The
Face of the Dark
By Jesse Giles Christiansen © 2015
NOTHING made me afraid. My evolving lust for scary
moments, movies, and stories, only led to a life of failed forays into fright.
Until … I met … him.
It was one of those nights forged of endless
inky rain and depthless dark alleyways and feeble lights convulsing in
uncertainty. My raven coffee drank the rain’s chill and shivered in dark
audience with the menacing thunder.
I looked away from my manuscript of
scribbles, my attention gently yanked, like so many times before, by the
ancient brick crane house across the cobblestones—the one with the antiquated shipping
pendulum that only swayed when my words flowed, which was almost never.
The broken windows, like missing teeth
in a freckled witch’s smile, offered their usual promises of swollen
nothingness.
“Well, ye won’t write squat today again,
me figures,” the tavern keeper croaked, his missing teeth making my mind feel
mushy. “Perhaps an ale, or a good scare, would be right more proper.”
“No. Thanks.”
“Suit yerself,” he said, returning to
his futile task of pushing dirt with a dirty wet cloth.
Some of the little gauzy windowpanes in
the old crane house held the dimmest glare of light. I watched them, transfixed.
“Who owns that building?”
“What?”
“That building over there. Who owns
it?”
“Oh. That. A ghost. Been abandoned as long as anyone knows.”
“Does the crane still work?”
The tavern keeper did not answer me,
only the clotting rain.
Turning back to the crane house, I
caught something out of the corner of my eye—a tall figure flashing by a lower
window, as if the dark inside had taken shape to keep watch. I kept my eyes
strained there as closing thunder snored now like a sleeping demon.
A few moments later, the figure passed
again.
“Uh … that house is not abandoned,” I
said to the tavern keeper.
“What? Well, maybe yer writer’s block
ain’t permanent after all. Ha.”
“But, I—”
“The dark, on a night like this, can do
that to a man. There ain’t no one in there. And that’s that. Not alive, anyway.”
Words began to flow. For the first time
in years.
Don’t
look again. Don’t look again.
My fingers pecked at my keyboard like
hungry black raindrops.
The door to the inn groaned as someone
walked in, sitting at a table next to me. “Whiskey,” he said, in a voice as
inky as the rain—but clear—as clear as the sky one wishes for after too many
nights of rain.
“A good night for that,” the tall stranger
said to me.
I said nothing.
“Oh, yes, I beg your pardon,” he went
on. “Must not keep the words waiting—especially after they have been away for
so long.”
“Do
I know you, sir?”
“Not until now. Not until you really looked. But, where are my manners? I
shall let you write. Go, go, write yourself out. Tavern keeper—another whiskey
please.”
I finally stopped, my face crinkling, and
looked up at the tall stranger who was inspecting the sullen tavern now, his
head turned away. He wore a long, dusky overcoat with its large collar turned
up and a floppy hat that seemed the same color as the night.
“I will. Thank you,” I said, returning
to my writing, shaking my head slowly, my eyes widening.
Now the words stopped. I sat and stared
at the ghostly screen, then at my scribbles again, as the tavern keeper brought
the tall stranger another whiskey.
Before long, I found myself watching the
crane house again.
“I am quite afraid you will no longer
find me in there.”
I turned, my blood curdling and my head
feeling like a gray balloon. “What?”
“Did I not speak clearly and accurately?”
the tall stranger asked, still turned away.
“I don’t know what kind of game this
is, but—”
The tall stranger laughed. “I can
assure you, Writer, no game is afoot.”
“How do you know about—”
“Must I repeat myself? Well, if I must,
I am here because, tonight, you saw
me.”
“I did not see anything.”
“My, my, you are slow for a writer.”
“Look, I’m not one of those vague writers, if that’s what you
think.”
“Oh, but vague writers are the best of
the lot! Take Truman Capote’s first novel, for example.”
“What?”
“Tavern keeper, another whiskey, if you
will be so kind.”
“Look, if you’re referring to me seeing
you in your … house … no harm was
meant.”
The tall stranger chuckled, still remaining
turned away from me. “I am afraid, Writer, that it is too late for all that.”
“Too
late?”
“Yes. You have already summoned me.”
“I did not summon anyone.”
“We can play these games all night, if
it pleases you.”
“What would please me is to return to
my writing.”
“Well, actually, that is why I am
here.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. I understand you have had a
problem—one which, now, upon your summoning, I am here to remedy.”
“I don’t need any remedy. I’ve had writer’s block before, I’ve worked through it
before, and I’ll work through it again.”
“But writer’s block is not really the
problem, is it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You have suffered from a certain … immunity … which has reduced you to the
equivalent of literary dishwater.”
“I’ll have you know, I have several
works published with—”
“Yes, yes, blah, blah, blah—I have
heard it all. Yet, Writer, you sit here on this dreary deluge of a night
staring into abandoned houses, drinking in their darkness, fervently praying
for something, anything, to set you apart from the others.”
“You don’t know anything about—”
“But tonight, Writer, that is all over.
Your wretched, lifelong affliction is about to come to an end.”
“What on earth are you talking about?
And why won’t you look at me?”
“Oh, yes, please forgive me. Is this
better?”
The tall stranger turned and looked at
me.
GIVEAWAY
THREE ecopies
of Jesse Giles Christiansen REVENGE OF THE SEA!!!!
To
win: go to the Official FB Event Page; find the post announcing today’s
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AUTHOR BIO
#1
bestselling author in sea adventures, Jesse Giles Christiansen is an American
author whose page-turning fiction weaves the real with the surreal, while also
speaking to the human condition. He was hailed by New York Times bestselling
author, William R. Forstchen, as "leaving readers so tantalized by the
story lines, they think the events actually happened—a demonstration of skill
surely to launch this author into the big leagues."
Jesse
was born in Miami, FL, playing on beaches as a boy, the sky bronzing him
forever and the sea turning his heart lyrical. After spending a summer in
Alaska before graduating from Florida State University with a degree in
literature and philosophy, he wrote his first novel, Journey into the Mystic.
He feels
he is haunted by Hemingway's ghost, not just by the poster in his writing
studio that stares at him, saying, "What else you got?" but also by
having a café called Hemingway's in the small European city where he writes.
Finally, Hemingway became his neighbor on Amazon when his novel, Pelican Bay,
outsold Old Man and the Sea.
He
currently lives in Lüneburg, Germany, with his wife and their precocious White
Siamese cat.
To learn
more about this author, visit him at www.jessegileschristiansen.com..
REVENGE
OF THE SEA
Beware
of what the tide may bring…
Ethan Hodges is deeply unsettled when thousands
of decomposed starfish inexplicably wash up along the shore of Pelican Bay. As
the ominous sea epidemic spreads to other marine life, he continues to see a
suspicious-looking man loitering on the beach.
To solve the mystery, Ethan seeks help from
longtime friend, Sheriff Dansby, and Reagan Langsley, a beautiful marine
biologist from Lighthouse Point. Spurred by curiosity and jealousy, Ethan’s
estranged wife, Morgan, joins them in the investigation.
When the elusive outsider is finally arrested,
an enigmatic relationship develops between Ethan and the man. With cautious
prodding, Ethan learns that the fate of the world appears to rest in the hands
of the tall stranger named…Mr. D.M.
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