Our Father

They found Martin Calme's with his stomach ripped open, somewhere in a park, behind Peekadale Boulevard. At the time, I didn't know how he died; I only remember noticing a notice in the local newspaper. Then they found three more people. I can't remember their names. All of them near the boulevard, died from similar wounds. The Peekadale Monster, does anyone else remember that story? They finally caught a homeless man who was hanging around that area. Based on circumstantial evidence, they sentenced him to death. Public pressure can be deadly. Of course, I was also relieved when they caught him, even though I instinctively felt the vagabond was his own victim. But people need deception that allows them to feel safe, even for a moment. In '86, I moved to Cedar Creek and got a job as an English teacher. It was a stable job, a steady source of income, and it didn't interfere with my ability to continue writing. I was no longer dependent on the whims of local publishers; what's more, some of my old stories appeared in respectable monthly magazines, one even appearing in "SfArchives" and "CrowsNest." Despite this, I still wrote for the local newspaper, though much less frequently. Cedar Creek was an inspiring place. I often walked all the way to the railroad bridge in Auberny. The bridge, long disused, was overgrown and neglected, spanning a narrow tributary of the St. Joseph River. Farther north, beyond Auberny, stretched cedar forests that climbed the milky peaks of DeKalb County. The area was most beautiful in autumn, the earth turning a rusty color, the leaves lying thickly like a copper carpet. During the winter, the first winter I spent in Cedar Creek, Ted Thompson died. I would never have learned of his death if not for the fact that his body was found near the bridge. Someone crushed the poor man's face and dragged the body all the way to Auberny, abandoning it on the shore. I found it. Since then, a wave of unexplained murders has swept through Cedar Creek. The victims often went unidentified; every disappearance in that small town immediately became news in the local community. That was when I wrote the most. Sometimes a bit sloppily, to finish the story as quickly as possible, so my work was rarely published. Short novels, horror stories, a plethora of monsters, almost pulps—I was often a little ashamed of my work. But despite everything, I was secretly proud of every letter I spat out.

Until I understood. Raksha had sharp fangs and long claws. I met him again later in Peekdale. Mawn was huge, not very bright, with hard, round fists. The kind that would have crushed Thompson's face. When I started to get the hang of it, I decided to stop writing. For the first few months, it was peaceful, then came an unbearable headache and dreams. At first, he begged, pleaded for me to write him, but I saw his eyes and knew he would kill like the others. Then he persuaded me, promised, and finally threatened to crawl out of my head like a cracked egg. Then, when the pain seemed unbearable, I wrote him. He lay curled up in the fetal position in the middle of the room, shaking, covered in a slimy goo. He was different from the dreams; he was terrifying. Only his eyes remained as evil as in my nightmares.

"Am I not..." from the black, macabrely deformed maw emerged a voice reminiscent of the darkest crypts, decaying bodies, pain. "Am I not a repulsive, perverse creature..."

I approached it and leaned my face over it. Back then, I could have killed it.

"Didn't I threaten you with death?" he whispered. "And I would have..."

I touched its face. It was cold, covered in thick mucus.

"And yet you gave birth to me, our father." He closed his eyes. Mawn appeared in the doorway, and Raksza emerged from the open wardrobe. Brezla slowly crawled out from under the bed, Krank wandered somewhere in the sewers, and the malicious Rinkin prowled the walls. And then I felt what I should always feel, with the fullness of my heart. After all, I loved all my children