﻿ Into the Mirror Black Tim Marquitz ~ Copyright 2012 Tim Marquitz ~ Created in the United States of America Worldwide Rights ~ Smashwords Edition, License Notes This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, including digital, electronic, or mechanical, to include photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews. This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. Into the Mirror Black It is time. “So soon?” Tyson looked to the gilded mirror, which hung above the fireplace mantle. The misty blackness that swirled within its depths obscured the eyes he felt staring back. A gentle waft of heat washed over him though the coals had long been extinguished. He regretted his inadvertent defiance and hurried to appease the voice. “I’m sorry…I’m ready.” Only silence met his apology. He had angered the darkness and knew he must make amends. The time was nearly upon them, but he would be prepared. He would make them proud. Together, they would stand upon the precipice of the world and be the first to hail the ancient gods. They would know him as their savior, the one who woke them from their endless slumber. Goosebumps prickled Tyson’s arms as he left the mirror behind and went to the bathroom. He stripped down and turned the water to its hottest setting before climbing inside. Steam whirled about him as his flesh was battered. Soon they would be here and he would reap the rewards for his loyal service. A tingle at his crotch drew his gaze downward. Despite his weariness, his cock twitched in anticipation as he imagined the glory soon to be bestowed upon him, but there was still more to do. He reached down and wrapped his hand about his growing erection and gave it a cruel yank. Needle-sharp pains radiated upward as the tender flesh tore. Tyson hissed as the scalding spray washed over the wound, the water spilling pink between his fingers. He pulled his hand away and drew in a steamy breath. There would be time enough for the flesh, but now was not it. Tyson let the water wash away the blood until it slowed to a trickle. Then he climbed from the shower to dry himself, averting his gaze from the mirror. As he shaved, he cast furtive glances at it. Only the seething darkness met his eyes. He wished he could see his reflection, if only for a moment. Tyson could only guess how he looked. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the last three weeks. The bags under his eyes were likely as dark as the mirror before him, but he could only feel their tender indentions and sense the redness of his tired eyes. It was a small price to pay, he thought, for the visions that would soon be laid out before him. No time to contemplate the future, Tyson grabbed an energy drink from the refrigerator and popped the top. He swallowed it down, adding two caffeine pills to the mix, and tossed the empty can aside as he went out the door. It landed with a metallic crash amongst the collection that littered the hall. The sound set off a collection of muffled hisses that spilled from the glass containers stacked against the wall. Tyson smiled. He wasn’t the only one feeling anxious. The door slamming behind him, he hurried to his car and rushed out into the morning traffic. He prided himself on being innocuous, if not inconspicuous. No one looked twice at the unassuming man who ruffled no feathers and worked hard. He could afford none of the attention his co-workers seemed to crave, coming in drunk and fighting on site. No, he would not let such stupidity ruin the great unveiling. Tyson stopped at the nearest lunch wagon on the way in, buying a couple dozen burritos. Though his meager paycheck barely covered the regular offerings he exchanged to pacify the hordes at work, he’d soon have no concern for money. The arrival of the gods would wash such paltry mundanity away. Tyson had no need for a mortgage or car payment anymore. The banks and lending companies would be dust and nothing more than a faded memory amidst the minds of an enslaved humanity. The new currency would be flesh. Pulling into the downtown parking garage that served the workers of Carter Construction, Tyson waved to the security guard who sat stuffed within his tiny booth. The man didn’t even look up. It was a daily ritual that brought a smile to Tyson’s face. It made his other work so much easier. Tyson left his car behind and darted across the busy street that separated the parking area from the construction site. Once across, and safely on the sidewalk, he glanced at the marvel of engineering that loomed above him. The Kellerton Tower stretched into the sky, blotting out the morning sun and setting Tyson’s head to spinning as he tried to pick out its apex. Taller than even the Burj Khalifa skyscraper in Dubai, the pride of Carter Construction rose up nearly three thousand feet. Tyson still imagined he could touch the clouds from the observation deck even though he’d been up there hundreds of times and disproved his wild theory. Still, the thought lingered. “Hey, Ty. Good morning.” He turned to see Gerald Manning, the site coordinator lumbering toward him only seconds after Tyson had slipped through the exterior gate. He was the boss, as well as a faithful witness to Tyson’s arrival ever since he started bringing breakfast. Close to three hundred pounds of wheezing roundness on stumps of legs, Manning waved as he made his way across the lot. Tyson held out the man’s favorite burritos as if luring in a dog with a bone. Manning quickly collected the wrapped bundles in a meaty hand as though fearful they might be snatched away. “Thanks, Ty.” His eyes went from the food to Tyson’s face and lingered. “Man, you feeling okay?” “Sure, I’m good.” “Yeah? You look like hell. When’s the last time you slept?” Tyson reached up and attempted to smooth the bags from beneath his eyes. “Damn insomnia. I got a little last night. I’m okay.” Tyson pointed to the burritos. “You better eat those before they get cold.” Manning glanced back down at the food in his hand and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Be careful up there, you hear? Jackson and his crew installed some temporary windows on the observation deck to keep that cold ass wind out of the building, but they aren’t up to code.” Tyson smiled as the boss wandered off to the soundtrack of crinkling tinfoil. Tyson wasn’t worried about the deck. Not yet, at least. There were still several more locations he had to prepare before he started on the pinnacle. He hurried and distributed the rest of the food to the guys and went about his routine. The day dragged as he thought about what the darkness had said: It’s time. There’d be no sleep for Tyson tonight. ~ Tyson sat low in his car and nursed an energy drink as he watched the night creep all around him. He fought the shroud of sleep that threatened to envelop him. Only his fear of the darkness and what waited beyond kept him from nodding off. He would not fail. Shadows danced in the flickering lights of the closing bars on the strip, but the darkness was closing in despite the fluorescent defiance. After three a.m., the bars were mostly empty and the strip joints were winding down, spilling their inebriated clients into the streets. That was what Tyson had been waiting on. Free from their stage and pole, and often disappointed by their meager haul, some of the women looked for a way to supplement their income. The first wave of dancers came out huddled together, the bulky mass of the club’s bouncers escorting them to their cars. The ones Tyson was looking for would slink out later. Despite taking their clothes off for a living and giving hand jobs in the backroom for a little extra cash, there was no respect—even among whores—for those that walk the streets. None of that mattered to Tyson. He didn’t care if the women were sluts or saints, because they only cared about flesh. There was no moral failing in their eyes. As he watched the doors of the nearby club, Tyson spied what he was looking for. A little on the thick side, her ample ass packed into a miniskirt that was clearly made for smaller hips, a wild-haired woman emerged from the club. She lingered in the doorway for a few moments, her head on a swivel, before finally darting across the parking lot as fast as she could manage in her high heels. Tyson rolled his window down and listened to the clack of her shoes as she hurried down the sidewalk. He chugged the last of his drink and slid the empty can under the seat. Tyson glanced around the area, looking for the police, as the woman drew closer. The last thing he wanted was to explain what he was doing hunkering down in his car in the middle of the night. He looked into the rearview and saw the darkness well up inside its reflection, but there was nothing else there. Once he was certain no one was watching, he flashed his headlights to get her attention. She started, not seeing him inside the car until right then. Tyson waved a wad of cash at her to pacify her, his arm out the window. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said as the lure drew her in, doing his best to keep his voice calm. “I was just hoping for some company.” The woman took a moment to look around before clacking up to the window. There was a shimmer of sweat on her brow and glistening at her cleavage, which showed in the wake of her low-cut blouse. She leaned down and looked inside the car, checking the backseat before meeting Tyson’s eyes. He smiled and waved the money again. The woman was pale-skinned with curly dark hair, which was matted and tangled and hung greasy across her shoulders. One eye was an emerald green but the other was brown. Tyson grinned at her missing contact, but he felt a stirring in his jeans, nevertheless. The contrast in color made her different, exotic. “What ya lookin’ for?” she asked, impatience in her smoker’s voice. “Nothing fancy…a blow job, maybe; some doggy.” “How do I know you’re not a cop?” Tyson unzipped his pants and fished out his cock. He spit in his hand and started to masturbate his growing erection, keeping his eyes on the woman. “Would a cop jack off just to nail a dancer sidelining?” She laughed and yanked the passenger door open, slipping into the seat. “No, I guess not. You got a place?” Tyson nodded, and then handed her the cash. It was the last of his paycheck, but what did he care? “I sure do.” He glanced over at her, trying to be casual. “You got a name?” “Vanity,” she answered as she closed the door and stuffed the bills into her bra. He chuckled and pulled off, not bothering to point out the contradiction of her name. Like the cash, it didn’t matter. “You afraid of heights?” Vanity’s eyes narrowed and she looked over at him. “No, not really. Why?” “Because I’ve rented us the best view in the whole town.” ~ Tyson pulled his car into the employee’s parking across from Kellerton Tower and grinned to see the security guard away from his post. If history held true, he wouldn’t be back until six a.m., just before the bosses started rolling in. The car hidden in the shadows, Vanity reached across the seat, her fingers dancing spiderlike across Tyson’s crotch. He waggled a finger and pushed her hand away. “Not here.” Tyson stepped out of the car. She followed and came around the back of the car where he stood before the open trunk. She took a step back as he pulled a small cooler and a patchwork blanket out of the back. “You eaten yet?” He held up the cooler. “It’s nothing fancy: sandwiches and couple of beers.” Tyson shut the trunk. A quiet hiss sounded. “What was that?” Vanity glanced around the parking garage. Tyson slipped his hand into hers and led her toward the exit. “Stupid spring on the trunk is broken. Don’t worry, we aren’t staying in here.” Vanity remained silent as Tyson led her out of the garage and across the street to the tower. She stared up at the building, illuminated by work lights even in the dark of night. At the gate, he handed her the small cooler and fished out his keys and unlocked the gate. Once inside, he locked it again and took the cooler back, leading Vanity into the building. “It’ll take climbing a few flights of stairs, but I promise you, the view is worth every step.” Transfixed by the glass and steel tower, Vanity let him lead her inside. Their footsteps echoed inside the grand foyer, her heels clicking in rapid succession as the sound fluttered back to them. Tyson just grinned and pulled her up the stairs. On the thirteenth floor, he opened the stairwell door and waved Vanity onto the floor. Her breath came out heavy as she walked inside, her heels long since abandoned and slung over Tyson’s arm. “I’m already worn out,” she said, her hand on her chest. “You okay with a quickie?” Tyson nodded and motioned her on. “We’re almost there. Come on.” Vanity hung close as he wound his way through the clutter of building materials and came to a stop beside the massive glass walls that made up the outside of the building. She gasped as she crept toward them, the city sprawling out beneath them. “Don’t worry, they’re safe,” he told her, rapping his knuckles on the glass. She sidled up to the wall and braved a peek downward, jumping back with a giggle. “That’s scary.” After a moment, she found her courage again and drew up close to touch the window. Her finger traced her face in the glass, her reflection standing out clear in the wake of the external lights. Tyson only wished he could see his own. The darkness devoured his reflection that hovered behind hers, leaving nothing but an inky blackness in the vague shape of his body. Now! “Hey, Vanity, do you mind spreading the blanket out while I get the food and drinks?” She giggled again and stepped away from the window. “Sure.” Taking the thick blanket from his arms, she unfolded it and shook it so she could lay it flat. Tyson set the cooler down and pulled it open. There were no sandwiches inside, or beer, even. There was only an icepick, a sharp butcher’s knife, and a glass jar that squirmed with blackness. He pulled out the icepick and stepped up behind Vanity as she knelt to smooth the blanket. His erection pressed against her ass, and she moaned with what Tyson knew was nothing more than a trained instinct. He didn’t care; he had his own instincts. He pressed hard into her, reveling in her warmth, and then brought the icepick around. With practiced ease, the point pierced her temple and sunk until the handle struck home. Vanity twitched and shuddered and Tyson rode her shuddering corpse to the ground. She crumpled flat without a sound, only drops of her blood leaking out past the handle of the pick. Finish it. He sighed at the darkness’ demands, wanting to take his time, but he knew better than to argue. Tyson slid the cooler to him, plucking the knife from within. He set it beside Vanity and rolled her over. Her body flopped heavily and a crimson puddle began to form beneath her head. She stared at him, lifeless, her mismatched eyes eerie with the blood pooling in their depths. Before the darkness shrieked at him again, Tyson picked up the knife and went to work. He cut away Vanity’s blouse and bra, pulling it open to get his first view of her breasts. They were large and heavy. Natural, they hung toward her ribs. He then removed her skirt. A slip of the blade and it was off. The easy part was done. He looked Vanity over for a moment to remember what she looked like, locking the memory away inside. He would need it soon. Having hesitated too long already, Tyson raised the butcher’s knife and sunk its point deep into Vanity’s abdomen, just above the pelvis with the edge facing away. It went in with a meaty thunk. Blood welled up in the wound, but without a heartbeat to force it out, it simply pooled warm against his fingers. He rested a moment, gathering his strength for what was to come, before carrying on with his work. Tyson forced the blade forward, hacking and sawing as he cut along the line of her abdomen until the knife thudded against her sternum. His stomach roiled at the pungent waft from her open belly. He would never get used to that smell. His eyes watered as he set the blade aside and did his best to ignore the stench that filled his nose and mouth. He dug his fingers into the incision and peeled the cavity of her torso open, the severed muscles ripping apart in long strands of stringy tendrils. Once he was done, he reached once more into the cooler and pulled out the glass jar. Its contents writhed inside, angry hisses sounding at the sudden movement. Tyson shook the jar and twisted the lid off, upending the darkness inside into the fresh wound of Vanity’s stomach. The roaches spilled inside, splashing into the red wetness. They thrashed in the cloying blood as he watched a million legs scramble for purchase. He set the jar aside and undid his belt, pulling his pants down to his knees. The darkness could only be soothed so long by the carnage laid out across the blanket. Tyson knew he must finish the deed if there was any hope of the gods returning. He swore to see it through. Tyson drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused on the image of Vanity as she had been before he took the knife to her. He fondled her large breasts and pictured her plump ass when he’d bumped against it. His erection responded almost immediately, and he sighed at its eagerness. It was becoming all too easy. He leaned forward and stuck his cock inside the open wound, the flesh eagerly accepting him into its warm slit. The roaches skittered in its path, their legs tickling as they scrambled within. He heard their hissed voices, muffled by the flesh and blood that encased them, and knew what came next. Pounding into Vanity’s makeshift vagina, the roaches began to spit and bite. Their pincers sunk into the tender flesh of his cock, and Tyson felt them ripped loose as he withdrew from the carcass only to drive inside once again. Over and over he baited the roaches, his penis throbbing under the assault of pincer bites and the strangely erotic feeling of the skittering legs that tickled him near to orgasm. “Sacrifice,” he heard the darkness whisper as he fucked on. The gods feed upon blood and darkness, but it is passion that brings the two together. Without passion, all his work would be for naught. The gods would sleep their eternal slumber and never know what Tyson had done to rouse them. He would not fail. As the roaches squirmed against his erection, Tyson imagined the moment when he would bring about the end of this world and usher in the coming of a new age. He would sit inside the observation deck and greet the gods as they tore open the walls of existence and came into the world. The darkness would be there beside him, the gift of its shadows his reward. Tyson would be a god unto his own. That was all it took. Tyson spilled his seed into the wound with a muffled grunt. His vision blurred and he felt lightheaded, but he pounded away until the tingling in his limbs slowly subsided. When at last he found his strength, he pulled his shriveling cock from Vanity’s jagged hole. He yanked his pants up, swatting at the roaches that still clung to him, and gingerly stuffed his swollen and raw member inside. He took a moment to catch his breath before centering Vanity on the blanket and recovering the icepick. Unconcerned about blood leaking out, a rubber lining sewn inside the bedding, he folded the edges over her head and feet and rolled it around her. Once she was wrapped inside, Tyson went to the inner wall he’d prepared weeks before. He peeled its outer covering away to reveal an open space hidden beside one of the steel girders, which held the massive building in place. He went back to Vanity and hefted her body over his shoulder, collecting her clothes and shoes, as well, after retrieving his cash. Back at the wall, he stuffed her and her things inside, and then sealed the panel closed. He smiled as he appraised his handiwork. It looked as though it had never been touched. Tyson gathered his things and made his way down the stairs and back to the parking lot. The security guard was still gone from his post. Too tired to celebrate another successful offering to the gods, Tyson drove straight home. There were two more sigil points within the building that needed to be consecrated before the gods could be awakened, and he knew he would be expected to fill them soon. The darkness would not be patient this close to achieving its purpose. ~ Tyson barely remembered the drive, the last of his energy spent trying to keep his eyes open. He stumbled inside only to hear his alarm clock wailing. He silenced it and dragged himself into the shower. The water scalded his wounded flesh as he washed away the night’s work, but it did little to revive him. On his way out the door, he downed another energy drink and a handful of caffeine pills. They gnawed at his stomach as he made his morning rounds, but the pain kept him upright. Manning gave him the usual greeting, once again sidetracked by the presence of food, which Tyson had barely remembered to collect. He only wanted to get the day over with so he could snatch a few hours of sleep. The darkness would be waiting for him. Work was an incomprehensible blur, but Tyson struggled on. He’d checked on Vanity and was happy to see she was still hidden away. He was one step closer. With the adrenaline of swinging a hammer and the caffeine roiling in his guts, he made it through until the work day ended. When he ambled through the door at home, the darkness greeted him, just as he’d known it would. Come the darkness, you must hunt again. The gods await. Tyson looked to the mirror and nodded, too tired to defy the mandate. He laid down for a short nap, but the caffeine he’d downed just before leaving work conspired against him. Consciousness flickered and the blackness of sleep settled over, only for him to pop awake with a start, time and time again. He lay in his hazy stupor for hours, alternating between snores and staring at the ceiling. Tyson rubbed at his temples. His head throbbed, and his eyes seemed to swirl inside their sockets. He knew if he stayed in bed any longer, he would never wake up in time to find another victim. He didn’t want to risk angering the darkness, so he got up and went for a jog, circling the block over and over until his feet throbbed and his head felt as though it would spew his brains across the asphalt. Tyson returned home at twilight and showered, going over the last of what he needed to do. At last, night settled in. Once again he sat outside a strip club, this one across town from the one where he’d picked up Vanity. He drank a double-shot espresso, holding it with both hands to keep it from spilling as he looked out over the steam. It took longer for a lone girl to come creeping out of the club than it had the night before. Tyson nearly cried at seeing her. He inched the car forward, desperate to be done. Flutters of excitement mingled mutely under the weight of exhaustion. He called to the woman, waving the money he’d used to draw Vanity in. Thin, the dancer’s arms bearing the scabs of her habits, she didn’t hesitate or ask questions. She was in the car seconds after he waved the money. Tyson tossed the cash in her lap and had to fight her off before he’d even gotten the car out of park. She was dying to fix. She was fixing to die, Tyson thought. He chuckled at his joke, and the stripper glanced over at him. He forced a pleasant smile and explained away the oddness of his random laugh. Things had come too far for him to make her suspicious. Tyson went into his spiel and offered her food and great view, and even stopped to hook her up with a fix on the way. She shot up on the drive, and after that, it didn’t matter what Tyson said. She lolled in the passenger seat all the way to the parking garage. His own head swimming, Tyson struggled to carry the replacement blanket, his cooler, and the giggling and stumbling dancer up the stairs of the tower. He regretted his long jog, right then. His calves burned at every step. At the nineteenth floor, he dropped his burdens and struggled to spread the blanket out. Unlike Vanity, the woman whose name he hadn’t even bothered to ask wasn’t remotely interested in the view; at least not the one outside of her drugged-up skull. Tyson dumped her onto the blanket, and she just laughed and stared off at the ceiling. He peeled her shirt away and looked down at her, trying to commit her appearance to memory, though she was hardly a beauty. She chuckled on and on like an asthmatic hyena, making it even harder for Tyson to become aroused. The icepick shaking in his trembling hand, he silenced her laughter. ~ Tyson woke in his car. The sun glittered off the windshield as he stared without comprehension. He blinked away the brightness and looked around to get his bearings. The outside of his house hovered in his blurry view, and he realized he was parked in his driveway. A sigh slipped loose, but his breath caught in his lungs at the sudden realization it was morning. His pulse pounded in his veins as he dug in his pockets for his keys only to spy them still in the ignition. He started the car with a shaking hand and growled as he waited for the radio to show the time. It was almost seven a.m. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he snatched the key out of the ignition and jumped out of the car. Racing around to the trunk, he popped it open only to find it empty. The cooler was gone. Tyson ignored the thunder in his skull as he climbed back into the car. He threw it in gear and screeched out of the driveway as the cold reality of what he’d done last night came back to him. The last thing he remembered was killing the stripper. There was nothing after that. He couldn’t even recall coming home. Where was the cooler? The body? In a panic, Tyson struggled to keep from speeding. He couldn’t afford to be pulled over now, not with a possible crime scene waiting to be found. His co-workers would straggle in around seven-thirty, but Manning would already be there. The chances were good no one had trudged all the way to the nineteenth floor this early, but he couldn’t be sure. Without the customary burritos to keep everyone lounging downstairs, Tyson had no idea if they had already started their day’s labor. At the garage, Tyson whipped in only to find the security guard missing from the booth. He should be there. A cold chill settled over him, but despite the guard being gone, Tyson hadn’t seen any flashing lights or police cruisers parked outside the site. Everything looked normal. Hoping he’d only left the cooler lying somewhere, but had hidden the body, he got out of the car and made his way to the street. A few cars honked at him as he darted across, but he didn’t hear any sirens or voices calling out to arrest him. Tyson slipped through the gate and sidled around the building to avoid running into Manning. He didn’t want to have to explain the lack of breakfast or his rumpled look. As he passed through the mirrored hall that led to the back stairwell, he saw the darkness following along. Its whirling presence agitated. Tyson looked away and darted from the hall. He couldn’t face it now. Up the stairs he ran, grateful not to encounter any of his co-workers. There was still a chance. He burst from the stairwell, slamming the door into the wall as he did. Its sound echoed through the halls like a gunshot. His heart thudded loudly in his ears and amplified the thump of his footsteps as he ran. As he neared the room where he’d killed the stripper, he heard a muttered voice. He immediately recognized it as Manning’s. Tyson froze. He was only a few feet from the door. Against his better judgment, he crept forward at the sound of another voice. This one was raised to panicked pitch. Tyson risked a glance inside and saw Manning standing near the windows, the security guard beside him. The guard ran his hands through his thinning hair and paced in small circles. Manning only stared at the floor. At their feet was the stripper. The icepick was visible sticking out the side of the woman’s head. The cooler lay toppled over on the ground beside her body, its contents spilled across the blanket. Still closed, the glass jar rocked with the movement of the roaches inside. The knife lay beside it. Tyson’s throat welled into his throat, a sudden faintness washing over him. Just as he thought to run, he heard the crackled squawk of the guard’s radio. “The police are on their way up,” the voice on the other end reported. Tyson didn’t wait to hear anything else. He spun around and ran for the stairs. As he went through the door, he started down only to pause after a few steps. A murder in the building, the police would cordon off the tower. They’d probably already done it. Down was the quickest way into custody. He glanced at the stairwell and realized up was the only way to go. The observation deck. Tyson heard the darkness speak as he thought the same. It would take the police all day to search the building. He could wait on the deck until he could figure out a way to avoid the authorities. With no stash holes above the nineteenth floor, he could think of no place better, his head churning with his panic. A door slamming below set his feet in motion. He scrambled up the stairs. Tyson stumbled onto the observation deck, gasping for breath. He could go no further. The click of the door behind him was like the closing of a cell door. Only prison waited on the floors below. Tyson growled. He hadn’t come this far only to fail. He went to the window and set his hand on the cold glass. The darkness met his eyes. You have failed. “I know, I know,” Tyson shouted as he tried to look beyond the darkness. It was all he could see. He’d come so close. Eleven bodies lay entombed in the walls of Kellerton Tower, and another had been killed within its walls. He hadn’t finished the ritual, but the blood had been spilled. It had to be enough. “Only one more; one more.” He pressed his cheek against the glass, “Please, help me. I’ve done all you’ve asked. Give me one more chance to finish.” The window trembled against his face. Tyson pulled back and stared once more into the darkness. Heat wafted off the glass and dried the tears he hadn’t known he’d shed. “I’ve come so close…please, do not forsake me.” Silence was his answer. Tyson felt the weight of the air in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. There was nothing left. He staggered from the window and reached for the door, heedless of where he might go. A whispered voice stayed his hand. You have failed them, but the gods might yet offer you mercy. Tyson spun about. “Tell me what I need to do.” He raced to stare at the darkness roiling in the window. “Tell me!” Spittle dotted the glass. You need only to surrender. Come unto me and you may yet serve the gods. “Yes, yes…I am their servant, now and forever.” Then come to me before the mortals steal you away. Be one with us. Tyson stared at his reflection, the swirling blackness that obscured his features, and smiled. Salvation lay before him. He would see the gods yet. They waited for him, their loyal servant. Without hesitation, he threw himself into the darkness. There was a loud crack, and Tyson felt its sharp embrace. The bright light of day burned his eyes as the wind lapped at him, the brilliant shimmer of the building hurtling past. The world screamed in his ears. Tyson turned his gaze to the sky as he fell. A storm cloud gathered at the summit, its darkness swallowing the spire atop the tower. Tyson smiled. They’d come at last. About the Author Raised on a diet of Heavy Metal and bad intentions, Tim Marquitz has always been interested in writing, but it wasn't until about 1995 the urge became a compulsion. However, it would be many years later before the ability matched the interest. Fortunately, the two have reconciled...mostly. Writing a mix of the dark perverse, the horrific, and the tragic, tinged with sarcasm and biting humor, he looks to leave a gaping wound in the minds of his readers like his inspirations: Clive Barker, Jim Butcher, and Stephen King. A former grave digger, bouncer, and dedicated metalhead, Tim is a huge fan of Mixed Martial Arts, and fighting in general.  He lives in Texas with his beautiful wife and daughter. http://www.tmarquitz.com