The Beast

A darkness permeates the house— in a manner unusual for this early in the day— and with it a quiet. There is no chattering TV to be heard in the living room and its glow wasn’t to be seen; no shuffling footsteps echoed through the halls; no hum or buzz of a washer and dryer. Only occasionally does a muffled, suffocated groan of a passing car creep its way in, unwelcome, through the cracks of the windows and the doors. The most lofty, delicate, and gentle sensations of the outside, which were most unwanted, are completely shut out: the gentle breeze of early fall sifting through the trees; the songs of the birds; the soft glow and intense gaze of the sun in the morning, afternoon and evening. The only sounds that could be heard, like a tree falling alone in the forest, were mutters that were afraid of themselves, belonging to it whose ears intercept them.

The dishes had piled up and weren’t washed in what must’ve been months, and so too did the laundry. For anyone who would have the misfortune and the privilege to enter this musty refuge, these things would go unnoticed if it wasn’t for the apprehensions of the nose—how very thick the darkness was. As evening gave way to night, something in this cave began to stir, and in the far corner of the basement amidst the filth two eyes cut through the darkness. Eyes, through which, dark was light and light was a painful violence.

Rising, making nary a sound, it stands, and begins to creep while floorboards creep underfoot. Three horns crown it, coiling in three directions. Three eyes are visible through its thick curly mane; one always skyward, one always looking toward hell, and one in the middle always closed.

We are the eyes in the walls, the whispers overhead and underfoot. With each step the beast is changed as it lurches toward the stairway, shedding fur that melts into the air and horns that turn to dust with the advent of the night. As beastliness falls to his feet the way a bathrobe does, a man is revealed underneath.

Though there is no light, he navigates his way up to the study on the second floor with ease. He grasps for a switch, fumbling at first and then grabs it firmly and twisting it with the snap. The lamp blinks on casting its light on the room. It gazes upon the spines of books that sit on the shelf that’s practically bursting with tomes; some cracked and warped, some faded and worn, all covered in a thick dust coating. Textbooks on philosophy and its history, logic, mathematics; novels by Pynchon, Kundera, Wallace, Joyce and many in between; plays—Shakespeare, August Wilson, Ariosto, Tasso; Encyclopedias; many volumes on mythology and philosophy of both Eastern and Western traditions some widely read and many quite obscure. The mahogany desk covered in books and manuscripts, and the hardwood floor atop which it rests; the chair by the desk, the one by the window; the table holding a record player and the shelves housing a thousand-some-odd records. His face and its dark skin, carrying the weight of his weary expression and tired eyes. A young face belonging to a young man of 29 with an unkempt beard and thick unkempt locs.

With the aid of the light he lowers himself in the chair carrying on unintelligible conversations with himself. He pushes to the side dozens of unfinished notes and letters, some addressed to no one in particular, some to his mother long passed, most to whoever would next walk through the door after he was gone, all addressed to the world at large and all who lived in it. But, since he’d always been of a hopeful disposition he never finished any and he was as of yet unfinished. He pulls out a manuscript from underneath another—of poetry to be mailed soon— and continues the draft from where he left off the night before.

3 hours in, just as the words begin to flow and the pen flourish, the lamp begins to stutter. The hum of its warm voice gives out with a gasp. Out of sheer frustration he violently swipes all the books, papers, manuscripts and the guilty lamp clean off his desk; everything hits the floor with crashes and thuds and he collapses back into the chair tired, emaciated, frustrated and—well, the list of his torments is quite extensive.

You thought we’d simply let you have some fun? Ha, always remember that you are cursed!

The room crowds with laughter and he runs back down to the basement stumbling and sobbing. Thirsting for fresh air he unfurls the blinds of a window in the basement and slides it open. Tears glistening in its soft light, a light both cold and warm, he feels a bit of peace. Relaxing a little, basking in the light of the moon, he heard a song. He had not heard this song before. Nor had he ever heard the singer. It was a voice both cold and warm, a song that was lonely but not quite sad, as if sound could carry the essence of the moon. She comes into view and he watches her walk. Her lips shine like the moon as if she drank only from rivers that reflected it in the dead of night. Her skin carried its rays ever nearer to him— she had brought the moon down to the Earth. She stopped, with the tune she carried, at the bus station in front of the adjacent house only occasionally, and quietly, picking it back up and dropping it again. He did nothing but silently watch as she waited. And as the bus comes and she boards, taking her with it out of view, he finally notices the feelings in his heart that had stirred. One of those feelings he’d tried for so long to forget. One of the most painful and torturous feelings known to man— hope. For as long as there is hope he must continue to live.

Ah yes, hope and despair. Wallow in your guilt, your grief, your punishment.

Hope or don’t hope— it will hurt either way; confess or don’t confess you will be tormented either way. Live or Die you will regret both, hurt and be pained either way.

There is no escape! When you die, you will join us and the fun will begin anew.

Unable to sit with such a tormented heart he wanders the streets under the eye of the moon. We of course follow him and watch him closely. It is hard to bear the anxious feeling that he is always being watched; the feeling that everyone knows. Having to endure the way the world and everything in it breathes and talks and hates you (which is much more manageable when the world is only as big as a house). It is even harder to bear that paranoid feeling that around any corner waiting to ambush him was she who cursed him, especially when he knew he was deserving—especially when he knew that she couldn’t possibly be there.

Wronged and vengeful souls stalk the night.

Meandering along, making way to the post office he passes by a cafe he once frequented. Peering in through the windows he locks eyes and freezes.

He knows! He knows! He most surely knows! He sees it in your eyes!

Excited and waving making his way to the door Professor Jameson grins at him. Coming outside he calls to him almost shouting:

“Is that you A——?! It's been so long! How have you been? Why haven’t you called? I was shocked to hear about your resignation.”

Shocked as he was to see Walter, he stammered a few replies; answers that were as vague as possible, not letting anything slip.

“Please, won’t you join me for some coffee? For old times sake.” Jameson said.

Beside himself he agrees and goes inside. He attempts to mask his angst but he’s afraid he sweats too much, he looks all too guilty, his gait betrays him as he walks behind him un-trustingly. But he doesn’t want to seem more guilty. Wouldn’t he betray his guilt by storming off all too quickly? His eyes dart around quickly, looking at everyone, trying to apprehend a trap.

They all know. They conspire to your end.

Are you sure there isn’t perhaps still a tuft of fur left on you somewhere.

They’re all staring at you. They will be your undoing.

Walter had always been quite an excitable man for his age. Going on 65 he was the beating heart of the philosophy department at ——— University. Always chattering, mind always running. He surely was one of the few professors of philosophy that mulled over such dark and heavy material and was this happy— or at least appeared to be. Sitting there he remembered how annoying Walter could be. Despite his fear, there was a glint of something akin to happiness. It's good to be in familiar company. But good feelings always give way to leaden ones.

“How have you been? You had me worried all this time. I’ve come to visit and you never seem to be home. My calls never seem to go through. Why’d you resign so abruptly like that? With no warning, you didn’t even think to tell me. My God the rumors that were making rounds. I even heard that…”

Walter rambled much like he always did, darting from this question to that from this subject to that, answering his own questions before posing another, still of course awaiting me to respond to each of them in time. If the conversation had concerned anything else, especially if it was work related, the average person would find it difficult to keep up with such a quick wit, so bright was his ardour.

A—— had lied of course, to each question, doing so with such ease that he surprised himself. Lying to Walter did prove difficult however, and he knew that he’d have to choose his words carefully with someone as intelligent and curious as him.

“Oh so that’s how it is huh? I see. Have you ever… I didn’t even get to tell you that they want me to do a new translation of Nietzsche’s works. I'd hoped to get your help with the volume but— well it's not that important. Anyway…”

See how he looks at you?

Those eyes accuse.

He sees into the abyss. That darkness you’re trying to hide. How foolish you look!

“The department is as boring as ever. But, you know me, I’ve been as lonely an old man as ever, especially without you around. You and me both know you were the only one with real ideas over there. Speaking of loneliness, that feeling is quite something isn’t it. Quite an elusive affect. When you’re alone you’re drowning in it, when you go grab a coffee with a friend it's gone and you can’t even quite explain what it felt like anymore. Not in words at least. But it doesn’t quite go away does it. Just changes form and creates a distance between you and others right? Ain’t that how it is? Oh sorry. There I go again. You probably wouldn’t know much about that feeling anyway. Too young, and you have a fiancé anyhow. How is she by the way? What was her name again…”

That name rings painfully on his ears and he could feel himself tearing apart again from the inside.

Listen to how he toys with you. He knows what it is you have done.

You should go while you still can.

What time is it? The sun might rise any minute! He will see!

Stammering heavily, and sweating quite profusely he excused himself as politely as the situation allowed and promptly left, almost running down the street. A snarl escaped from somewhere deep inside him.

-

Regaining a little of his composure, it seemed the library had found him standing across the street breathing heavy, eyes wide, and looking homeless. He dropped his manuscript into the mailbox. He almost felt lucky that his books sold well enough to allow his publishers to accommodate his reclusive, nocturnal lifestyle. He began to walk back home to wait for the morning. Walking home that night, he came across a busy street. A street he recognized. He was somewhere he didn’t want to be. His head hurt and his bones ached. His pores leaked and his heart beat furiously. He looked as if someone possessed.

She lived not too far from here— when she did live.

In a car in the passenger seat he saw the impossible. He locked eyes with her, and she whipped her head around as the car drove by. As if summoned he recognized an artifact of his old life and it surely recognized him. Following the brief encounter of these two ghosts, he went into the nearest alley way and howled a beastly howl.

-

Have you ever felt as if you were being watched? Or that the walls, the road, the trees were watching, listening. Everyone does at one time or another. We have gone by many names: Spirits, angels, demons, elves, gods; we furnish the myths and give them their substance and constitute the magic, and the miraculous of this world. Whenever there is a high concentration of emotion in one place; whenever that emotion is bound to words spoken by the lips or by the heart as a blessing; If a woman were to be killed by another's hand, and curses the hand that is guilty, we make it so. The world listens. The world watches. All will get their due.

-

The days drag on and go much like before. Beast by day, fretful and weary man by night. His only reprieve, the melody that visits him for ten minutes every night around 9. How it hurts him so. How much he wished he could kill the moon. How much he wished he could kill hope. How much he wished he could kill—. And so he got to plotting and preparing, slowly building up the strength and the will. But something always stops him. If only things had been different he thinks. If only he could know the life she leads. If only he could talk to her and be understood. Then he’d surely be free at least in part. But that is not possible. Not for him.

Tonight he makes his plan and gathers himself, grabbing a knife from the kitchen. By 8:55 he waits at the bus stop. He even showered and groomed and made himself presentable. By 9 PM like clockwork he hears that song. When she stops right next to him she greets him politely, and warily as one does to strangers at night. He struck up a conversation in order to get closer and somehow, they had a nice little conversation and he learned a lot about her. About as much as one could expect to learn about a perfect stranger. She was a graduate student at his very own former university, pursuing such and such degree, and she worked night shifts when not in school.

As the conversation goes along he begins to tremble. His heart aches and his thoughts become disordered. Words rush up from the deep and he can not repress them any longer.

Remember that you are cursed.

As he begins to speak rapidly, trembling with a crazed look and foaming mouth, like one possessed, her wary but polite smile gives way to fear and she backs away. He hardly knows what he is saying and she, of course, doesn't understand anything and is quite shaken. She starts to turn around, to flee a raving madman, but he grabs her by the arm. He tells her of curses, of metamorphoses that occur during the day, of murder, of elves that old myths talk of, the kind with the power to curse and to torment. And she let out a scream, thoroughly confused and quite shaken as she was. This shook him in turn, and in his fear he ran as far and as fast as he could, leaving her rather startled and quite shaken. A pitiable sight: a man cursed who behaves as if he only wishes to accrue more curses. What's more, and this is almost comic, is that he had never even brought the knife.

-

The next night he burned down his house. He wanted to eviscerate everything in it leaving not a trace of homeliness, hope nor humanity. The manuscripts, books, the desk, the basement, the bed, the TV, his memories, his joy, his sorrow, his tomorrow, his yesterday all went up in flames and the beast being rid of his tethers and his cage fled deep into the forest.

This morning he roams in his ugliness, but there are none to see his ugliness. He howls, and he roars, and he screams but there are none to hear the howls, nor the roars, nor the screams. But lo there. A man stands dumbfounded by a beast raving, he came here to hunt game. The beast charges him. A shot rings through the forest. We too may now rest. As his eyes close and his consciousness fades he remembers. He was always a man. And never had he killed anyone.