Agent Of Darkness
Lee A. Eide
Cover art designed by Mark Neveu

THE BOOK

Jake Hankinson, an aspiring novelist, has a blockbuster novel about brotherly love, Satanic cults, decapitations, black magic, faith and hope. Writer's block separates Jake from his dream. A casual remark by Stan Livingston, his best friend from high school, opens the writer´s imaginary and literary floodgates. Jake writes the elusive first chapter. Once freed from the writer's malady, Jake pounds out his literary dream on his personal computer. Except for being puzzled at and frightened by the trances he enters when writing the novel, things are going great…except for one not-so- tiny problem. People in real life from the same town and with names uncannily like the characters in Jake's novel are found murdered.

Before Jake can confront the ancient, immortal, cunning demon that's taken over Stan, he must defeat his own demons:
¨ self-doubt
¨ confusion
¨ alcoholic dependence
¨ poor financial management
¨ fear of death (not only his own but those close to him)

“Agent of Darkness”, a 110,000-word mainstream novel, addresses the role of human beings' relationship to a supreme being, the part faith plays in individual happiness and the incredible strength of groups working together to solve problems. The most unique facet of the book is the mystical nature of the prison in which the trapped souls are kept. The metaphysical, evil mind of the ancient demon separates the souls from Heaven. The hero of the story, Jake, strains to find a way to help them escape.

Selected Read

Chapter One

Jake should have been happier than hell to be off work. Rolling six-foot round tables, stacking and unstacking metal chairs, assembling dance floors made of cumbersome, fifty-pound pieces that never fit together like they were supposed to, and struggling to understand the vast, intricate network of movable wall panels shaping thirty-nine meeting rooms. This was what a convention services set-up person had to look forward to at the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Had it paid $10 or $11 an hour, it'd be easier to stomach. However, at eight and a quarter an hour, he wasn't getting rich. What he was getting mostly was sore. Sore back, sore shoulders, sore feet, sore legs, and sore at himself for not latching onto a job in accounting, the subject he'd majored in at college.

Jake Hankinson should have been skipping out the employee entrance like a schoolboy in love for the first time, a bounce in his stride and a happy tune issuing from his mouth. As it was, the accounting major glumly pushed through the double doors, the temporary release from low-paying manual labor insufficient to lighten his spirit.

I want to write a novel.

That sentence first reverberated throughout his mental chambers almost a month ago. The thought seemed odd at first. After all, his major was accounting, he'd been desperately searching for accounting positions in his spare time, and he was currently a room set-up man for a hotel. What made Jake think he could, or should, write a novel?

Hey, accountants frequently have to be pretty damn creative with numbers. Just look at tax accountants trying to minimize their clients' taxable income or CFO's of companies losing money. To make the net income figures appear better, or not as bad as they really were, sometimes requires a helluva lot of imagination.

Besides that, I took two journalism classes in college and was even considering majoring in the field. Plus how many successful novelists planned to be writers when they were still in school? Not bloody many.

The worst part was the gut-wrenching, soul-ripping case of writer's block. He knew the story he wanted to write but something held him back. Jake was like a prisoner in a jail cell who sees the keys lying on a hook a few inches beyond his reach.

He paused to check the traffic screaming down LaSalle Avenue. Two cars whizzed past. Three more rounded the curve a scant two-hundred yards away. If he hurried, he'd make it. A moment's hesitation, then Jake darted out into the street. The hesitation was obviously a mistake. An extremely wise Chinese philosopher´s words suddenly emblazoned themselves across Jake´s consciousness: "He who hesitates is lost."

Yeah, well now what, Confucius? What fortune cookie-type wisdom can you impart now, he wondered while eyeing the herd of hurtling metal projectiles closing in on him. He´d already committed. There was no turning back. A slip on the gravel-strewn street slowed Jake down even more.

"Damn it," he muttered before righting himself and trying to accelerate. Knowing a glance sideways would only increase his personal peril, Jake stared straight ahead as he strained to reach the haven of concrete on the other side of the street. He thought he was running as fast as he could but it felt more like leisurely jog.

He heard the blare of a horn and "Move it, asshole".

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered as he covered the last few steps before hopping onto the sidewalk. Jake stood and leaned against the brick wall of his favorite bar. Nate's Place was a popular hangout of hotel workers, mainly and simply because of its location and happy hour beer specials. After his heart was no longer in his throat, he patted down the unruly pockets of hair with his left hand, took in a deep breath, released it, and pulled the door back.

One of the few good things about his job at the hotel was the hours. He had to get up at five o'clock to make the six-thirty starting time but he enjoyed finishing work by three o'clock, some days three-thirty. It enabled him to beat the rush to happy hour at bars with early ones like Nate's Place.

The bar was still pretty dead. Happy hour didn't start until three-thirty. Jake had twenty minutes to wait but he could afford to buy one beer at the normal price. He was halfway to the bar when he remembered his promise to himself.

You only drink once a week.

A DWI left him with no drivers license for six months. Plus he had to attend weekly alcohol dependency meetings. The episode made him conscious of just how much he´d leaned on booze to entertain and amuse himself, especially since graduating from college three years ago. Jake promised himself he'd reduce his reliance on alcohol by setting goals for himself. The first one was limiting his drinking to once a week. Since he and a couple guys from work finished off a twenty-four pack during a Twins game two nights ago, he'd already reached his limit for the week.

Jake was moving again. Right for the bar. The bartender, a skinny balding guy with a bushy black and gray mustache, absently wiped off the same section of the bar over and over.

"Yes?" he asked after flicking a glance in Jake's direction.

"Diet Coke," issued from Jake's mouth, though that hadn't been his plan. He'd decided just a minute ago to exceed his self-imposed quota but somehow, in the tiny interval between stopping several feet from the bar and approaching the bartender, something had happened.

"Oh my god, looks who's here."

Jake turned toward the voice. He jumped back when he saw the man perched on a bar stool only two strides away.

"Stan Livingston. Holy balls, I didn't know you moved back," he said while crossing over to shake his old friend's hand. They'd been best friends in high school at Red Wing, a small town about an hour's drive from the Twin Cities. Stan migrated east to Columbia University while Jake commuted to the University of Wisconsin at River Falls. Since then they'd spoken a couple times over the phone but that was all.

"Yeah well, what can I say? I got sick of all that pollution and I don't know, I missed the people back here. Plus I missed this part of the country, even the godawful winters. I floated a few resumes to companies back here and lo and behold, I found a great job. I'm the vice-president of sales and marketing for an up and coming firm. The future looks bright from where I stand," Stan declared, an smile taking command of his face. "So what about you? What are you up to?"

"I'm still searching for the right job. Right now I'm working at the Hyatt right across the street there," Jake said while nodding in that direction.

"In accounting?" Stan asked before picking up the Jim Beam and water. Though he raised it closer to his mouth, he didn't drink any of it.

"Well, actually...no. I'm setting up rooms in the convention services department. Just something to pay the bills until I find a real job."

The bartender plopped a Diet Coke in front of him.

"One-fifty," he announced.

Jake handed him two ones and waved off the change.

"I see. Well, one does what one has to do. If accounting is what you really love, then you'll keep searching until you find the perfect accounting position."

Jake stirred the soda, sipped the bubbly brownish-black concoction, and then turned back to Stan.

"You know, the truth is that I don't really love accounting."

Raised eyebrows from Stan.

"Oh?"

"No, I mean accounting was my major and I can manipulate and calculate figures better than most but I won't say I love accounting. You know what my dream job is?"

Stan raised the drink closer to his lips.

"No, what?"

"Novelist."

More raised eyebrows.

"Really? How very...intriguing," Stan said before sipping his cocktail. "I never knew this about you."

"You make it sound like a deep dark secret, like it's some crime I've just confessed to."

"I am sorry, Jacob. Please forgive me. No, no, I did not mean to imply that. It came out wrong. But that is interesting. So what kind of novels would you like to write?"

Jake shrugged, slugged down part of his soda, and said, "Suspense, thrillers, sci-fi maybe. But I think the best of all would be writing horror stories. It's what I like to read the most and it's what I think I could write."

Behind him he heard a commixture of familiar voices. Glancing over his right shoulder, Jake saw three guys from convention services nearing the bar. Tom, Kaleem, and Jon were smiling and yakking away. He waved them over.

"Jake, how's it going, man?" Tom asked.

"Great, great, now that I'm outta that place across the street, things are looking fine."

"I'm with you there, buddy," Tom said.

Jake introduced them to Stan. There were handshakes and rapid-fire How ya doin's all around.

"Shall I order a pitcher?" Kaleem asked in his heavily accented baritone, the towering native Nigerian edging toward the bartender.

"Sure thing, pally. We'll meet you at the tables," Tom said. There was a foursome of slightly warped seven-foot pool tables in the front north quadrant of the bar. Five electronic dart boards and a video golf game ringed the room.

"You two gonna join us at the tables?" Tom asked, his dark blue eyes bright with anticipation of something.

"I don't know. Stan, you still play?" Jake asked his old friend.

"Haven't for many years but if you can stand to watch a fellow working the rust off his game, I'd be up for a game or two in a few minutes," Stan replied.

"All right, we'll be back soon."

"Excellent."

Tom and Jon wheeled and sliced through the thickening crowd while Kaleem ordered a pitcher of beer. The bartender flew around the back of the bar as the waiting line at the bar lengthened. The lone wait person was taking an order from a table of seven men in business suits. Three briefcases and one laptop sat under their table like obedient dogs dutifully waiting for their masters.

"You were saying you'd like to write horror. Do you have anything particular in mind?" Stan asked.

"Yeah, matter of fact, I do. The thing of it is I can't get started. I know the background and the basic story line but I just can't write the first chapter."

"What is your manuscript is about?"

"Technically I don't have a manuscript yet. I've written an outline but for some reason I can't write the beginning. The first chapter isn't materializing. It's like peace in the Middle East. Just when I think I've got it, it slips away. But hey, when it does," Jake waggled his right index finger at Stan, "but when it does, look out!"

"All right, what is your novel going to be about?"

"Twin brothers on the run from the cops go into hiding, lay low, and then lie and fake their way through a loan application to buy a bar and grill. After six months of operation, they've lost several thousand dollars. The pressure is building. Bounced payroll checks to employees, overdraft charges from the bank, vendors demanding payment for deliveries, late notices from the bank on repaying their loan, and so on. One brother, Dirk, thinks they need help from the supernatural. After dabbling in the occult for awhile, he becomes fascinated with the idea of communicating directly with Satan. Convinced he's spoken psychically with the anti-Christ or at least a demon that's subservient to the fallen angel, Dirk organizes a Satanic cult. He believes the animal sacrifices will please Satan and they will be rewarded with success in business. Daniel, the other brother, is initially intrigued but he wants no part of it after he learns about the sacrifices."

Jake paused to wet his throat with the Diet Coke. He still couldn't figure out why he'd ordered this. One minute he'd been planning on bending his once-a-week drinking rule and the next he was back sticking to it. He shrugged and slugged back more of the soda.

"Over the next two weeks, two young women from Prescott, a town a half-hour from the Cities, are reported missing. The police desperately search for them. Daniel is suspicious of the cult his brother organized. Dirk claims the rituals involve only small animals like cats, dogs, birds and squirrels, but since Daniel hasn't been to any of the cult meetings since the first one, he doesn't know that for sure. He thinks they may have graduated from animals to human beings."

Jake finished summarizing the story line and explained his problem with writing the first chapter. As he spoke about the novel, Jake couldn't help noticing the intensity of Stan's gaze. He couldn't tell if the expression was more like a scientist raptly studying a previously undiscovered species of beetle or an apprentice fondly following every word and movement of the master whom he hoped to someday emulate. After Jake had finished, Stan said, "Can I offer a suggestion?"

Jake nodded.

"I read somewhere that to write effective fiction, one has to be almost schizophrenic."

"Oh?" he asked.

"Yes. It made sense because for a story to be believable and interesting, the characters have to be believable and interesting. And to do that, a writer needs to become each of the characters in the story for a short time, you know, get inside their heads. It would be very similar to having a split personality."

Jake nodded thoughtfully. "That's an interesting way to put it. So in other words, it's easier to write fiction if the writer pretends it's nonfiction, as if what he's writing has or is really taking place."

"Exactly."

A loud noise yanked Jake's attention toward the front door. Three people staggered in, the boisterous, raucous laughter a sure sign that this wasn't the first bar they'd visited today. Jake turned back to Stan.

"So if I were to assume the identity of the main characters, it would be easier to write the first chapter because it would be more like keeping a journal than writing fiction."

"That is correct. The story would come out easier and less painfully. It would be like numbing your mouth with Novocain before getting a tooth pulled," replied Stan.

"Interesting, very interesting."

Suddenly something clicked in his mind, a bell rang, dispatching echoes that banged, bounced and then shot up through the murky mesh of his psychological network. Jake pictured himself in his apartment, sitting at the Dell GXMT 5166 computer (with Intel inside, even) on the glassed-in balcony overlooking Lake Calhoun. He wasn't just typing. He was writing that damn first chapter.

Jake glanced over at Stan, the perpetual five o'clock shadow clouding the horizon of his face like thunderclouds gathering for a summer storm. Stan's bright expression radiated waves of anticipation.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" Jake asked back.

"I asked if you wanted another drink?"

"No thanks. I don't want to be rude but I have to go. I think I can write the first chapter now," he said. "Your schizophrenic idea is brilliant."

For several seconds, Stan said nothing. He just stared right through Jake, the surface smile too thin to completely hide the darker elements straining to escape the facade of civility. Somehow this wasn't the same Stan Livingston he knew in high school. Not only had he grown older and wiser, something more sinister seemed to have seeped into Stan's being. Jake had nothing concrete to support that belief besides the fleeting, frigid shiver that had just coursed down his spine.

"What about pool?" Stan asked.

"Go ahead. You don't need me. Four guys is just right. Play partners in eight-ball. Tell the guys I'll catch 'em next time."

"I will, Jacob. And I trust you will let me know if it did the trick," Stan said as Jake backpedaled toward the front door.

The queer smiling stare had vanished, only the vestigial memory of it in Jake's mind was real anymore. And then the image faded.

"Don't worry. If it works, I'll fall down and kiss your feet," he yelled across the crowded bar. A woman wearing too much jewelry and flaunting a chest ten years past its prime, gaped at him. A man and woman in casual office attire also glanced over, their half-full beers momentarily forgotten.

"Thanks," he yelled at Stan. His friend nodded and raised a toast with the urine-colored drink.

The last thing Jake saw before leaving the bar was Stan waving down the waiter to order another drink. Now outside, Jake found himself surrounded by a clingy mist that coated everything with layers of obscurity. Faces floated anonymously behind veils of gray-whiteness while buildings, even Nate's Place, huddled far back from the street.

Strange, it was clear when I went in and I didn't hear anything in the forecast about fog today. The nearest bus stop was a block east of here on Nicollet Avenue.

"That's the ticket," he murmured before starting to jog down the sidewalk, deftly weaving in and out of the pedestrian traffic. After rounding the corner, Jake could just barely make out the metal box serving as a MTCO bus stop. He stopped jogging halfway down the block as his chest heaved with the strain of the impromptu run. Five strangers were inside the enclosure. He joined his fellow mass transit users inside. Within minutes, the would-be novelist spotted the hulking, colorful, metal monster that would take him home. The bus belched to a stop.

After hopping on and paying the fare, he fell into the nearest empty seat. Meanwhile the bus rumbled over Nicollet Avenue, each revolution of the tires bringing him closer to home. Closer to home and to writing the first chapter. Jake closed his eyes and smiled. Though one part of him was apprehensive about writing the novel, the other nine parts of him were excited as hell. He felt like a lioness that had just spotted a herd of approaching wildebeest.

The only fly in the ointment was the cloud of fog wrapping its misty arms around the bus and clinging tightly all the way to Lake Street. Even after Jake's transfer to a different bus, the fog was there. Immediately after he left the bus by the Lake of the Isles, Jake noticed the fog was still there. He walked the three blocks to his apartment, his view of Lake Calhoun obscured by the mist, though he found he could see farther and farther across the lake as the minutes passed. Jake put a hand to his forehead. He felt a dull throb with headache potential splashed all over it. That was okay. There was still a half-jar of Ibuprofen in one of the kitchen cabinets.

by
the time he reached the turn for his apartment complex, he could see clear across to the other side of the lake. A quarter-block later, Jake turned onto the path leading to his place. The throb in his head didn't seem any worse but his vision, though not blurry, didn't seem right somehow. Moreover, Jake had a gnawing feeling he was being spied on. He scanned the street, left and right, and straining to see if he could detect anyone watching him from a window on one of the houses or apartments. If someone was really spying on him, they were doing a damn fine job because Jake couldn't see anyone. Fifty yards later, just before he pulled back the door to his building, Jake spun around.

The fog had disappeared. He turned back to face the door, tugged on it, and went in.

**********

In his haste to reach the computer, Jake nearly stepped on Dartannyon, a white Persian cat with extraordinarily vocal vocal cords and a voracious appetite. Dartannyon had moved in five years ago. "Sorry bud," he called back over his shoulder while flicking on the power strip in back of the PC.

While the system whirred and beeped its way through the usual diagnostics, he settled into the maroon and gray office chair, his body fumbling, groping and finally finding the perfect position. He reached for the lamp switch to right of the monitor but then withdrew his hand. The light from the terminal would be adequate.

After Windows booted up, Jake moused his way to Ami-Pro, his word-processing program. He opened the file named SATANIC CURSES, the title of the novel he was struggling to begin writing. As of this moment, those two words were the only two words in the file. The outline for the story was in a separate file. He ripped his gaze away from the screen. The reflections from the monitor were too much like looking into a mirror. Instead he peered through the mosaic of shadows hugging the surface of the lake. Slowly he lowered his eyelids until finally they were completely closed. His fingers hovered over the home row on the keyboard. He'd never tried this before but it felt right.

Different but right.

Dartannyon yeowed from behind him but he barely heard it. The metronomic ticking of the grandfather's clock twenty feet away was the only other sound in the apartment except for his own soft, steady breathing.

Forget the sounds, concentrate on the pictures, he told himself.

The pictures were the shapes that he saw when he closed his eyes very tightly. He'd done it as a boy all through grade school but not since then. Not pictures in his mind only but images on the back of his eyelids.

"So why do it now?" he whispered at himself.

Jake didn't answer but instead sat very still at the keyboard. He sat and gazed at the shapes he could see with his eyes closed. At first they were just purplish blobs, barely distinguishable from the blackness behind them. After about twenty seconds, the purple blobs grew more defined, their boundaries slightly more delineated. Then the inside of the purple rectangles (they´d graduated from blobs to rectangles) changed color. Instead of being the hue of a lilacs, the shapes were now an iridescent gold, like a field of wheat sparkling in the midday´s sun after a soft rain. The sunny hue enticed Jake´s consciousness to come closer.

Either the rectangles were growing in size or it was his mind´s approach, the change in perspective causing the illusion. Whatever the case, Jake found a miniature version of himself standing at the threshold of whatever lay beyond those two shapes of glowing golden light.

He closed his eyes tighter. The light-filled shapes opened like doors. Jake's satellite self walked through them. The instant he did, it was as if Jake himself had done it because his visual perspective changed. No longer was he watching his clone entering the building. Now Jake himself appeared to be inside this cavernous structure.

The hall he was in extended for miles. Lining both sides of the corridor were variously colored and shaped doors. A glance upward revealed little about the ceiling's height, if indeed there were a ceiling at all. The darkness that greeted his gaze was complete, as if the space above were a void instead of merely another chunk of space in this place. Whatever this place was.

Yeah, just what in the hell have you gotten yourself into anyway?

He wouldn't know if he turned back now. The floor was solid in most places, though there were holes scattered about. Jake took care to avoid them in case gravity worked in this realm as it did in the real world. He veered toward the door on his right. Right before turning the doorknob, he froze. He turned and kept walking straight ahead. Jake stopped looking at the doors. Every door was in some way visually appealing. Some had shimmering, sparkling surfaces, others featured mesmerizing movements of colors and designs, while still others were endowed with portals affording views of stunning, breath-stilling vistas. Temptations enticed at every turn.

"You're not here to sightsee," he reminded himself. "You're here to find a way to start writing your damn novel," he stated flatly, his voice sounding strange and a little unbalanced in this hollow space.

He stared straight ahead but was unable to see the end of the corridor. Jake felt sure he'd know the right door when he passed by it. It would be like Luke Skywalker wearing the blindfold when learning how to use the light saber. He'd do it by feel, not through visual feedback.

The would-be writer traversed timeless intervals where the minutiae of his environs changed but his focus was as concentrated as a Buddha master's.

Find the beginning of the novel.

Sensing movement above, he craned his neck to search the blackness. At first he didn't believe his eyes. Jake again eyed the space above him. It was true. The void above was rushing downward. Like the final curtain of a Broadway play or the blade of the guillotine plunging down on a French revolutionary or enemy of an English monarch, the lightless upper reaches of this dimension sped downward. If he didn't enter a door soon, he'd be swallowed up in the ebony nothingness, his novel still not found.

"And you wouldn't be found either," he added glumly.

Jake sprinted toward the nearest door. This one resembled an oil painting of a crumbling mansion perched atop a bluff overlooking a huge, still lake. Only five feet from the entrance, he chanced a glance upward. The curtain of oblivion was almost upon him! At twenty-five feet and counting, that meant he had three, maybe four seconds to reach the door and escape from the hallway of death. Jake fought the urge to dive because he knew from watching baseball players slide into first base when trying to beat a throw that it was faster to just keep running as fast as possible. Diving headfirst into first base appeared more dramatic to the fans but the truth was that it was a stupid play. Running was faster.

There was no time to pull the door open. If he couldn't push it open or simply run right through it, he was history. Just before hitting the door, he closed his eyes and prayed faster than he'd ever prayed before.

Because Jake closed his eyes, he didn't know for sure whether the door opened at the last instant or the material was such that he was able to run right through it. Glancing back, he saw the door was still in place only on this side the scene was decidedly different. The mansion was no longer crumbling. In fact, it was in perfect shape. Every brick, stone, shutter, window, blade of grass, and flower was in place. Shrugging off the close encounter with oblivion, Jake turned his attention to the landscape ahead of him.

Straight ahead was a townhouse or apartment complex. A man, six-foot two, at least two-hundred fifty pounds, muscles bruising the air around him, jet-black hair flecked with gray, and an intense face in deep concentration, was camped out in a copse of pine and maple trees about a hundred yards away from the building. From Jake's perspective, this man was at a ninety-degree angle to the buildings. A telescope mounted on a tripod stood in front of him. A canvas backpack overflowing with Twix bars and Little Debbie treats lay on the ground within reach on his right. Suddenly Jake was approaching the guy from behind, the sudden change in perspective throwing him off balance. He didn't like coming up from behind on this man because Jake sensed this was an angry, powerful, potentially ruthless individual who would have little remorse about killing anyone who posed even a remote danger to him or his cause.

As he drew closer, however, Jake's uneasiness abated after he realized his movements were completely silent. The reason for his silent passage was that he was floating. Glancing downward, Jake saw that his body was gone!

Maybe the void back there got your body but left your mind intact. Maybe you weren't as fast as you thought you were.

He floated closer and closer to the strongboy spy in the woods. Jake's consciousness was now at the back of the man's neck, hovering like a ruby-throated hummingbird hanging in the air to drink from a fountain.

Well, are you going in or not?

Figuring he might as well keep going, Jake plunged into the man's body. Again he was jolted by the quickness and severity of the change. From an insubstantial, airy spirit to a muscular, flesh-and-blood, gravity-laden body. After he'd adjusted to the change, Jake grappled with adapting to this guy's psychological operations.

Though he couldn't read the man's mind word for word, he received general impressions of thought. His host had been spying here all day, waiting for one particular woman to return home. Someone who drove a white car. The man probably knew the exact year and model but Jake couldn't pull that detail from his host's thoughts.

So what do you think this guy's name is? How long are you going to keep thinking of him as 'the guy' or 'the man'?

He thought about that as 'the guy' snapped up and ripped off the Cellophane wrapper of another Little Debbie. Then Jake remembered his mission.

Start the novel.

Shrugging imaginary shoulders, he tried to think of a name for the 'the guy'.

Danny Diamond. No, too upbeat and shiny for a villain.

Greg Hartless. No, the Hartless was too hokey and Greg reminded him of The Brady Bunch character.

Dirk Jansen. Now that was closer but still not quite right. The Dirk part was right but Jansen reminded him of the Olympic speed skater, a hero-athlete type, something the villain definitely wasn't.

Dirk Stillson. Had Jake a body in this dimension, the face would have been plastered with a shit-eating grin of delight. Yes, that was the name for this guy, all right.

Dirk Stillson.

While Jake watched along with the brute he dubbed Dirk Stillson from the shadowy cage, the writer strained to make sense of this. What possible connection was there between himself and this creepy guy waiting for someone to return home? Jake tapped an imaginary foot while he strained to capture the answer. A memory sprang into view, the thought blowing across his mental horizon like a cloud's shadow across an open field. It was Stan's tip back at the bar. Stan suggested that writing fiction would be easier if the writer were schizophrenic. If he could dig down and bury himself inside the heads and hearts of the characters, the story would no longer have to be imagined, just remembered and written down on paper in an interesting, involving way.

And that's exactly where you're at right now, pal. Inside Dirk Stillson's body, mind, and heart.

Dirk Stillson swung his broad torso around, his unwavering, predatory eyes scanning all around, his gaze shifting slowly but warily from shadow to light to shadow as he searched for the person spying on him. Of course, Dirk wouldn't find the spy by looking outward but only the spy knew that. The man grudgingly turned toward the building again, pausing to run his fingers over the nylon case laying in the grass next to the Little Debbies and Twix bars. The case was three feet long and only about nine inches wide. In size, it reminded Jake of a pool cue case but the material wasn't right. And besides, what would Dirk Stillson be doing with it out here?

That answer would become apparent before long, Jake thought, because he realized the bond with this Dirk fellow had been growing stronger ever since he merged with his character's body. Initially he could only see things from Dirk's point-of-view. Now Jake was able to feel things as they felt to Dirk. Like just now when Dirk ran his fingers over the nylon case. Jake could feel a hard, rounded surface beneath the fabric. And now Jake's own mental meanderings were in danger of being swept away by the deluge of thoughts from the host.

Don't go overboard with this getting inside the head of your characters. Get careless and you won't be able to separate yourself from the character. If that happens, you're no longer a writer but a lunatic.

He needed something to remind himself who he really was, an emotional and psychological buoy in this ocean of strange, psychotic thoughts. He imagined his physical self in front of his computer screen, fingers poised patiently over the keys of his Dell, Dartannyon meowing loudly, the grandfather clock ticking away, young, lean bodies circling Lake Calhoun on Rollerblades or Trek bikes.

He, Jake Hankinson, was back there, waiting for word from this side. If he remembered that, he might be able to maintain his sanity while still being involved with the characters in his work of fiction.

The idea entrenched in his mind, Jake let the onslaught of Dirk Stillson's inner dialogue flow over him:

COME ON, SUSIE BABY, GET YOUR SWEET LITTLE ASS HOME. WHADDYA DOIN', WORKING LATE ON SOME PROJECT FOR YOUR BOSS? THAT'S OKAY. ME AND THE DARK BROTHER HERE WILL WAIT AS LONG AS IT TAKES, HONEY. YOU CAN STOP by A SUPER AMERICA AND PLAY WITH YOURSELF IN THE REST ROOM FOR A HALF HOUR. WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT IF YOU TAKE A SHIT. JUST COME ON BACK HOME AFTER YOU'RE DONE. DADDY'S GOT A LITTLE SURPRISE FOR YOU.

Dirk glanced down at the nylon case again. Jake had a pretty damn good idea what was in the nylon case and it sure the hell wasn't something you'd use at a pool table. Before he could speculate further, Dirk's inner dialogue poured in again:

SHIT, WHAT DO I SEE TURNING INTO THE DRIVEWAY? COULD IT BE A '98 PRELUDE WITH A PARTICULARLY PRECIOUS LITTLE BLONDE BABE BEHIND THE WHEEL? SHOULD WE TAKE A LOOK THROUGH THE TELESCOPE, DARK BROTHER? WHAT'S THAT, YOU SAY? FUCK THAT, WE ALREADY KNOW IT'S HER. VERY WELL THEN. LET US BOW OUR HEADS IN A MOMENT OF PRAYER.

The inner speak halted momentarily while Dirk leaned his massive head against the nearest tree, his eyes closed, left hand on his heart.

"Unholy, dark king of chaos, help your servant focus on the mission at hand," he whispered, eyes still closed, the powerful left hand covering his heart. The torrent of chaotic energy that pelted Jake's consciousness moments before subsided, though an undercurrent of ominous potential ran relentlessly past.

Dirk's eyelids blasted open. He sprang away from the tree in a flash, muscles taunt all over the expansive, rippled body. The human hunter knelt in the shadowy cache between the sappy pines and moist undergrowth. The white Prelude cruised slowly toward Dirk, headlights firing horizontal beams of strawberry blonde light through the dusk. A creamy white half-moon hung in a cloudless summer sky.

GREAT, NO ONE ELSE AROUND. NO OTHER TRAFFIC COMING INTO THE LOT. IF THERE'S NO ONE COMING OUT OF THE GARAGE RIGHT NOW, THE BLONDE BITCH IS MINE.

The Prelude rolled to a stop twenty feet from the garage. A tan, slim woman with fashion model-level blonde hair rolled down the driver's side window and inserted a key into a slot at the top of the silver metal post. The light above the entrance flickered just before the garage door lurched into action, noisily and grudgingly rolling up. Dirk scrambled toward the building in a half-crouch, his eyes scanning the area for witnesses.

No one around. Dirk kept scuttling forward as the Prelude eased toward the garage entrance. While he approached the building, Dirk peered into the garage, his senses alert for any movement other than the bitch's car.

Nothing. Just the smooth rumble of the car's engine and his own excited breathing.

The car rolled slowly underneath the raised garage door. Dirk sprinted toward the brick building, being careful to stay to the right of the entrance, out of the driver's sight if she happened to glance in the rear view mirror. Ten feet from the entrance, Dirk veered left and cut a diagonal path toward the opening. Now he was on the Prelude's left side. If she looked in the rear view mirror, he'd be invisible as ghost because he was in her blind spot.

FROM YOUR PERSPECTIVE, THAT'S A DAMN BAD PLACE FOR ME TO BE, HONEY.

Wary for the sound of footfalls or opening doors or the groaning of the ancient elevator, Dirk strained to catch up with the car. Dirk found his crab-like locomotion improving, the scuttling not so awkward now that he'd had time to adjust.

Now almost even with the car's left rear fender, the moccasins he wore making him as silent as a black panther stalking a gazelle, he paused. The young blonde (Suzanne Nordstrom? Yes, that sounded like a good name) swung the car out wide and eased the white car into a parking stall between a gleaming twenty-foot Johnson Fiberglas boat and a new dark blue Honda Civic XT. While she decelerated to park, Dirk dropped down and rolled along the hard, smooth, oil-stained cement.

After the car stopped, the glare of the headlights blinked out. The engine's smooth rumbling ceased. Dirk's already jacked-up heartrate shot up even more from the sprint-and-roll exercise. This little interval provided a brief respite, a chance to regain control of his body and mind. Lying still and flat on the garage floor on the driver's side, his weight room-sculpted body parallel to the Prelude's rear wheel, he saw the driver's door swing open. First one slim, bronze, curved leg floated into view, then the other.

NOW.

Dirk leapt up from the floor. With cougar quickness, he grabbed the blonde from behind just as she straightened up to full height. He shot his left hand around her slender, sun-soaked throat, his right hand eclipsing the pretty, pouty, lips. While he squeezed as hard as he could on her larynx, his right hand covered her mouth, her screams only a desperate intention. She jammed an elbow toward his crotch. He deflected the blow so that she hit his stomach instead, the strike too soft to have any effect. Immediately after that failure, she stomped her right high heel on his right foot. by incredible effort and determination, he stifled the shout of pain that seemed destined to erupt from his mouth. As he'd planned all along, Dirk used his superior strength and greater weight to muscle her into the front seat, his left foot, the uninjured one, hooking the door so that by the time the two fell across the bucket seats, the door was closed behind them. If someone walked past now, unless they were going to the Honda Civic or the boat on either side of this car, they would have no idea a woman was struggling for her life in the front seat of the Prelude.

Dirk's grip on her throat had momentarily loosened during the transition into the inside of the car. Now he was able to regain the previous pressure, the woman's face a picture of panic and fear. Dirk could do this the long way, simply maintaining the current level of pressure on her larynx and waiting for the struggles to cease. However, he would be gambling her desperate elbows and kicks wouldn't get lucky and hit their target.

"You're going down, bitch," he growled.

Dirk moved his right hand from her mouth and grabbed her throat. With every ounce of his considerable strength, he shoved her head into the hard plastic gearshifter.

She grunted, then spat out, "You sonofabitch!"

Dirk mashed her head down again.

"Fucker," she said, still very conscious and fighting like crazy. He lifted her head up but instead of pushing down toward the gearshifter, Dirk jammed her skull against the dashboard.

"Ahhh, you piece of--"

Another bash fucked up her head and her sentence. Still kicking and now spitting, though.

"Die bitch," he responded before channeling every bit of power his two-hundred-fifty-pound frame could muster to drive her head into the dashboard again.

He heard something crack, though he wasn't sure if it was in a bone in her neck or her skull. No matter. She wasn't struggling any more. That was all that mattered.

Dirk found the car keys in her left skirt pocket. After propping the unconscious body upright in the passenger's side, he jammed the keys into the ignition, turned on the headlights, and shoved the thing into reverse. He glanced over to make sure the woman didn't flop over to one side or the other. As he backed up, he noticed the garage door opening.

"God damn mother fucking sonofabitch."

A light blue station wagon, brimming with family life, approached. A weary-looking father and frazzled mother were yelling at the mob of kids in the back. Unless Dirk did something really stupid, the adults would be too preoccupied with the gangle of youngsters to notice anything was wrong.

"Drive nice and slow and you´ll be fine." he quietly urged himself.

Heeding those words, he kept minimal pressure on the gas pedal. Fighting the urge to see if they were staring at him, Dirk stared straight ahead as the two cars passed by each other, the drivers no more than ten feet apart.

After he'd gotten outside, Dirk felt much better. Dusk had turned to night. He turned left and parked the car as close as he could to his hiding place in the trees. After shutting off the motor and lights, he studied the area around the building for signs of activity. A woman in her mid to late thirties was out walking her two dogs, one a white Westie, the other a German Shepherd. For the first time tonight, Dirk was really worried. He had a bad feeling about this woman.

Probably one of those fucking little busybodies. Every damn apartment complex seemed to have one. Don't have a life of their own so they get their jollies out of everyone else's problems.

The taut-muscled, intense young man tried to appear cool and calm. Dirk laid his right arm around the blonde woman's shoulders like a good boyfriend would. Of course, if the woman with the two dogs was as much of a busybody as he guessed she was, she'd already know if this woman (Suzanne Nordstrom) had a boyfriend and if so, what he looked like, what kind of job he had, and which butt cheek his mole was on.

Dirk chanced a glance back at the stupid bitch and her two mutts. The Westie was pissing on an oak tree. The woman waved at another stupid dog-lover approaching from the opposite direction. Dirk kept watching. The nosy cunt was hauling her two furbags away from the building and toward the other woman and her dog. The mindless cunt probably watched "Turner and Hooch" about forty times and cried just talking about "Old Yeller."

"Thank you, Dark Brother. Your will shall be done," he intoned before jerking the keys out of the ignition. He hauled the blonde's limp body with his bulging arms while the nosy bitch chatted away with the other mindless, dog-loving bitch. by the time the woman looked this way, he and his precious cargo had disappeared into the trees.

A glance at his watch. Almost ten-fifteen. Coated with darkness, surrounded by gloom, the average person would have required a flashlight or lantern to see. Not Dirk. He loved the night. He was used to prowling tenebrous alleys or dim side streets, cruising through graveyards and murky, sunless forests, his mighty body merging with the shadows, an extension of the blackness instead of an interloper. Dirk had been spying on this little blonde number for a week before swooping in for the kill tonight. Stealth, strength, and unholy fervor wrapped in one powerful soldier of Satan.

The Shadow Man, a name The Dark Brother whispered in his mind one particularly spiritual night, his eyesight like a falcon's, easily found the rope underneath the Little Debbies and Twix bars. He tied the blonde's body to the maple tree in front of him. The only problem now would be if some stupid fucking dog owner brought their little mutt to piss and shit. No one did, though, so Dirk continued his business. After she was securely tied, he bent down and opened unzipped the nylon bag. He smiled crazily while running his hands over the axe.

"Let me axe you a question," he said, then giggled like a schoolgirl for so long he thought he was going to lose it completely.

Dirk scanned the area one more time. No one else around. He mentally rehearsed the route out of town one more time, nodded, and strode over to the woman.

Dirk paused to get one last look at the pretty face, raised the axe to shoulder level, brought it back behind him, and then forward. The recently sharpened blade sunk into the maple five inches to the left of his target, the glistening steel wedged in the bark a good six inches. He'd missed her completely!

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

Shaking his head, he covered his heart with his left hand. While leaning against the tree with his eyes closed, he said, "Relax. You can do this. This is not brain-fucking-surgery."

After ripping his eyes open and the axe out of the tree bark, he hefted the blade back again, a mask of concentration and determination on his face. The near miss had been loud enough to rouse the woman from unconsciousness. Her eyelids fluttered open. Though it was dark, Dirk saw the muddled confusion in her eyes quickly transformed into sheer terror. Before she could scream, the axe blade sliced through the duskiness. Adrenaline and raw strength propelled the axe cleanly through her larynx, the woman's head tumbling neatly onto the ground and rolling up beside the pile of Little Debbies and Twix bars. A geyser of blood spewed out in a parabolic torrent. The geyser slowed to a bloody stream. Dirk fell onto his knees at the sacrifice's feet. After saying a short prayer to The Dark Brother, the excitement of the moment overcame him. He unzipped his pants, shoved his underwear down to his ankles and grabbed his bulging dick. Within a half-minute, he shot his load all over the severed head. After the climax, as he lay contentedly on the wet grass, Dirk stared at the trickle of semen. It started on the forehead and meandered slowly down the nose, over the pretty pouty lips, and trickled into the mouth that was frozen open in a soundless scream.

"I like you. It's damn near impossible now days to find a woman who swallows," he said. He felt another wave of crazy laughter straining to erupt. He choked it off by shoving his right index finger into his mouth. Dirk bit so that he drew some of his own blood.

Jake's eyes popped open. The writer stuck his right hand on top of the computer monitor. After running the palm of his hand over the smooth, hard surface, Jake nodded. He really was back in his apartment. Of course, his body had been here all along.

"What in the hell was that?" he whispered, then shrugged it off. He knew exactly what it was.

The beginning of his novel.

Jake began typing.

THE AUTHOR

The author is an accountant by day and writer by night. With a brother who wrote a sports column for the Minot Daily News for several years and an aunt who wrote a book about an entire North Dakota county's family trees, writing does run in the family.

Eide was born in Minot, North Dakota. He moved to Red Wing, Minnesota in 1973 and has lived in the state ever since. He and wife Amy live in Burnsville, a southern suburb of Minneapolis. They share their home with two dogs, two cats, and one rabbit. A strong Lutheran upbringing and loving family have not only helped him keep the faith during the pre-publication years but provide immeasurable support and inspiration for his present-day writing. More about Lee Eide.

Publishing credits include a feature-length article entitled, "He's Paid His Dues" that appeared in the August 1997 edition of Referee magazine; a short story entitled "Deadly Magic" was featured on THE DOOR TO WORLDS IMAGINED, a speculative fiction ezine (now defunct); numerous articles for the Bulletin (Northwest Airlines Federal Credit Union's employee newsletter) from 1994 to 1998; and a daily meditation - "One Body" appeared in THE UPPER ROOM in their May-June 2000 print and online editions. His published novels “The Darkness Below” and “Dead Man’s Plan”, are also available.

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