cheeseo
New Member
This is my latest story idea. It would seem that much like when I played WoW I can't seem to stick to just one till the end /sigh. Anywho enjoy the first bit and let me know what you think. I also might want to mention that I haven't really edited it since I first typed it from the hand written version.
Possessed
“When the humans disbelieve in our existence we lose all the pleasing results of direct terrorism, and we make no magicians. On the other hand, when they believe in us, we cannot make them materialists and skeptics. At least not yet. I have great hopes that we shall learn in due time how to emotionalize and mythologize their science to such an extent that what is, in effect, a belief in us (though not under that name) will creep in while the human mind remains closed to belief in the Enemy. The ‘Life Force,’ the worship of sex, and some aspects of Psychoanalysis may here prove useful. If once we can produce our perfect work-the Materialist Magician, the man, not using, but veritably worshipping, what he vaguely calls ‘Forces’ while denying the existence of ‘spirits‘-then the end of the war will be in sight.”
- C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters
It was a calm, quiet afternoon. A bit rainy, but that was nothing new for Wellesley, in fact it was commonplace for the whole state of Massachusetts. The tall duplex was very quiet for the Jansons. The couple occupied themselves with whatever they could find. Jamason had his mind numbed as he sat in front of the television watching old Mr. Ed reruns. All the while Christina - his wife - busied herself cleaning and re-cleaning the kitchen downstairs. The Jansons had both been distant lately. Both of them a bit high strung, and neither really understood why. But it was always the other that never showed any love any more. Being somewhat new in town, with no children of their own, and both being in their mid fifties with full time jobs; it made Sunday afternoons quiet and dull. And oddly enough, it was quite cold for being late spring. “Chris! Why’s it so cold in here? Turn the heat on!” Jamason shouted downstairs without taking his eyes off the TV.
“Be quiet, you’re disturbing the neighbors!” she yelled back equally as loud. “Besides, it is on. If you’re still cold then put on a sweater!”
The air was still for a while as both of them sulked in the fact that they were unreasonably yelled at. But Jamason was still cold. So with a sigh and a grunt he hefted himself off the couch and started shuffling toward the third story stairs. He stubbed his toe on a slightly elevated nail head, then stumbled because of it. Cursing under his breath he rubbed his toe, then started making his way up the stairs with a grunt. As he dragged himself up the stairs he began to mumble “I’m way too old for this house.” He then reached out to steady himself on the duplex separating wall, only to shout as he recoiled his hand in pain.
“What’s wrong Jamas?” Christina yelled up to him after being startled into dropping a dish back into the sink.
“The separating wall feels cold as ice.” He answered completely forgetting why he was going upstairs.
“That’s absurd! There’s no way that jerk could make this side-Ow!” She shrieked as she tested her husband’s claim. The tips of her wet hands had a bit of ice on them as she pulled them back. “What the?…That’s it! Jamas, we’re going over there to have a word with Mister-” She was then cut off by a chorus of ear shattering screams and shrieks from the other side of the wall. Silence now hung in the air. What on earth was happening over there?
“Chris, you alright?” Jamason called down to his wife.
“I’m fine Jamas, but we need to have a talk with him. Come on.” She replied as she dried off her hands. Jamason quickly made his way down the steps, popped on his old slip-ons that Christina made constant comments that he needed to replace. They stepped out the door and began banging on their neighbor’s.
The pounding on the door was ear-splitting to Herold who was still curled up in the dark corner. The neighbors must have heard me scream. The scream really couldn’t have been helped; the event had been so painful that his left arm was still numb. Regardless, Herold now had a new problem: the Jansons.
He dragged himself up, every muscle and bone screaming in protest to the movement, causing him to lose his balance and topple forward, screaming aloud again. He braced himself for pain this time and pushed himself up with a grunt, and laboriously made his way to the door. He pulled it open to the sight of the Jansons’ angry yet concerned faces.
“Can I help you?” Herold asked in a pained voice.
“Who’s screaming in there?” Jamson asked in reply.
“Just me, I’m having some stomach issues right now.” He answered as he clutched his stomach.
“What about the other voices? Christina interjected.
“What other voices?” Herold asked in confusion.
“We heard at least four of em’ start shrieking all at once.” Jamason answered.
“I’m alone.” He answered tersely, still not quite sure what they were taking about, but wanting them to leave just the same.
“And why’s it so cold in there? We can feel it all the way on our side.” Jamason complained.
“Feels fine to me.” Herold retorted.
“Jesus Christ! You grow up in Alaska or something?” Jamason exclaimed, to which Herold abruptly vomited on them. He then slammed the door on them as they began cursing and shouting insults at him. They shortly thereafter went away, undoubtedly to clean up and wash the stench out of their clothes. “What on earth was that?“ Herold whispered to himself.
Your body is trying to reject me. The voice told him.
“Who said that?” Herold asked with a bit more volume.
I have no name; I am the voice of your power, your ‘force’. It replied.
“I didn’t know powers had voices.” Herold retorted with a pained grunt.
Not many do.
“How come I can’t feel my left arm?” He questioned.
It’s not yours anymore.
“Why does my body-” he grunted again “-hurt so much?”
You ask too many questions. Don’t you want power?
“Yes, but it hurts too much.” he answered.
No pain, no gain. it replied with a snicker.
“Yeah, but it’s killing me.”
Very slowly though.
“Wait! This is literally killing me?!” Herold exclaimed in fear.
In order to gain one must sacrifice. Thus your lifespan has been shortened.
“Then I want no part with you.” He commanded.
It’s too late for that. You cannot gain it back, and without me your life will become shambles. You and I are one now.
Possessed
“When the humans disbelieve in our existence we lose all the pleasing results of direct terrorism, and we make no magicians. On the other hand, when they believe in us, we cannot make them materialists and skeptics. At least not yet. I have great hopes that we shall learn in due time how to emotionalize and mythologize their science to such an extent that what is, in effect, a belief in us (though not under that name) will creep in while the human mind remains closed to belief in the Enemy. The ‘Life Force,’ the worship of sex, and some aspects of Psychoanalysis may here prove useful. If once we can produce our perfect work-the Materialist Magician, the man, not using, but veritably worshipping, what he vaguely calls ‘Forces’ while denying the existence of ‘spirits‘-then the end of the war will be in sight.”
- C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters
----------
It was a calm, quiet afternoon. A bit rainy, but that was nothing new for Wellesley, in fact it was commonplace for the whole state of Massachusetts. The tall duplex was very quiet for the Jansons. The couple occupied themselves with whatever they could find. Jamason had his mind numbed as he sat in front of the television watching old Mr. Ed reruns. All the while Christina - his wife - busied herself cleaning and re-cleaning the kitchen downstairs. The Jansons had both been distant lately. Both of them a bit high strung, and neither really understood why. But it was always the other that never showed any love any more. Being somewhat new in town, with no children of their own, and both being in their mid fifties with full time jobs; it made Sunday afternoons quiet and dull. And oddly enough, it was quite cold for being late spring. “Chris! Why’s it so cold in here? Turn the heat on!” Jamason shouted downstairs without taking his eyes off the TV.
“Be quiet, you’re disturbing the neighbors!” she yelled back equally as loud. “Besides, it is on. If you’re still cold then put on a sweater!”
The air was still for a while as both of them sulked in the fact that they were unreasonably yelled at. But Jamason was still cold. So with a sigh and a grunt he hefted himself off the couch and started shuffling toward the third story stairs. He stubbed his toe on a slightly elevated nail head, then stumbled because of it. Cursing under his breath he rubbed his toe, then started making his way up the stairs with a grunt. As he dragged himself up the stairs he began to mumble “I’m way too old for this house.” He then reached out to steady himself on the duplex separating wall, only to shout as he recoiled his hand in pain.
“What’s wrong Jamas?” Christina yelled up to him after being startled into dropping a dish back into the sink.
“The separating wall feels cold as ice.” He answered completely forgetting why he was going upstairs.
“That’s absurd! There’s no way that jerk could make this side-Ow!” She shrieked as she tested her husband’s claim. The tips of her wet hands had a bit of ice on them as she pulled them back. “What the?…That’s it! Jamas, we’re going over there to have a word with Mister-” She was then cut off by a chorus of ear shattering screams and shrieks from the other side of the wall. Silence now hung in the air. What on earth was happening over there?
“Chris, you alright?” Jamason called down to his wife.
“I’m fine Jamas, but we need to have a talk with him. Come on.” She replied as she dried off her hands. Jamason quickly made his way down the steps, popped on his old slip-ons that Christina made constant comments that he needed to replace. They stepped out the door and began banging on their neighbor’s.
----------
The pounding on the door was ear-splitting to Herold who was still curled up in the dark corner. The neighbors must have heard me scream. The scream really couldn’t have been helped; the event had been so painful that his left arm was still numb. Regardless, Herold now had a new problem: the Jansons.
He dragged himself up, every muscle and bone screaming in protest to the movement, causing him to lose his balance and topple forward, screaming aloud again. He braced himself for pain this time and pushed himself up with a grunt, and laboriously made his way to the door. He pulled it open to the sight of the Jansons’ angry yet concerned faces.
“Can I help you?” Herold asked in a pained voice.
“Who’s screaming in there?” Jamson asked in reply.
“Just me, I’m having some stomach issues right now.” He answered as he clutched his stomach.
“What about the other voices? Christina interjected.
“What other voices?” Herold asked in confusion.
“We heard at least four of em’ start shrieking all at once.” Jamason answered.
“I’m alone.” He answered tersely, still not quite sure what they were taking about, but wanting them to leave just the same.
“And why’s it so cold in there? We can feel it all the way on our side.” Jamason complained.
“Feels fine to me.” Herold retorted.
“Jesus Christ! You grow up in Alaska or something?” Jamason exclaimed, to which Herold abruptly vomited on them. He then slammed the door on them as they began cursing and shouting insults at him. They shortly thereafter went away, undoubtedly to clean up and wash the stench out of their clothes. “What on earth was that?“ Herold whispered to himself.
Your body is trying to reject me. The voice told him.
“Who said that?” Herold asked with a bit more volume.
I have no name; I am the voice of your power, your ‘force’. It replied.
“I didn’t know powers had voices.” Herold retorted with a pained grunt.
Not many do.
“How come I can’t feel my left arm?” He questioned.
It’s not yours anymore.
“Why does my body-” he grunted again “-hurt so much?”
You ask too many questions. Don’t you want power?
“Yes, but it hurts too much.” he answered.
No pain, no gain. it replied with a snicker.
“Yeah, but it’s killing me.”
Very slowly though.
“Wait! This is literally killing me?!” Herold exclaimed in fear.
In order to gain one must sacrifice. Thus your lifespan has been shortened.
“Then I want no part with you.” He commanded.
It’s too late for that. You cannot gain it back, and without me your life will become shambles. You and I are one now.