Write My Story (Part 3)

Issue #30 Keith’s SciFi Musings January 14, 2024

“But then, slowly over nearly a half hour, the swirl of mangled utterings and random gibberish began to, almost painfully it seemed, assemble themselves into at least semi-recognizable language patterns. I found myself leaning forward, my ear cocked to the side, eyes squinted, straining to better understand whatever this message might be. And that’s when I noticed the mouth of the gargoyle's head begin to move. The angry eyes, which had been blank, were now clearly focused on me. The serpentine tongue wagged slowly, warily, as if contemplating a strike.”

“Write my story.”

The voice was damp and obscene. It echoed and gurgled, and I could hear it surrounding me but inside my head at the same time, causing a sharp pain. I clapped my hands over my ears and began to rock back and forth, but that didn’t help.

I felt a ball of ice forming in my gut, causing cramps to assault my midsection and forcing me to double over, but that wasn’t what caused me to tremble. The mask now hovered in front of my face like a hellish apparition.

“Write my story.”

Upon repeating the request, the pain of the gargoyle’s voice in my head grew noticeably worse, unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It felt as if something like a scorpion was scurrying around inside the exposed flesh of my brain with sharp, insectile claws, ripping and tearing as it tried to find a way out. Somehow I knew that it was only a matter of time before whatever this thing was managed to devise its exit strategy unless I managed to satisfy the beast.

“Who are you?” I asked. “I don’t even know who or what you are, so how could I possibly write your story?”

The apparition drew itself closer, to where I could feel a certain heat and smell a sickening stench manufactured by things long dead. I kept my gaze locked on the floor. As terrified as I was, I’m not quite sure how I managed to ask my next question, which had gone unanswered. But I was certain this inquiry would not go ignored.

“And why should I write your story? Can you at least tell me that? What is it about your story that we all must be forced to hear? What is it about you that should matter so much to the rest of us?”

And with that, the beast unleashed a scream so horrible that I thought the atmosphere itself might catch fire. The sheer volume of rage and fear…

But then it was gone. Because some questions have no answers, and a fear that has no answers is nothing to fear at all.