visitor snatched it away.

“Stop playing with my walker,” John said.

The visitor lifted the walker above his head.

“What are you doing?” John said.

Then the visitor cracked the walker across John's face and he fell forever silent.

***

The pounding at the door made the night worker jump and drop a box of screws. The box slammed on the floor and a hand full of screws jingled out. The night worker picked it up and continued his sorting. One inch screws went in one place, two inch screws in another, and so on.

The pounding at the door intensified.

“This guy’s persistent,” The worker said. He stepped back and checked the door. He dropped the screws again.

“Jesus!” The worker said. He rushed toward the glass door. Outside, a man in bloody clothes rattled the handle.

“LET ME IN!” Michael shouted. The worker fumbled with the deadbolt while he stared at Michael's blood-caked hair. His thumb caught, the lever spun, and Michael burst in.

“What happened to you?”

“It’s in my head! It’s in my head!” Michael shouted.

“What's in your head?” The worker said.

Michael shook his head.

“I need three hundred feet of strong metal wire,” The worker stared at the slash shaped wound on the side of Michael’s head. It started as a small semi-circle, and then traveled up in a narrowing path to the top of his skull.

“Store’s closed, I can’t sell you anything,” The worker said. “Let me get the first aid kit for you.”

“Forget the first aid kit,” Michael said “I need that wire, right now.”

The worker scrambled behind the register and opened a cabinet. The hinges screamed, and he pulled out the first aid kit. It slammed and chattered as it hit the counter.

“Are you listening to me? Don’t worry about the blood. Just get me the wire.” Michael said.

The worker pulled out a roll of gauze and some medical tape.

“We’ve got to get you patched up and to the hospital.”

The worker unrolled the gauze, but he stopped when he heard an ominous click. Michael leveled a revolver at him.

“I told you not to worry about the wound. Get me three hundred feet of strong metal wire. Now.”

***

Michael felt damp cloth on his face and scissors in his hand. He flipped himself belly up and looked around. He saw cloth, suits and dresses on hangers, and a red streak that disappeared under a door.

“What the hell?” He said.

Then he looked at the scissors. Blood coated the blade up to the handle. He threw them with a spasm and the clacked against the wall

“Oh god,”

Then he heard a voice. It was quiet and sinister.

“Not quite,” it said.

“Who's there?” Michael asked, but he heard only forbidding silence.

Michael swallowed and stood up. He smelled blood and guilt all over himself.

His feet shuffled across the floor as he followed the streak. He clicked the door open and the hinges screamed.

His eyes followed the streak across the tile to a shoe, the shoe to a foot, the foot to a body, and the body to the face of his mother. A ragged hole tore her throat apart and her eyes froze open in horror.

Michael lurched forward and vomited a gut full of terrible stink hard knowledge.

“Oh Jesus,” Michael said.

A dark chuckle rolled through the world. Michael stopped. He sat on the tile and held his temples.

“It's in my head,” he said.

***

Michael wrapped the wire around the tree four times and tied it off. He threw the coil on the ground and threaded the other end into the space between the window and the top of the car door.

“Put the wire down,” the voice said. “Let's check on your children.”

Michael shook his head.

“No.”

He got in the car and wrapped the wire around his neck twice and tied a knot. Then he hit the gas.

The engine roared. The tires spun and the beige Volvo took off.

The wire unwound, cutting the air with whistling sounds before snapping taught. The loop from Michael’s end gouged the paint on his car, then whipped out the window, still tied.

A minute later, the car drifted off the road to the right, collided with a tree. The engine stalled and blood spattered the windows like inkblots.

#

Michael Gray slid open the bottom drawer of the dresser next to his bed. He found a box under the clutter of crinkled receipts and canceled checks, and flipped it open. A long nosed revolver lay inside.

He popped the cylinder out and checked for bullets. Bullets plugged all six chambers. Slapped it shut and a light on the other side of the bed clicked on.

“Honey?” His wife said.

“Kill her,” The voice said. “You've always wanted to.”

“What are you doing honey?” His wife asked. She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

“It's in my head,” Michael said. His voice came in strained gasps.He stood up, put the revolver muzzle to his temple.

“Stop,” the voice said.

Michael shook his head.

“I’m sorry honey. I love you.” Michael said. His wife froze in voiceless shock.

As he pulled the trigger, the force in his head pulled his arm. The gun pointed higher, and bullet glanced off the skull. It ripped through his skin and knocked Michael unconscious. Just before everything went black, Michael head a second gunshot and a scream.

***

A sound in the front of the store startled Mrs. Gray and she cut to deep into the fabric. She stepped out of the back to investigate. A man stood on the other side of the counter with blood on his shirt and face. For a moment, she just stared at him.

“Michael?” She asked.

She put her scissors down on the counter. Michael nodded.

“Was I supposed to come see you?”

“What happened to you?”

Michael heard someone hiss “scissors...”

Michael spun and checked the room. It was just him and his mother.

“Is there anyone else in the back?”

His mother glanced through the open door.

“No,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Were you expecting me?”

“No,” his mother said. “What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

“I don't know. I think I'm fine.”

“Where did all that blood come from?”

Michael pulled at his clothes. The blood still stuck to him.

“I don’t know. I just woke up this way.”

Mrs. Gray inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she said. “What's the last thing you remember?”

Michael grabbed his head and pinched his eyes shut. “I dropped by the house to see Dad.”

Both went quiet.

“Let me call Dad. Maybe he can help.” Mrs. Gray suggested. Michael nodded. Mrs. Gray dialed. A tense silence later she put the phone down.

“No answer.” She said.

Michael felt a shiver in his spine.

“I don’t feel so good,” Michael said.

“You should rest,” she said.

Michael heard a chuckle in a dark corner. He looked around, but still only saw his mother.

“I don't know if that's a good idea.”

Mrs. Gray pulled a bottle of sleeping pills out of her purse.

“Here,” she said. “Take two of these. A little sleep will be good for you.”

“Are you sure?” he said.

Mrs. Gray nodded. Michael held out his hand and she shook two pills into. He swallowed them without water.

“Now, just sit down,” She said.

Michael slumped against the counter. His mother paced, and each clack of her heel brought Michael closer to sleep. He thought he heard laughter somewhere, but he ignored it.

Mrs. Gray paced. She watched saw her son’s eyes drop and his body go limp. We his body was still, she picked up the phone and dialed a nine and paused. She held her finger above the one, and then she saw her son stand up and glare at her. She put the receiver down.

“How did your eyes get so red?” She asked.

Her son grinned and grabbed the scissors. She screamed before the first stab, but it gashed through her larynx. She tried to scream again, but only gurgled.

***

The old man in burlap hunched over a leather book with age-yellowed pages. He flipped pages and smiled darkly.

Then he stood and lit a candle in the middle of the room. It burned black and spat thick smoke. The old shut his eyes and spoke.

“Kazik'ra. I found the subject you need. A good man with a wife, children, and living parents. Use his body to kill them and you can return to this plane.”

The old opened his eyes. They they twinkled red in the candlelight.

“He lives in this city. His name is Michael John Gray. Take him as my gift.”

***

The cruiser pulled up to the drive through window.

“Two large coffees?” The clerk asked.

“Yeah,” Officer Coolidge said. The clerk disappeared back into the shop. Officer McNealson pulled a five dollar bill out of his wallet. The clerk came, took the money, and gave McNealson the coffee. McNealson passed one to Coolidge and pulled away.

“You heard anything about the Gray case?” McNealson asked. Coolidge sipped his coffee.

“Nothing’s happened for the past two months. They’re coming off protection.” “You think they're safe?” McNealson asked.

“Yeah I think they are. All those murders happened within twelve hours of each other. Nothing’s happened for two months. They’re safe.”

McNealson nodded. “You have to wonder what happened to that murderer though. How did he take Gray’s head off in the car like that?”

“I don’t know,” Officer Coolidge said.

***

Fifty miles away, an old man dressed in burlap grabbed a man in a shirt and tie on the sidewalk.

“I don’t have any money,” The man in the tie said.

“I don’t need your money,” The old man grinned. His voice sounded like the creek of a coffin.

“Can I ask you some questions?”