Fiction
Fantasy
“A terrible tragedy struck the east side just minutes ago,” the newscaster said, frowning slightly and trying to look sad as she spoke. Kevin sat on the edge of his chair, licking his lips.
“St. Peter’s, a local landmark built in 1878, was burned to the ground.”
The camera cut to the burning church and the sound of sirens. Which occult tome was it that said Christianity was a water religion? he tried to recall. The fish is one of its symbols, its apostles are fishermen, baptism is its initiation, and hellfire its enemy. When he couldn’t remember which book it was, he concluded that he had probably burned it when he abandoned occultism.
The church was beautiful, he had to admit. A canvas on which he made the true work of art. He watched with awe as the fire—his fire—consumed the church.
“The blaze spread to the adjoining homeless shelter,” the newscaster intoned emotionlessly, since her face was not on camera, “where a family of four is trapped. Even as we speak, the Fire Department is trying to rescue them. Officials suspect that this was the work of the Fryer, the arsonist who has claimed responsibility for destroying five churches. The Red Cross is housing those who escaped.”
“An artist, you airhead, not a mere arsonist!” he shouted at the newscaster, his lower lip trembling. “Not just anyone can go a-burnin’.”
“In other news—”
He grabbed the remote, shut the TV off, and stopped the VCR from recording.
“Bravo! Bravo!” he said loudly, clapping his hands. He pressed the eject button on the remote and walked to the VCR. After labeling the tape “St. Peter’s”, he placed it between “St. Malachi” and “St. Stanislaus.” Six tapes, six works of art. So far...
“Yeah, some lowlife scum burned down St. Peter’s. They say it was probably the Fryer. Don’t you read the paper?” Frank extinguished what remained of his shrinking cigarette and lit another.
“I didn’t have any time,” Kevin responded with a full mouth, “I was out kind of late. But I saw it on the news.”
“I hope they kill that scum.”
Kevin ignored the insults. When he went a-burnin’ he was someone other than Kevin Reynolds, customer service peon. He was, in a play on words that he thought witty considering his targets, the Fryer.
“They’re sure it was arson?” Kevin took another bite of the turkey special.
“Yeah.” Frank shook his head. “A homeless family of four died of smoke inhalation. Their bodies were burned beyond recognition.”
“I thought they would be rescued.” He had never killed anyone before. In and of itself, their deaths did not bother him, but the fact that they died in his fire made them blotches on his canvas. Like flies landing on the still wet canvas of a da Vinci and dying as it dried, ruining the work for eternity. “What kind of God would allow something like that to happen?” They often argued about religion. He knew that Frank held beliefs he did not know how to rationally defend, and took great delight in punching holes in Frank’s psyche through this method.
“God doesn’t directly intervene in the affairs of people,” Frank said somewhat defensively in between puffs. “He acts through people. It’s like world hunger. That’s a man-made problem. There’s enough food to go around, it’s just that for political and economic reasons, the food isn’t getting around. Let’s just hope and pray the police catch this Fryer.”
“Sounds too convenient to me.”
Frank shrugged his shoulders. “What do you want God to do? Control people like robots? Or kill everyone who does something wrong?”
Kevin slammed the door behind him and threw his briefcase against the door of the closet. “I hate work! I hate work!” he shouted. It was 7:28 PM. “Hello,” he spoke mockingly to himself, rocking his head one way then the other, “customer service. How may I help you? Oh, that is sad. Did you think that maybe it’s because you’re too stupid? Oh, you must be mistaking me for someone who cares. Have a nice day.”
He fell backwards into his chair and turned on the TV.
“‘For offenses must come!’” the preacher shouted as he sweat profusely, “‘but woe unto him through whom they come!’ Then the verse continues, ‘For it would be better for him that a millstone were hung about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.’ You see? The Lord says that it would actually be better for such a person to drown—”
“It would be better for you to shut up.” Kevin changed the channel several times, then shut the TV off and threw the remote on the couch opposite him. As soon as he shut off the TV he heard the sirens.
He hated sirens that came when he didn’t call them forth. Sirens were reserved for his use alone, no lesser person had any right to use them. He could no more like sirens that came when he wasn’t a-burnin’ than a jealous husband would like coming home and finding someone with his wife.
“Time for bed, Mr. Kevin. It’s only seven-forty, I know,” he nodded to himself, “but you have to get up at four o’clock to go to work for people with half your brains and good looks.” He took off his clothes and put on the pajamas his mom had gotten him the day before. The sirens were still going, mocking him.
After setting his alarm, he pulled the covers off the bed and got in, pulled the covers up to his eyes, then turned onto his stomach. As always, he kept the lights on.
8:48. The sirens still wailed. He couldn’t sleep, knowing that the sirens weren’t for him.
10:27. The sirens were still going. “The whole Fire Department must be out,” he muttered, too excited to sleep because fire was near.
12:16. The sirens were dying down, but now there were muffled screams filling the night air.
1:07. The screams became louder. He could make out definite words now, like a young boy screaming “Dad! Help!”
“No!” He covered his head with the pillow and pushed it against his ears so hard that it hurt, but it worked. He couldn’t hear the sounds anymore.
Kevin surveyed the burned-out husk of St. Peter’s as the screams of the wounded and dying flooded his mind. The sky was a dull gray, but an eerie illumination still managed to come from somewhere. Though thick, black smoke filled the air, he had no difficulty breathing.
This is a dream, he told himself.
The homeless shelter was on fire. Three fire trucks and several ambulances were visible. People were screaming out of the windows of the higher floors. Surprisingly, a woman walked through the flames that blocked the exit for everyone else. She calmly walked over to one of the firemen. Kevin approached her, curious to hear what she had to say.
“Excuse me, sir.” The lady had a thick accent. “Excuse me.”
“Yes?” the fireman answered.
“Could you please tell me why me and my whole family died?” She seemed genuinely confused. It seemed a perfectly reasonable question. Kevin waited for the answer.
“It’s because of him.” The fireman pointed at Kevin.
The lady looked at Kevin expressionlessly, then turned back to the fireman. “Well, why don’t you kill him?”
“We will, ma’am. Please move along.”
They’re going to kill me! Kevin ran away from St. Peter’s as fast as he could, but some invisible force was slowing him down. He pressed forward, but his body could only move in slow motion. Someone, or something, was just behind him, he could feel it! He heard a low, throaty growl, and felt something scratch his back.
“Ahh!” He jumped up and looked around. He was safe, in his bed, but his back hurt like crazy. He touched it.
“That hurts!” he yelled at himself.
He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. After taking his shirt off and admiring his body for a few seconds, he turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder. There were raised, red scratches running down his back.
“Good morning, customer service, this is Kevin, how may I help you?”
It was altogether within the realm of the natural, he knew. Ironically, it was when he was involved with the occult that he learned of the psychological basis underlying most of what passed for the supernatural. If person A is convinced that person B can curse him, and if person B tells person A “I’m going to curse you,” then person A will be cursed. Completely natural, given the workings of the human mind. He recalled reading that if a hypnotized person was told he was scratched on his arm by a cat, he would soon develop scratches, and was convinced that something like that happened to him. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that please?”
“What’s yer problem,” the old man thundered, “ain’t you listening to me? You people screwed up my claim, an’ now they wan’ me ta pay outta my own pocket!” The old man proceeded with his invective about how his old insurance carrier had better service, and how rates were too high, and how it used to be in the old days when doctors charged less, and...
The scratches are natural, Kevin reassured himself. Heck, schizophrenic men can develop false pregnancy, and because of some lousy scratches you’re worried about the supernatural. The more he thought about the scratches, the more they hurt and itched. Doesn’t that prove that they originated in my mind? he wondered.
“Well?”
“Well what?” Kevin answered. I wish management wasn’t able to monitor these calls at random. If not for that...
“You lazy punk,” the old man shouted, “you—”
Kevin hung up. The phone rang again. It was going to be a long day.
“Good morning, customer service, this is Kevin, how may I help you?”
“Hello,” the lady with the familiar thick accent said, “me and my family died recently, and I wanted to ask you about my insurance.”
“Could you repeat that?” Kevin asked, afraid that he heard her correctly. He stopped breathing.
“Well, this is what happened. A guy burned down St. Peter’s and the homeless shelter next door, and me and my family were killed. I have a sister and she has five kids, and I wanted to see if they get anything.”
Kevin sat in shock, wondering if he was losing his mind.
“Hello? Hello?” the lady asked frantically. “Are you still there?”
“If you’re going to haunt me, do it right, you stupid wench, this is a health insurance company! We don’t carry life insurance, you dumb corpse, and nobody cares about your sister and her five mistakes!”
“What the heck are you talking about?” It was the unaccented voice of an older woman.
“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry ma’am, I was—I was on break and fighting with a friend over the phone, and I guess we crossed lines or something. I’m really very sorry about the mix-up. How may I help you?”
Kevin pulled into the driveway and slammed on the brakes. The possibility that he was losing his mind bothered him, not only subjectively, but objectively. His was a superior intellect, and humanity as a whole would be diminished by any damage to his mind. He got out of the car.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
Kevin turned suddenly, and then relaxed. “Greg, don’t startle me like that. What’s up?” One of the few days I get to leave at five, and I have to see Greg’s face. One day I’ll quit doing churches. There’s no shortage of homes I could visit at night. Eugenics by fire.
“There was a mean-looking guy scoping out your house when you were gone.”
Kevin eyed him cautiously. “What did he look like?”
“Kinda tall, thin. Real stiff, the way he walked.” Greg looked away.
“What else?” Kevin asked nervously.
“Well... He got wings. I—I kinda seen ’em sticking out from under his jacket, but I kinda didn’t, ya know?”
Yeah, dude, like, you was kinda like on drugs, dude. “What was he, a demon?” Kevin laughed even though he was losing patience, but the kid looked serious when he said, “No. The wings was feathery, not leathery.”
You kinda seen ’em, and the wings was feathery. Go watch Sesame Street and learn how to speak correctly, inferior trash!
“If you see anything else, please let me know, okay?”
Greg nodded.
Kevin entered his house through the rear in case he was being observed by anyone, though what he gained by doing so was unclear to him. He locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes, and fell asleep in a chair.
When he woke up, it was dark. He got out of the chair, took off his clothes, and showered. After drying off with a towel, he set the blow-dryer as hot as it would get and blow-dried his body.
He let the air get so hot it was painful, but he kept on using it because that was the only way to atone for being in water.
After he finished, he put on his bathrobe and started the gas fireplace. One day, I’ll turn this whole neighborhood into a fireplace. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice.
“Mens sana in corpore sano.” He took a drink.
“What’s on the tube?” He set the glass on the end table and then took a leap over the arm of the chair and landed on top of the remote. He grabbed the remote from beneath him, turned on the TV and began switching the channels till something caught his eye.
“Be sure to order your Book of Daily Prayers now, while our supplies last,” the man on the TV admonished.
Are they always on? he wondered. He hated to admit it, but he had always been strangely attracted to the televangelists. He admired the way they asserted control over the masses, and the way they so easily persuaded others to part with their money.
And they were even better at begging than the public television people.
Lesser people need strong leadership, he was convinced, and it was only right that the clever should dominate the foolish, but he hated the things the televangelists said and did. That and the fact that most of them were not intellectually superior to the herds they led.
“And now, Brother James is going to sing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.’ Take it away, Brother James.”
“They’re coming to take you away, Brother James!” Kevin laughed to himself until he was doubled over in his seat.
“Swing low, sweet chariot...”
Kevin turned up the volume.
“Sing it, brother! Yes!”
“Comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot...”
He set down the remote and went to the kitchen to refill his glass, periodically looking over his shoulder so as not to miss any of Brother James’s singing. He opened the refrigerator and took out the orange juice carton.
“Comin’ for to carry me home. I looked over Jordan and what did I see—”
Kevin emptied the carton into his glass and carelessly threw the carton into the sink. He sipped his juice slowly while staring at the TV.
“—coming for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after thee—”
The glass slipped from his fingers. It landed on the floor and shattered instantly, spreading glass fragments and orange juice over the floor.
“Son of a—!” He tried to step out of the mess carefully, but instead, he stepped on a sharp piece of glass. A red stream began to seep into the puddle of orange juice.
He looked at the television. “What did you say?” he yelled.
To his surprise, Brother James stopped singing and stared directly at him.
“I said, there’s a band of angels coming after thee!”
“Why?”
Brother James seemed surprised at this question. “‘Cause if I said they were comin’ after you, it wouldn’t rhyme. And if I said they were comin’ to kick your butt, a lot of people that watch this show would be pissed.”
Just then, the sirens began. Brother James looked around as if to try to find the source of the noise in the studio, and then smiled. “Hey, Mr. Fryer, they’re playin’ your song.”
Those sirens! He looked out the window. Nothing. But the sirens kept getting louder.
“How dare someone waste a fire,” he muttered angrily.
“How dare someone waste a life, you no-good piece o’ trash.” Brother James nodded to emphasize his point.
Kevin grabbed a vase from the kitchen table and pulled the fake flowers out of it.
“That’s right! What you are is trash. Why you’re nothin’ bu—”
The vase hit Brother James squarely between the eyes, and he was gone. His foot still bleeding, Kevin got his slippers, unlocked the front door, and walked out. It was chilly. The sirens were very loud.
He looked at all the houses down his street. “Can’t these people hear anything?”
No sign of any life at all. No, wait—there was someone. He was far away. It looked like a fireman, but there was no fire in sight.
Kevin looked down the other end of the street and saw three similarly clad figures coming in his direction. He could see their helmets and gear even from this far. He looked back toward the first fireman he saw. Now there were five, and they were walking in his direction. Down the other end, where three had been, there were now seven. Disembodied red lights, much like those from a fire truck, filled the air, but with no source.
What’s going on?
He locked himself in his house, looking out the window cautiously. The firemen were in the front yard now, marching stiffly toward the house. Some of them went around back.
Why isn’t anyone coming out to see what’s going on?
He saw them approaching the large window in front. He moved away just in time to avoid flying shards of glass. The drapes were taken down by the same axe that destroyed the window. He heard their axes destroying his front and side doors, and his windows.
God! They’re everywhere!
Some of the firemen started coming in through the broken window.
He ran into one of the bedrooms and locked the door behind him. “My God!” he shouted into the hand covering his mouth. He grabbed his phone, nearly dropping it from his shaking hands, and dialed 911.
One ring. He heard more glass break. Two rings.
“Yes?”
That’s not how they’re supposed to answer. “People are breaking in, they’re breaking in please send the police please—”
“Well, you shouldn’t have burned those people alive, you know.”
Silence, while his heart and lungs paused for an instant.
“I can’t call the firemen back. No one can. You got what’s coming to you.” She hung up. He stood there in shock, still pressing the phone to his ear, unable to move until he heard the voices of the firemen. He knew he had to do something. His temple was being desecrated by those whose lives were dedicated to fighting Fire.
He unlocked the door and went out to meet the barbarians who dared to force the gates. Once he was in the living room he saw more firemen coming through the windows.
“Get out of here now! Leave me alone!”
They didn’t listen, but kept coming in. There were over twenty of them, and more kept coming. He went to the fireplace and picked up a poker.
“I said get out!” He lunged at a fireman, but missed.
The fireman hefted his axe ominously.
“No! No! Please!”
Many of the firemen gave up their disguises altogether, and their ether-like bodies glowed. He saw the wings protruding from their backs, and realized that the fire they wanted to extinguish was his soul!
There was one means of escape, and that was through the fireplace. The Fire would welcome him. He stared into the fireplace, and saw the salamanders form. He could see their little faces in the Fire, beckoning him, assuring him the Fire was safe, that he was welcome. Yes! It’s the gate from Earth to Fire. His knowledge of elemental magic convinced him of this, and without further hesitation, he crawled into the Fire.
He screamed as the flame seared his flesh. After feeling in vain for the gate to Fire, he left the fireplace aflame, not knowing what to do.
“I served you,” he shouted as the flames entered his mouth, “I worshipped you! Stop!” But the flame ignored his pleas as it fed upon his flesh. As he was dying, he realized that the manner of his leaving Earth and entering Fire would not be easy.
“A tragedy struck the west side today, and claimed the life of an arson suspect,” the newscaster said, frowning slightly and trying to look sad as she spoke. “This story is stranger than most. A man called 911 and began speaking unintelligibly. The dispatcher heard the word ‘fire’ several times, so she contacted the Fire Department.”
The camera cut to one of the firemen. “It was the craziest thing I ever saw, and I been in the Department for seven years.”
“What happened exactly?” the on-the-scene reporter asked, licking his lips.
“When we got here, we could see the light from the flames through the drapes. We needed to get in as soon as possible, and the front door was locked, so we broke the windows and went in.” The fireman pointed to the windows at the front of the house. “We knew someone was inside, we could see his shadow against the drapes, but no one opened the door, so we figure something’s wrong and I give the word to go in. The guy sees us and freaks. He takes the fireplace poker and tries to stab me. Then he dives into the fireplace headfirst and catches fire.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“We learned that he died. It was from his burns, is that correct?”
The fireman looked at the reporter like he had come from another world. “His face was burned clean off his skull, so I’d say ‘yes’.”
“Back to you, Rhonda.”
“Thanks, Ted. Police have reason to believe that Kevin Reynolds, the owner of the burning house, was The Fryer, the arsonist responsible for burning several churches, including most recently St. Peter’s and the neighboring homeless shelter. Four people died in that fire.”
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Copyright 2009, Michael Mina. All rights reserved. Michael Mina has been writing since 1991. His fiction has appeared in ComputorEdge, D.C., Eclipse, Fiction Forum, Figment, Haunts, Lost Worlds, Medusa's Hairdo, MindFlights, Mystic Fiction, Next Phase, Once Upon A World, Outer Darkness, Skyline Voices, Sorcerous Magazine, Talers Tales, The Cosmic Unicorn, The Nocturnal Lyric, as well as the poetry anthology Once Upon A Midnight. He also previously served as the editor of the Reform Party News, and was a regular contributor to several political websites.
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