This is for fun, I don't expect to make a real book or anything. Besides, I'm only an average writer.
In the Details
Prologue
If the Devil does not exist, and man has therefore created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.
Dostoyevsky
The room was not bright by any standard; it was as if the darkness of the night had crept in through the window and swallowed up the fragments of artificial light. Most rooms in this apartment were fairly cheap and dank. Smells created by the previous owners still lingered in the dust, like marks that signified their dominion in between its walls; this apartment had not been throughly cleaned in a long time. He didn't care, however. It was home, and the small inconvenience of cat piss and stains would not repel him. The man was of average build, sort of the unassuming type. His clothes, slightly tattered, were the type of clothes you would expect to see on a man down on his luck, an old suit coat and a pair of old slacks. He had not slept for days, not well for months. It was if something specifically denied him the human right to rest.
Human, I'm not human anymore.
The mirror laughed at him, taunting him with an image of what he looked like today. It was a shadow of what he once was, a mockery of God's original creation. His face was tired. Both of his eyes showed no signs of human emotion, he was a monster. The lines in his face were deep, and right to the left of his right eye was a scar, long since healed but obviously never to be forgotten. As he sat in the corner, a prisoner of his own weary mind, he noticed the air became cold and stale.
Strange, it's in the middle of the summer.
"Hello, Dendrick." An ethereal voice of unknown origin seemed to have come from the ceiling and the walls.
Dendrick stood up and walked towards the center of his room, now grasping the small pocket knife he had in his coat.
"Who the fuck is there?!" Yelled Dendrick, the anxiety in his voice apparent only through the wavering pronouciation of the word "fuck."
You know me. The voice no longer came from the room, it was now in his mind. He could not understand how this was possible. The voice was human, yet it was not. It sent chills down his spine and resurrected a feeling of fear that Dendrick had long since grown cold towards. He was well aware of this feeling. It reminded him of the time he almost died; the same cold crept into his bones. In almost an instant, his memory flashed him back to his close demise. It was clear to him, almost as if he were there again. The song from his past played indefinitely in his head. In those last moments he remembered only the indescribable feeling of death. He abandoned all hope and let go of the possibility of living. This feeling could most accurately be described in two words: helplessness and dread.
Dendrick, I have something I want you to do... for me.
WHO ARE YOU!? GO THE FUCK AWAY!
Dendrick fought back, unaware of how useless his efforts were. But soon the voice and the feelings of dread subsided and Dendrick felt a little bit better. But the uneasiness would not go away, and though he did not know it yet, it would never go away. This encounter was but a glimpse, a preview of what was to come.
Dendrick trudged back towards his chair and filled a dirty glass with some cheap whiskey he had purchased at the gas station earlier that day. He drank because it helped him sleep, but more importantly it helped him forget. As he slowly slipped into a silent slumber, he could only hold onto the feelings this voice evoked. Uncertain was the future.
In the Details
Prologue
If the Devil does not exist, and man has therefore created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.
Dostoyevsky
The room was not bright by any standard; it was as if the darkness of the night had crept in through the window and swallowed up the fragments of artificial light. Most rooms in this apartment were fairly cheap and dank. Smells created by the previous owners still lingered in the dust, like marks that signified their dominion in between its walls; this apartment had not been throughly cleaned in a long time. He didn't care, however. It was home, and the small inconvenience of cat piss and stains would not repel him. The man was of average build, sort of the unassuming type. His clothes, slightly tattered, were the type of clothes you would expect to see on a man down on his luck, an old suit coat and a pair of old slacks. He had not slept for days, not well for months. It was if something specifically denied him the human right to rest.
Human, I'm not human anymore.
The mirror laughed at him, taunting him with an image of what he looked like today. It was a shadow of what he once was, a mockery of God's original creation. His face was tired. Both of his eyes showed no signs of human emotion, he was a monster. The lines in his face were deep, and right to the left of his right eye was a scar, long since healed but obviously never to be forgotten. As he sat in the corner, a prisoner of his own weary mind, he noticed the air became cold and stale.
Strange, it's in the middle of the summer.
"Hello, Dendrick." An ethereal voice of unknown origin seemed to have come from the ceiling and the walls.
Dendrick stood up and walked towards the center of his room, now grasping the small pocket knife he had in his coat.
"Who the fuck is there?!" Yelled Dendrick, the anxiety in his voice apparent only through the wavering pronouciation of the word "fuck."
You know me. The voice no longer came from the room, it was now in his mind. He could not understand how this was possible. The voice was human, yet it was not. It sent chills down his spine and resurrected a feeling of fear that Dendrick had long since grown cold towards. He was well aware of this feeling. It reminded him of the time he almost died; the same cold crept into his bones. In almost an instant, his memory flashed him back to his close demise. It was clear to him, almost as if he were there again. The song from his past played indefinitely in his head. In those last moments he remembered only the indescribable feeling of death. He abandoned all hope and let go of the possibility of living. This feeling could most accurately be described in two words: helplessness and dread.
Dendrick, I have something I want you to do... for me.
WHO ARE YOU!? GO THE FUCK AWAY!
Dendrick fought back, unaware of how useless his efforts were. But soon the voice and the feelings of dread subsided and Dendrick felt a little bit better. But the uneasiness would not go away, and though he did not know it yet, it would never go away. This encounter was but a glimpse, a preview of what was to come.
Dendrick trudged back towards his chair and filled a dirty glass with some cheap whiskey he had purchased at the gas station earlier that day. He drank because it helped him sleep, but more importantly it helped him forget. As he slowly slipped into a silent slumber, he could only hold onto the feelings this voice evoked. Uncertain was the future.
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