Storyteller to the Cosmos

I could barely contain my excitement as I arrived at the writer’s commune in the hills of Arkansas. I was finally going to meet the man who had inspired me to write horror: L. Stevens. The sun was starting to sink over the hills as I walked up to the main hall of the commune. Several people were sitting around the fireplace as it crackled and popped, warming the chill autumn air. I was greeted warmly, but the warmth disappeared as I asked about Mr. Stevens.

“He doesn’t come to our gatherings”, one of the writers said, “In fact, he hasn’t set foot out of his cabin since he first got here over ten years ago.” The writer was kind enough to point me in the right direction and soon, I was knocking on L. Stevens’ cabin door.

There was no response at first, and then I detected a faint shuffling on the other side of the door. When it opened it was only so he could see me, nothing more. I almost gagged at the smell that poured out of that tiny opening; it was sour with sweat, stale cigarette smoke-and something else. Something like a whiff just outside a charnel house.

“Who are you and what do you want?” a raspy voice whispered.

I swallowed nervously, “Mr. Stevens, you don’t know me, but I have traveled a long ways to meet you. I have read all of your books. I’ve even tried to write my own, but nothing compares to the scenes, the dialogue, and the characters you create. I want to learn how to do that!”

There was a cough, and then the raspy voice replied, “I do not want to be disturbed-especially at this time! Go away!”

I tried to explain but the figure behind the door was not moved, “Go away, young man. I am running out of time. GO AWAY!!!” With that, he slammed the door and turned the bolt.

I was hurt, but I was not ready to give up. I walked some distance from the cabin, then waited and watched. As the sun disappeared and the full moon rose in the fall sky, I saw the curtains of his cabin move, as if he were looking for something then fall back. I crept along the path back to his cabin, hardly breathing. I was in luck-one of the curtains had not fallen in place, leaving a peep-hole for my prying eyes to look into his world.
What I saw in his squalid cabin was disgusting. The furniture was old and mildewed. There were dishes with stains and leftover food strewn around the floor. Cobwebs hung like Spanish moss from every conceivable edge. It was a pigsty, but why would a great author like Stevens live in such a way?

Stevens moved a chair in front of something tall and covered in a sheet. Pulling the sheet off of the object, he picked up his journal and started writing. It wasn’t a controlled form of writing; it was more like a madman trying to write down everything he heard and felt in a matter of seconds. I looked carefully and noticed that he was talking to himself; though I could make out his features, I could see his jaw moving. I had to hear what he was saying. A steady push on the rusty lock on the back door gave me entry. As I walked in behind Stevens, I heard what he was saying, but could not understand the gibberish coming from his lips. But it was the mirror he sat in front of that froze me in my tracks. Instead of a reflection, it was as if a doorway had been opened into the universe.

I saw stars and planets in dizzying detail. There were supernovas and gaseous cosmic clouds that belched forth light and energy. And there was noise and sound-a sound that reached into me and pulled my soul outwards.

My sense of reality was further tested as I saw them. No words could describe the creatures that sat poised on the other side of the glass. They were man-like, but not men. They had eyes of solid black, skin the color of pus, and tentacles where there should be hands. These creatures scampered like imps along the perimeter of the glass, but never crossed over. As my mind reeled, I heard a sound like a rumbling of a long dead volcano that has reawakened.
My mind could not register the immenseness of what was behind the glass. All I could make out before I blacked out were two glowing red eyes staring at me from a large, misshapen head. My weak grasp on what was real finally snapped and I fell into a dead faint.


I woke to the sounds of that raspy voice, “Wake up, young sir. Ah, there you are-not a scratch on you.”
As I sat up, I finally got a good look at my idol’s face and stifled a scream. He had no hair, no eyebrows. His nose was little more than two opening in a sickly yellow face. His eyes were a dull black, no pupils whatsoever. He smiled a toothless, horrible smile at my reaction.
He rasped, “You wanted to know my secret. I do not know where the mirror came from, but I know its power. It is a doorway to the universe. The creatures you saw or, rather sensed, are waiting to come to this realm. But we worked out a deal; I tell them stories and they tell me stories. They are fascinated by us-the tiny insignificant life form called human.”

He stood up slowly, “Of course, you can never leave now that you know the secret. Once that realm touches you, you are never quite the same.” He held up a small mirror and I saw what he meant: my eyes had changed from their hazel-green to dull ebony black.

I had learned my mentor’s secret.