Artist Of Darkness
Contributed by Charles Dean Walker
I held in my hands what seemed an innocent yet disturbing drawing of a gray skin demon. Its back looked like a fist, with the head of a bat. Those lizards like scarily claws. The cat eyes too stared into the soul of the viewer. Although there wasn’t a name or date to this sketch, I knew the man that birthed this piece into the world.
It was a friend from my childhood. In our school days he was typically well mannered, and well read as the years went by. Up until ninth grade nothing truly significant happened. He got into the occult. His favorite book was one I’d never heard of. The Summons. He held that book like his personal Holy Bible. The book itself looked brand new every time I’d seen it. The cover was blank gray, the pages white as snow. The spine was big bold black lettering in a gothic typeface.
He slowly began to hangout with others I thought of as Goths or Emos. What I didn’t know until these past few days, was that they’d been a cult. On his darkened aged brown work desk were hundreds of yellowed papers. Some of the typical papers you’d expect from a cheesy Hollywood horror flick. Pentagrams, descriptions of voodoo dolls and the like. Then I found his old book on his cleanest chestnut brown bookshelf. Still looking brand new. I cracked it open in the middle where he’d left other sketches. The book detailing how art can mimic life, and how with sacrifice you can bring your art to life. Sacrifice.
I knew it truly, but at that moment I still wanted to brush it off. My friend couldn’t be a killer. This had to be nothing but coincidence that I’d read this portion. Still, I also found among the papers an address. 14159 Eve Street. Eve street was just an ordinary neighborhood in our school days. That was until in 2014 when a series of children were murdered by a mysterious person. The Eve Street Slasher. They left nine children ritualistically slashed from nose to groin. Then their calling card a black chalk drawing of another type of demon.
I’d hoped it was yet another coincidence. That seemed most plausible during the car ride to the abandoned neighborhood. When I got there my eyes saw a once normal looking suburban white painted house, left to be chipped and weathered with boarded up windows. The door was gray and left ajar. With an aged concrete walkway to invite me in. The house was a dusty cobweb shack now. The furniture was stripped bare. The subtle sound of my feet moving was heard all about my person. I spied another loose piece of artwork. A framed black ink painting.
It looked slightly dried, someone other than me was or is here. That was my first thought. The painting itself resembled the artwork of a schizophrenic scribbling a happy face in an indiscernible pattern. The eyes were big and slightly square. A Cheshire wide grinning mouth.
I swear it looked into the soul. The quiet mixed with poor lighting and this piece, I felt my heart palpitated. I felt a stabbing chill in my spine. It was like an omen or aura truly surrounded it. As I was leaving I found another scrap of paper.
A message that read “ Come and see art unlike any other, truly it will feel alive.” Then another Eve Street address to an older abandoned field. Nothing grew at 451 Eve Street. Nothing but a circle of tall grass. That’s why it was empty of life. I kept going on this hunt just to see what my friend had been doing all this time. I did this despite the cryptic messages and art, because I didn’t believe I’d be in danger. I trusted him. Friendship is a relationship built on trust, just as any other. God help me I was wrong.
When I entered the black chain link entrance I felt a sudden thud to my head. Then it was darkness. For how long I wish I could say. When I did come to, I had a potato sack stop my head. My body was hung onto a crucifix. I heard ritualistic chanting that I couldn’t decipher. It seemed like a hymn. Then the sake was taken off of me. I saw multiple colors of robes. All wore hoods over their faces. The speaker was my friend. I didn’t have time to process that though, I had to escape. They had tied my hands very tight. I struggled my hands and feet until a slight burning sensation could be felt. Meanwhile the cult was watching me.
They didn’t seem to want to burn me, rather they wanted to gut me in a square. Bright lime green body paint had my belly button perfectly in the middle. Close by was a white painted knife that glistened in the little lighting. Soon I was free, a fast fall and then pure adrenaline overcame me. I decked the speaker with the eyes watching me in shock.
The sound of garble and what little grass this farm had was the loudest sound I’d heard that night. That and the huffing on my heavy breathing. I didn’t look back, running like hell was the only option. Police. I needed the police.
By the time I made it to the Maple Police Department, I was soaked in cold sweat, lungs burning, and my heart was about to burst. Inside I collapsed from exhaustion. The last thing I saw was the woman at the front counter. Her face read rightfully gasping from surprise. I awoke hours later in a hospital bed. A sea foam green gown was put on me. The steady beeping of my heart rhythmically sounded. A nurse, a young lady, saw me open my eyes. She finally told the doctor I was conscious finally, then eventually I talked to a detective. I think personally he thought I was crazy still, possibly just a psychosis riddled homeless.
Still, despite what I think he took my story. He had two other officers watch over me for the rest of the night. I still felt stressed and unsafe. They were out there, I was here with only two cops for security. Still, I eventually fell back to sleep. The next few days had gone by. Nothing. Then this week, I got word that this cult I spoke of never existed. There was no Eve Street farm anymore, it was burnt to cinders. That can’t be possible.