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Shallow Grave (part 8)

Shallow Grave

Part 8

Thadd Presley

I never had to sign my name in blood to hear the voices. The voices have always been in my head, loud and clear, before the man came. While in my early teens, I listened to what they told me while dreaming of the day I would publish their lives in my stories.

I never thought I would publish a book every year? I didn’t know the public would enjoy the stories as much as they do. It never occurred to me that I had a future doing what I loved. I didn’t believe in myself, which is why I took the deal – if that’s what it was. I swear to you I didn’t realize at the time.

The voices didn’t care one way or the other. They were part of my life and I accepted them for what they were: a universe of characters swirling in my head, living out their lives for me to document. After the man talked with me, the voices became louder over the years, and now they grow more commanding everyday.

It seems lately that I don’t have a moment of quiet.

Usually, the voices took their turn. I wrote their stories and, once I had their voices on the page, they would quieten down again. Some had overlapping stories, since many of them lived in the same area, practically the same town. But, lately — and especially on nights like tonight — no amount of writing, no matter how much I wrote, could quiet the voices. They grew louder and louder. Underneath I heard a deeper fear than usual.


I began writing early this evening, my regular time, because I wanted to finish a story contracted through a horror magazine that my publisher told me would really pay off in the long run. I needed to get it written so that I could write my column for the local newspaper. But, it never became possible. I have been constantly interrupted by a small female voice. Mingled within her lightly spoken words has a loud cracking voice of an elderly man. They have kept up a running dialog in my head all evening and after just a few hours, they had taken over my head completely. I heard nothing but what was happening in their world.

Lydia, don’t you love me?” the old man asked again, possibly for the twentieth time. He spoke with a cracked voice between labored breaths. I clearly saw the bedroom and hospital bed. An oxygen hose hung loosely below his nose. A crown of billowing white hair ringed his head.

Yes, I do Papaw, very much. Now, please, you should sleep. It’s coming up on three in the morning.”

Yes, I thought, please go to sleep. Please, leave her alone and let me get back to my story.

But, Lydia dear, I can’t sleep, darling. Not while he’s here. He’ll take me away if I do. I know he will.”

She stood at the bedroom door looking in on her grandfather. Her face looked pale because of the wet, black mascara trails streaming from her eyes. “There is no one here except us.” She spoke, trying to calm him. She was worried about him not sleeping, because she’d seen this delusion worsen without proper rest.

Shallow Grave (part 7)

Shallow Grave

part 7

Thadd Presley

 

Whether I decided what type of life I wanted to live before I was born or decided through a series of choices made over a number years, does it really matter? I suppose if I had the choice to be bound by Fate or chose my life, I would chose to live a life determined by Fate. Otherwise, I would have to accept responsibility of my choices.

For years, I compared my life against the lives of my friends and family. I realized the same pattern appearing again and again in the their lives. It seemed as if they lived the same day, week, or month in a repeating loop. I felt bad for them, looked down on them, and even thought they were stupid. Something had to be wrong with them. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. But, I realized that they didn’t chose their life, just as the major decisions I thought I had made in my life seemed to be worked out by the time I got the chance to act. All the stress I placed on myself while trying to decide what to do was a waste of time ad energy. The things I wanted most in my my life, once I decided that I really wanted them, were simply waiting for me in the right places. College was there, my career was there, my wife was there, my children were there. Does that mean I was powerless? It seems the only decision I ever really had to make was: be alive.

So, was my life was out of my hands? Sometimes it seemed that way. The many distractions were always lying in wait to take me away from my work, not a moment went by that someone close to me failed to suggest “this” or “that” thing we should do, and for the most part, I was able to roll with the punches and dodged the big ones somehow just before it was too late. I don’t know how it all came together.

Maybe I wanted to believe this because it would mean I wasn’t responsible the decisions in my life. It would free me me from the guilt I’ve felt for so long. But, even while it seemed to be possible, I knew it wasn’t true. I knew I was responsible for the things I did and there was nothing I could be ashamed of more than being afraid to face up to my decisions. I could have chosen a different path if I wanted and I probably should have. I could have been a different person if I wanted.

But, I chose to do all the things I did for a reason. I wanted to get all the things I ever wanted, and because of that I’ve had nightmares for most of my adult life. I’ve feared for my immortal soul every time the lights went out and I stood alone crying out to God for some sign that I’ve still got a soul to cry for.

There were times when I claimed responsibility for all the sins I committed only because I meant I was responsible for the good things that happened in my life as well. It sounded shallow and weak even then, but that’s who I was. I wanted to look big in the eyes of some people, but not everyone.

I saw clearly what fame looked like early on and steered clear of it because it was interfering and imposing. A shadowy figure didn’t have to tell me that I didn’t want to be on David Letterman. That was my choice and it was an easy choice.

A pact with the devil wasn’t the reason I kept my career to myself. The people close to me knew what I did and sometimes knew where I went, but only when they needed to know what I was doing. There wa was no good reason to tell everyone what I did and how I spent my days. I chose not to look for adulation or seek out false praise from people who thought they knew me.

I wanted to be able to live in my small town and remain as low key as possible. It was important to me, my wife, my kids, and my own sanity. Everything depended on my ability to be a normal person, and to be able to live a normal life in my home town.

I didn’t want my name in the tabloids, the gossip pages, all the scandal rags. There was a class of people – a sub-human species of man – who lived off other people; the moochers hunt weaker people and eat everything left behind; the leeches attach themselves onto a person and suck the life out of them, usually it is painless; and then there are the parasites who find their way into a person who has achieved a level of success higher than they are capable.

The prospect of these people getting to me or my family and ruining our lives to make themselves rich turned the mansions and bright lights of Hollywood and New York into mausoleums for hollow-eyed corpses and I didn’t want to be part of it. So, if things turned out the way they did simply because I signed my name on the dotted line, that was just part of my life. Not all of it. I’ve done so much more than that single act.

Shallow Grave part 6

Shallow Grave

(Part 6)

by Thadd Presley

 

Over the years, following my first novel “Shallow Grave” there has always been one nagging question: Was the book a product of my imagination or did I sell my soul for it? Late at night, as the fear of hell and eternal damnation seem the realest, I tell myself that I’d know if I’d sold my soul? It wouldn’t be something I could forget or suppress. After all, how could selling my soul be so easy? It’s not like I have a receipt laying around in case I didn’t get everything I ever wanted.

While the book has done very well and led me to a good career, the money hasn’t exactly been in the millions. I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to many of the nicer places in North America, Canada included, more than I ever thought I would actually, and I spent time in the most famous European hot spots. Through publisher conferences, book signings, and writer retreats I’ve seen much of the world.

During the release of the second book, I was even fortunate enough to take my family to Ireland and just a year later we spent a month in Australia together. It’s been great.

More books followed, proving my success wasn’t a fluke, more than enough to convince me that my accomplishments were my own. Sells were enough to keep my children in college and the family comfortable, although we weren’t able to take vacations every year and I certainly never become famous.

In fact, after the first few late night talk shows and half a dozen book signings beside the leaders in the horror genre, I realized I didn’t want to be a famous person. Fifteen minutes was more than enough. Any more attention would have caused problems between my ego and the antisocial disorder that had been working so well for me. I was a writer after all, not an entertainer, and I wanted things to remain just as they had been all along.

But, that’s just where the fear found it’s greatest foothold. During all those sleepless nights, if I was fortunate enough to sleep at all, the nightmares and horrors were just beyond the veil of consciousness. No matter how sure I was of my innocence, the fear always found a piece of solid ground large enough to support the weight of it’s accusations. Often where the fog of memory and shadow of guilt came together, I’d find myself facing certain truths that convicted me thoroughly and deeply.

I never wanted fame. I didn’t write to attain a fortune. I wrote because I wanted to have a writer’s life. I wrote so I could find a woman who would someday become a loving wife. Together, I wanted us to become comfortable with a family.

As I am often reminded by the black and faceless accusers, who derail my dreams into darkness and depravity: I got everything I wanted. Everything I could reasonably ask for and expect to receive has been delivered into my life on time and in just the right amount, as if I ordered it direct from a warehouse.

Shallow Grave (part 5)

Shallow Grave

(part 5)

Thadd Presley

“They offered me Fifty grand. But remember I said I was going to publish it through Amazon? That means I’m not taking their money.”

“Fifty grand? That’s all?”

“Yeah, that’s a hell of a lot of money, Allen. And it’s only an advance on the royalties. I would eventually get more money when it begins to sell.”

“I thought that it being the devil and all that he’d make it a million or something.”

“Well, it wasn’t the devil then, was it. Plus, I’m self publishing.”

“OK. But, you can’t deny that they book was magically inspired. You told me you wrote it in like a week right?”

“I’m not sure. More like a few days.”

“That sounds like magical inspiration to me.”

“First of all, you don’t realize how much I write once I get started. In just a few mornings I can do 20 thousand words no problem.”

“Well, how did this one go? Did you know the whole story before you started or was it…”

“What? Was it magic? How should I know.” Allen looked up then and we both realized it was soon time for the bar to close. He raised his glass and I did the same.

“To us old pal, to you and your writing, to me and my new company, so that the next year is the best we’ve ever had to date.” I smiled and nodded my head.

We both drained our beers.

“OK. So was it.”

“No. It wasn’t magic. It never is. I wake up early and write stories. Coffee, cigarettes, and booze, nothing more.” He was looking at me and I knew he knew when I was lying. “Ok. This time was a bit different. The entire story was in my head that morning. Usually, I just have a glimmer or a scene and after awhile I can tell if it’s a short story or a part of a longer one. Well, I knew everything about every character, every scene, before the first word was written. I even had an address to a publishing house in New York. Avocet! The name was just sitting on my desk along with the phone number. It must have been given to me by someone because it wasn’t in my hand writing, but I can’t remember when or by who.”

“So the guy in your room that night was real and not just your imagination? You knew then that he was some sort of… I don’t know … demon.”

“He might be, Allen. I’m a bit scared and excited at the same time. I know the story is good, hell great, but it’s not worth selling my soul for.” I told him this knowing that I was tempted to send the book to New York just to know what they would say. “The publishers might reject the book.”

“If they do then you know this is all a bunch of crap and you’re no worse of then before. You got a story out of it anyway, right?”

“Right. I guess, if the devil deals with writers then I’m going to be rich.” I still wasn’t sure if I was going to do it, but Allen was sure I would.

“He does,” Allen said and suddenly stood up. We were both pretty drunk at this point and he walked towards the door without looking back. I followed him onto the street, ready for more questions but he didn’t ask anymore about the man or the deal. In fact, I’ve not see him much since that night twenty years ago.

Shallow Grave part 4

Shallow Grave
(part 4)

Thadd Presley

“He told me that all the great writers, those who came before and those still to come, have one thing in common.”

“Yeah, their crazy, like you.”

‘They all hear voices and were considered unstable.”

“And you do hear voices, don’t you?” Allen asked in all seriousness, as if diagnosing a delusional person.

“Yeah, in a way. I mean, it’s not exactly like voices but it’s not me either. Something inside me tells me what to write.”

“But, have you ever told anyone, besides me, I mean?”

“What do you think? If I told anyone I hear voices, they would think I was crazy and lock me up or something.”

“Then what did the man do? Tell me about the man.”
“He said he would give me a story to write and if I wrote it everything I wanted would be mine.”

“Didn’t that seem odd to you? A strange man appearing in your house and telling you that he would give you story and give you everything you wanted?”

“Not really. I mean at the time it seemed normal. I was desperate. I didn’t think. “Everything I wanted’ kept echoing in my head. I was focused on that part. Besides there’s ghost writers and many well known writers buy stories from people who sell stories all the time. It’s usually people like me who really come up with the ideas that make writer into famous best-selling authors.”

“Yeah, yeah. But, so far you ain’t sold shit. Tell me about the deal you made with him. Cause it seems like it was useless.” He smiled. “You’re deal with the Devil.”

“It was not the devil.” I finished the rest of my beer and this time Allen bought the round. “When it came to the story, I thought he meant he would sell me one or tell me one. I didn’t realize what he meant. I had no idea –”

“But, if he would have explained it to you in detail would you have still done it?”

“Yeah, I suppose I would have. I sometimes thought my stories came from somewhere else anyway and I was focusing more and more on the promise of everything I wanted. Anyway, my stories have always came from somewhere else, like figments of my imagination or something, and since this man was probably my own imagination, what did I have to lose.”

“Nothing I guess. Everything, probably.”

At this point, I took a long pull off my fourth beer and tried to change the subject, but Allen was having none of it. “Tell me what you did. I think you made a deal with the Devil and your new novel is what he promised. I think if you publish this book, you will be incredibly rich and famous and you will have then sold your soul. I feel it in my bones.”

“Fine. It makes no difference now anyway. I might have sold it that night.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I did exactly as he asked. I cut my right index finger with my dad’s buck knife, because I write with my left, and when he handed me a small document from his breast pocket.”
“You never told me that before.”
“I’m scared. What if I really sold my soul?”
“What did you do exactly?”
“Well, he unfolded the old piece of paper and asked me very politely to put my sign the bottom.”

“In blood?”

“Of course.”

“And you did it?”

“Damn it, Allen, you know I did. But I swear to God, I thought I was dreaming or having a delusion. I’d been drinking whiskey and I was sleepy. I’d already taken a few pain pills that I’d scored from Daniel so I could stay awake but they weren’t working.”

“OK. OK.” Allen was backing down a bit. He could see my irritation beginning to sow and he knew I wasn’t not a happy drunk to begin with. Allen was my true friend and he could handle me if he needed to but he didn’t want to have to. Instead of backing all the way off, he pressed me further wanting to hear the rest. “How long did it take you to write the novel? The one that you’ve been offered money for?”

“Well –”

“How much did you say they were offering?”

“Damn, Allen, you want me tell you the story or not?”

“Yeah, just tell me how much first.”

Shallow Ground Part 3

I want to keep the parts to around 500 words.  The first one is 1500 and that seems a bit to long. I’d like the parts to be read quickly and without interfering with the rest of the day. So, here it be: part 3

Shallow Ground:

part 3

by Thadd Presley

“Well, as you know, that night scared the hell out of me,Allen. I really thought I was going to be killed by an intruder or possibly taken by something. It turned out that the thing in my room wasn’t there to hurt me. In fact, I know now, that it wasn’t from this world at all. And as it held it’s hand out to me, not saying a word, I knew he had something I wanted. I suddenly realized he wasn’t just a shadow. He wasn’t there to scare me. Really, he was anything scary, at all. He was just a man standing in my room with his hand held out to me.

“Of course, there were plenty of weird vibes coming from him which piqued my interest because I had never felt anything like it in my life. I had just turned twenty-one and this thing had secret gears kicking in all over my body. That’s the part that scared me more than anything, but I didn’t care. I felt an opportunity from him, a new start, and I wanted it. It didn’t matter if he had to take me away and teach me.”

I stopped talking, taking a moment to get a good swig of the beer, and tried to remember a movie. Allen’s eyes were glued to my face. I didn’t notice that really, until later, because at that moment there was a woman sitting across from us, three booths over, watching our conversation. She had to be watching my lips move because the place was rather loud.

“What was he wearing on his fingers?” Allen said breaking my contact with the brown haired woman. “Anything, like I don’t know, rings or something, you know from out of this world?”

“Nothing. I don’t think so.”

“’Cause rich people wear rings and they don’t look like they are expensive but they are. So if you saw something and it was just plain, it could have been very special.”

“No, he didn’t have rings. Oh,” I remembered the movie then, “it was like that movie Perfect Storm or whatever by Stephen King where a man came to the island and took the kid away, but he didn’t hurt the kid.”

“Yeah, I watched it.”

“Well, that’s what I was hoping would happen to me. I wanted to be taken away and made into something different.”

“Well, you weren’t taken away. Nothing happened that night, right?”

“Nothing? Well, I mean, when he held is hand out to me I could smell him. He smelled like flowers. No, no, like necter. I knew instantly, that the place he came from smelled like that and I was actually smelling somewhere far away. I could see from the smell blue flowers twith hick and beautiful petals.”

My speech was becoming slurred. I heard it myself. I wondered if Allen believed. I didn’t want him to think I was making it up. “Allen, by just smelling the scent I knew I could trust him.”

“Tell me what he said. What was the first thing he told you?”

Shallow Grave (part 2)

“Shallow Grave”

Thadd Presley

“Now Greg, don’t get too drunk. You’re driving.”
“We’ll take a cab. If I’m going to tell this story again I’m doing it drunk.”

Taking me up on the idea, Allen downed half his pint in three gulps and looked back at me, signaling my turn.

“It happened in my bedroom before I came to university. Just like out of a movie, the voice came from no where and everywhere at once. I heard it plainly and was afraid someone had broken into my room. I knew someone was hiding in the dark. But, the room was so small and the window not seven feet from my desk, it would have been impossible.

“I turned around the check the door, but it was still closed and since the hinges creak when moved, I couldn’t believe someone opened it without me knowing. After a full minute of silence, I had convince myself that it was my imagination and was about to just turn back toward the desk and begin writing again. A thought went through my head and I was sure I had been sleeping. The veil of sleep was lifted, out of the dream I came, and I woke up. It was relief to figure out that I had been asleep.

“I exhaled and pulled my knees under the desk when I heard the rasp of the voice again.A dark movement filled the corner; my eye flickered toward it and I half rose, but that’s when I focused and saw a dark man standing there.”

I downed the rest of my beer and pushed my glass from the edge. Within a minute we both had two new beers. Allen said nothing.

“I couldn’t believe that someone had gotten into the room. But he was there. Just standing, no longer saying anything. I remembered to pinch myself, but I knew I was awake. I looked at my hands to make sure I was awake. I was trying everything to convince myself that this wasn’t real. I should have been more scared, maybe even angry at his being there, but I wasn’t. It was like he broke into his own house because he locked himself out. Sure I was startled, but he belonged and now it was alright.

“Allen, I have never seen him since, but I know he is there.”

“What did he look like?”

“He looked quite wealthy, wore layers of clothing like he was from a cold place. He had a beautiful face, almost looked like a woman. So smooth and white. No…” I stopped to think. I took a deep swig and it came to me. “He looked like one of my sisters dolls. The china kind.”

Allen answered for me. “A porcelain doll?”

“Yeah, and somehow I understood that he wasn’t there to hurt me or rob me or anything bad. He could help me and he wanted to help me. I don’t know how to explain this next part, but he smiled and his teeth were beautiful and I knew that whatever he was he had power. It was his teeth that put me at ease.”

Allen looked up from his beer and smiled. “That was the devil, dude.”
“Fuck you, Allen. I know you think that, but he wasn’t the devil. It was something else. Now, I wish I’d have never told you because you don’t understand and you never can because you weren’t there.

“Well you told me alreadyand it’s good thing you did because you can’t hold something like this inside. So go on and finish it. I like the story.”

Shallow Grave (part 1)

Shallow Grave

(part 1)

by  Thadd Presley

The wind blew out of the woods and though the window, ruffling the curtains, heightening my awareness of the strangely warm night. I had been writing for three hours every night for the past week, feeling more at home at my desk than I had in months. I was becoming more involved in my writing and the newest character, Markus, was finally going to escape the town and the evil I’d created for him so long ago in the short stories written in my youth. The writing had suddenly become effortless and each scene fell out of my mind so easily that I didn’t realize I’d slipped back into an ongoing story I never finished. Actually, I’ve hadn’t tried to finish the story and for over a decade I stayed away from it, dodging every scene that formed in my mind. But tonight, the click-clack of the typewriter keys calmed and somehow soothed the story out of me. I remembered a time when the typewriter was the only thing that quieted the voices in my head. The voices and scenes that returned to me tonight  were directly from the origin of my stories which took place in the same fictional town.

Lately, the voices for these long lost stories had become so loud that they were nothing more than a constant noise I couldn’t escape. I’d written nothing new in so long I was beginning to worry. I knew the only relief from the burden was getting the stories out of my head and onto the paper that I hoped would hold them forever.

Being a professional writer, I often took my writer’s curse in stride and learned how to use it to my advantage. I always told myself that I was lucky to have these voices, although it was sometimes troublesome, it was part of being a writer and, knowing that, I welcomed it.

In my work, it never seemed strange to hear voices and write down what they told me. Many of the voices came through as dialog, but others told me about their lives, their families, and I saw it as my job to document what they said. In some ways, in many ways, I was a journalist and biographer for the people and places that resided in my heart and mind. I made it my life’s work to tell the stories of those that lived and died in my head.

Does this seem strange? It might seem lunacy to those who don’t write stories, create music, or perform any other kind of art. Also, I realized that it’s not just artists who hear voices. I think most all of us have a nagging voice in our head. After all, my thoughts come through in the form of a sound. My ideas have never appeared before my mind’s eye on a computer screen. The voices, the people, the words become part of a process that drives the ideas that make  life worth living.

I always heard the voices and for a long time I didn’t mind having these strange people living in my head. It all changed when I was in the seventh grade. It occurred to me suddenly that I didn’t know if the voices were other versions of myself or if they came from somewhere outside of me. I decided I wanted to be a writer around that time and I’m not sure why, but the voices had much to do with the decision.

Whatever reason it came about, all I can say is that it’s become my career and I’ve been very lucky to have a job that I mostly enjoy. After all, not many people get to document the lives and secrets of imaginary people.
My love for writing has been very strong ever since, but I was often hesitant to write about the depravity of some lives and the gruesome themes of others. It was a good friend of mine during college who told me that it was a gift and I’d be a fool to not follow every trail and embrace it, no matter where it took me.

Years ago, before I realized what my future was going to be, I tried to talk it over with my best friend. I’d already told him the story before, but it never came out the way I intended. Perhaps, he thought I was trying to brag about my chance to publish n a back door fashion and that might have been a tad bit true, but mostly, I think, he thought I was lying. Then one night, I finally got it all out to him.

“Greg,” Allen shouted one night while we were drinking in the local college bar, “it’s time to show your talent. Come on and just publish the novel. You said yourself that it’s finished. What are you scared of? You chicken or…” He didn’t want to continue because we were friends and he knew it wasn’t his place to dictate my career, but he knew me well enough to call me on my bullshit.

“I’m not chicken. I just don’t know if I should do it. My mom’ll want a copy and she’ll not understand why I’d write something like that. It’s not my style at all.”

“Do you want to be a big time writer or not?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I want to be published, but I don’t want people to think I’m a weirdo or become someone who thinks of evil shit all the time. It’s bad enough to be typecast as a horror writer when there’s so much more to write about.”

He only smiled at me.

“Everyone knows there’s more to a writer than what he writes.”

It’s always been hard to argue with Allen, because he always knew me so well and I he usually had my best interest at heart. “But, my mom.”

“But my mom,” he mocked. “But my … What the fuck does she have to do with this? You are the writer. She knows the talent you have. Believe me, she’ll understand. I think she’d be more disappointed if you didn’t follow your dreams because of what you thought she would think.” He laughed then. “She knows it’s only a story. It’s not like it’s a biography.” He took a moment to finish his pint. “She’ d want you to publish and realize your dream. She’d want you to be happy.”

But, he was wrong on one point. It was a biography. A biography of someone in my head and that person is part of me. So, in a small way, the stories are my biography. I shrugged the thought off and took a drink of my beer.  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I said. “I just don’t want her to be shocked when she reads it. For God’s sake Allen, it’s the weirdest story I’ve ever written.”

“But you have a publisher ready to roll.”

“Everybody has a publisher ready to roll. It’s call Amazon. They’ ll publish anything on demand.”

“You know what I mean. You’ve got an income stream waiting to be utilized and you’re…”

“Yeah, I’m behind on rent. Just say it.”

“Damn it, she’d want you to do this. Imagine if she knew you were afraid of publishing a story because you thought she’d not like it. She’s a grown woman and has probably read books just as weird.”

“I know.” My excuses were running low at this point and I needed the money.

“Then quit wasting time. The moon is full and the devil is waiting.”

“Don’t say it like that. The voices are not the devil.”

“Well, then, correct me if I’m wrong. Last time I talked to you, didn’t you say that someone spoke to you out of the darkness and promised you fame and fortune? I think you said that the voice said anything you want could be yours.”

“Yes, but that was just my imagination. I’d been awake for days writing on the novel and probably having delusions. It was probably just sleep paralysis.”

“But, you did it. Didn’t you? You listened to the voice and now the public is waiting to buy your book. Money in hand.”

Slowly I took the knife out of my pocket. “I did it with this, you know.”

“Tell me again. Exactly what you did. I want to be rich too.” He was holding his empty glass up to signal the waiter. It seemed as if he was getting ready to hear the story for the first time.

“I’ve told you twice already. It’s just not something I like to –”

“I want to hear it again. Please tell me.” He ordered us each a pint each and when they were  in front of us we took them to a dark, corner booth. He was waiting for me to begin, so I downed half the pint and began the story for him.

Our Walk (fragment 4)

Our Walk
(fragment 4)
by Thadd Presley

As you may well have heard from your own vicar or sister, as you follow our journey together and learn of our battles, the lives of my companions and myself were given over to our Father God before we were born, whether we admit it or not, making our conception a matter of the Church with nothing to with a husband and wife’s love for one another. Our birth into the realm of Earth put a dual claim on us; God had a claim to our spirit while the Church had it’s claim on our body and we knew from an early age that our short lives would be given back to God quickly, for our paths were to bring before us the manifestation of an evil so fierce and powerful that we would surely die upon setting our eyes on it. Our hearts would fail us at just knowing such a blasphemy, since our hearts were the writing stone of God’s commandments long before our fleshy bodies had been taught the lies which would have led us into sin. We know not what lies ahead of us, only that we are to show no fear, nor even bat an eyelash in the presence of Hell’s most hideous creations. When we stand up face to face with the vilest of acts performed by cruelest of monsters, we know our bodies are nothing but dirt and our souls were never ours. The control we have learned to exercise over our body was just for these moment so we can someday fulfill God’s commandment. It is not our lives for which we should hold dear, because there exists a Salvation that none can rival. The evil which lies before us does not have the power to pluck us from the hands of God, only to deliver us into them. While Satan has tried in vain to plunge all of humanity into darkness, even since the beginning of time, and cause God’s children to falter and turn from their destiny, hasn’t the authority to undermine the truth of God’s promises, which is life eternal with God Almighty, who’s name is Worthy.

Our Walk (fragment 3)

Our Walk:
Fragment 3

by Thadd Presley

I can’t help having this confidence, for it is my belief, although I have walked exactly the path that the Devil drew out for sinners and fell for his traps at every turn, my life is in the hands of God now; and, if it is His decision to feed me to the fires of this place and allow my body to lie here dead, along with my brothers, I still could not back down; for Jesus had to walk this same path, alone and tempted of the same and more, yet He did not back down; for my sake, He gave His life and all of His blood, so that I might make my own decisions and decide to do right or wrong, while knowing that Christ’s blood covers my sins and makes my evilest acts unknown to all, even God; so I am empowered to uphold good, to stand in the face of evil no matter, the form or fierceness of my enemy: the height or the breadth of sin, nor the strength of the temptation that shall come, neither even the pleasures that most sins are promised to bring, I will not back down from this fight or turn back into that blackness that I once called my life.