BACKHOUSE AND GIBBES

“God damn you, Horace Backhouse!”

Conor Gibbes slammed his fist down, rattling the laptop on the desk. He stood and began to pace the length of the study. He ran a hand through his slicked back hair and tugged at his goatee.

“What is it?” Eleanor did not look up from her book. Her unconcerned blue eyes continued to move from line to line.

“Backhouse!” Gibbes exclaimed again, as if that explained everything. “He beat me out for the Barker Jackson award. Again!”

“You’ll get ‘em next year.”

“Gah!” Gibbes waved his hand, dismissing Eleanor’s comment. “This rivalry has taken more than its pound of flesh.”

“He’s won five awards to your one,” Eleanor noted. “Hardly a rivalry.”

“I have to find a way to defeat him,” Gibbes continued, completely ignoring Eleanor’s comment. “If not in skill, perhaps in spirit. If I could cast his will to write to the four winds, and sow salt on his inspiration, that would be the way. Yes. Yes.”

Eleanor looked up from her book.

“Well,” Eleanor said, as she closed her book, “I’m going to take a bath and head to bed. Perhaps you should join me.” She set the book down on the end table next to her chair. Eleanor stood, touched Gibbes on the back and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll join you soon enough,” Gibbes responded. He contorted his lips in a subtle kissing motion toward Eleanor that missed its mark by far. “I must sort this devil out.”

“Well, don’t take too long,” she replied. “You know how you get when you don’t sleep.”

“Yes, yes.”

Eleanor left the study.

Gibbes continued to pace around the room, hands crossed behind his back.

“How?” Gibbes muttered. “How can I rid myself of this accursed affliction? I must break his spirit, just as he has broken mine.”

Gibbes scanned the room and looked for some clue to aid in his remedy.

His eyes fell upon the books on the shelves.

Certain titles jumped out at him.

The Haunting of Manor Hall.

Rats! Rats! Rats!

The Phantom Swamper.

Gibbes stopped his pacing.

“That’s it.” A devilish grin grew on his face. “I will become a phantom. A ghost to haunt him. I will permeate his mind and torment him, as he has done to me! To break his will to write will be the sweetest of ambrosias, and a balm to soothe my nettled soul.”

Gibbes clapped his hands together and strode out of the study in triumph.

~~~

The swish-swoosh from Horace Backhouse’s corduroy pants filled the space between his utterances of “hmm” as we walked.

A waif of a man, he scampered about, full of nervous energy. A driving cap covered the mop of brown hair that adorned his head. A gray, wool vest completed the ensemble over his flannel print shirt.

The house was dimly lit, and burst at the seams with vintage and antique goods. Old china cabinets full of half empty liquor bottles. Bookcases stuffed with various tomes. Tin toys sat alongside blades of ritual importance from every continent.

Backhouse picked up one of the many mason jars he had not so strategically placed around his home. He twisted off the lid, and sniffed at the contents.

“Hmm,” he uttered in curiosity.

He took a hearty drink of the fermenting liquid. His cough was followed by an oddly pleased smile.

Backhouse twisted the lid back on the jar and looked down at the meowing down at his feet.

“Magellan! Caleco! Where is the rest of the Brood?”

The two cats meowed back in response before they skittered off to find their brethren.

Backhouse continued to wander about his home.

Skritch skritch skritch

Backhouse cocked his head at the sound.

Skritch skritch skritch

“Rats, perhaps?” Backhouse mused. “If so, the Brood will get them. Though the stench will be unbearable should they leave their little corpses in the ceiling and the walls. Oh well.” Backhouse shrugged. “Will cross that bridge should it arrive.”

Backhouse finally found himself in his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed and selected one of three mason jars that sat on the nightstand next to the bed. Two gulps later, Backhouse fell back on the bed, barely getting the lid screwed back on the jar in time.

~~~

“Backhouse.”

A deep and distorted voice called out.

“Backhouse.”

The author’s eyes fluttered open.

“Backhouse.”

He pushed himself up slightly with his left elbow to look for the source of the voice.

Just beyond the doorway stood a figure in the darkened hall. The figure was adorned in a black hooded cloak. A face, white and featureless, peered out from the folds of the hood.

Backhouse looked down at the mason jar, still held loosely in his hand, and then back up at the phantom that stood before him.

Backhouse blinked, but the figure, nor the haze of his stupor, went away.

“Who... who are you?” Backhouse whispered.

“A phantom sprung from the very depths of your being,” the figure responded.

“What do you want, Phantom?” Backhouse inquired, his voice still not much beyond a whisper.

“Perfection, Backhouse,” the figure answered. “I am a reflection of you. A spectre born from the spaces between your ingenuity. Here to haunt you until you are rid of me.”

“And how shall I be rid of you?”

“Seal me away with flawless prose, or starve me by no longer creating the void on which I feed.”

The figure then appeared to glide back into the darkness and disappeared.

“Hmm. Hmm.” Backhouse looked about and tapped an anxious finger against the mason jar. He sat up, took another drink, then stood and stumbled over to his laptop.

~~~

For weeks it went on.

Backhouse drank more and more from the various jars.

He didn’t eat.

What little sleep he received came when we would lose consciousness from his now almost permanent stupor. After which, he would rise, drink and write some more.

The Phantom would scratch at the walls, and alternate between mocking Backhouse and egging him on.

After a month, Backhouse had finished his book.

~~~

Gibbes pushed away from the desk and flung his hands up into the air. He stomped over to the leather chair on the other side of the study, and flopped down. He placed his right hand over his face and dark circled eyes. He flung his left arm over the arm of the chair in the most dramatic fashion.

“What is it?” Eleanor asked without looking up from her book.

“Read!” Gibbes stretched the word and raised his left arm just enough to point at the computer.

Eleanor sighed, set down her book, and walked over to the desk.

“Horace Backhouse’s latest work, The Tulpa in My Walls, is nothing short of a landmark of writing. As if by some magic, Backhouse seamlessly flows between traditional prose, poetry, and stream of consciousness, proving he is a modern literary master. He has captured the internal and external struggles of the creative process in a way never before seen in literature. A transcendent experience, Backhouse has created a work that is both deeply personal, yet universal. A perfect blend of horror and introspection, The Tulpa in My Walls will sit among the greats as essential reading for generations to come.”

Gibbes, hand still over his face, shook his head.

Eleanor settled back into her chair, and picked up her book.

“How could this happen?” Gibbes muttered. “I sought to be his tormentor. Instead, I became his muse.”

“Don’t you think this has gone too far?” Eleanor turned a page.

“Too far?” Gibbes lifted his hand enough to look at Eleanor. He scrunched his nose as if he had smelled the most foul of scents. He looked away and began to massage his temples. “No. No. Of course! It wasn’t far enough. I only pushed him to the brink of madness. The place where all great artists dwell. I led him to that beautiful and terrible precipice, and hoped he would fall over the edge on his own. All I had to do was push a little harder,” he flicked his fingers out, his thumb still resting against his forehead, “and he would have plunged into that darkest canyon.”

Eleanor briefly looked up from her book at Gibbes.

“Why don’t you start focusing on your own writing again?”

“How?” Gibbes retorted. “I could no more move the block in my way than Sisyphus could reach the top of the hill. There is no creativity left in these hands.” He stretched his arms out and looked at his palms. “No prose left in these fingertips.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and turned another page.

“The last remaining creek of my skill has gone dry.” Gibbes sighed as he slowly closed his hands into loose fists.

Silence hung in the study until broken by the turning of a page.

“Of course.” Gibbes looked from side to side at nothing in particular. “That has to be it. My abilities have left me at the same rate that his have improved. ‘By some magic.’ Those relics and rotting books. He found some spell to put on me. Draining my skills like some vampire exsanguinating their victim. Nourishing himself at my expense. It all fits.”

Gibbes shakily pushed himself out of the chair.

“Where are you going?” Eleanor asked.

“To retrieve my inspiration.” Gibbes mumbled and shuffled out of the study.

~~~

Clack clack clack!

Gibbes repeatedly struck the door knocker of Backhouse’s front door.

Clack clack clack!

The door finally opened.

“Ah! Mr. Gibbes!” Backhouse greeted him. “Do come inside!”

Backhouse was naught but skin and bone. His hair was unkempt and wild. He shook like a small dog left out in the rain.

He stepped back and opened the door wider to let Gibbes enter.

Without a word, Gibbes stepped into the house. He took a few steps into the foyer and stopped.

Backhouse closed the door, and walked past Gibbes. The vapors of some unholy mix of fermented liquids left a trail behind the thin man.

“Come. Come.” Backhouse waved for Gibbes to follow.

They entered the cluttered living room, and Backhouse turned toward Gibbes and squinted.

“Have you been sleeping well, Mr. Gibbes?” Backhouse asked. “I mean no insult, but you appear quite ashen.”

Gibbes slowly shook his head.

“Hmm,” Backhouse tapped his chin, then turned to the large glass door cabinet. He perused the bottles on the shelves. “Perhaps a bit of brandy… Ah! Here we are.”

Backhouse took a bottle off the shelf and poured two glasses.

“This particular brandy was aged in apple wood barrels and mixed with extra hard apple cider. An almost perfect blend of sweet and tart. Ah! I see you’ve found my book collection.”

Gibbes’ attention was on the set of his own books that stood on the massive bookshelf. He stared at the collection as he fidgeted with something in his pocket.

“I find it important to read just as much as, if not more than, I write.”

Backhouse continued to talk as he handed Gibbes a glass.

Gibbes mindlessly accepted the brandy.

“I’ve read all your works, Mr. Gibbes,” Backhouse continued. “It’s inspiring. You, among all the others on those shelves, have helped foster my own continued desire to write. I find it absolutely invigorating to absorb all that talent and skill. To let my mind marinate in the juices of imagination. And then to allow the impulses of madness to work their will.”

“Absorb?” Gibbes mumbled.

“I must tell you, Mr. Gibbes. Your arrival is most fortuitous.” Backhouse took a sip of brandy. “I was just pondering the grand possibilities of collaboration.”

“Collaboration?” Gibbes muttered and slowly turned toward Backhouse.

“Think of it, Mr. Gibbes! Working together. Our minds in tandem. Me writing through you, and you writing through me. Imagine the possibilities!”

“Writing through you.” Gibbes finally looked directly at Backhouse. “I know my solution.” He slowly removed the scalpel he had hidden in his pocket.

“Yes, Mr. Gibbes!” Backhouse raised his glass of brandy in a toast. “It is only in embracing our darkest impulses that we can shed the fetters that keep us from our true potential.”

What light there was glinted off the scalpel in Gibbes' raised hand.

~~~

Magellan, Coleco, and the Brood chirruped and meowed as they licked and nibbled at the exposed muscle of their master. Their content and ignorant purring mingled with the clicking and clacking that came from the man in the corner who typed away.

The gloves and mask of the flesh of his former rival had made the physical act of writing awkward at first, but he had acclimated quickly. He and the new flesh had become one. He was reinvigorated, and now that he had retrieved his inspiration, he knew this one would be his masterpiece.