Guardian

GUARDIAN

Phil had never used a pipe wrench on anything before in his life, but he had a problem that couldn't be fixed any other way. An after-work trip to the home improvement store and a twenty-dollar investment might be all that it took this time. He'd tried almost everything else, so he had no choice: it was already out of control.

Phil swallowed and started cautiously toward the bedroom of his modest apartment, his arm aching from the tightness of his grip around the wrench handle. He became aware of how new all of this was to him, how he felt like someone would probably feel putting a sick animal to sleep. But why the pity? Why the tinge of guilt? After all, this was not a living thing he was dealing with, and certainly not something to which he had any emotional attachment. It had already killed twice, and he couldn't allow it another opportunity.

He could hear it grunting from inside the closet, and the grunts grew louder and more frightened the closer he came. He slid the closet door open to find the creature huddled and shaking in the corner, pining with agitated shreiks. Phil stood back and took a breath, sparing his nose from the powerful stench of rotting bacon. He considered the possibility of it refusing to take any more abuse and attacking him, but that was a chance he would have to take. "Step out," he ordered, squatting down and resting the cast iron weapon on his shoulder. It humbly complied, shuffling its clawed feet across the short-pile carpet with its back turned towards him, hunched in shame. Phil clenched his teeth, waiting for it to raise its head. It turned its pus-lined eyes at him.

The first blow of the wrench struck with enough force to put a dent in its skull. It squealed like a wounded pig. The second blow sent semen-colored fluid flying into the air, staining his clothes. He delivered nine more swings until it stopped making noise, then let the wrench fall to the floor, splashing in a puddle of the warm, gooey substance that spilled from the creature's open cranium. That's it, he thought. It's over, it's gone. He just sat there staring at the bludgeoned beast, his aching head buried in his hands. He wanted to be sure this time.

It only took seconds for the crater in its head to repair itself, and the open gash to seal itself shut like a fissure in reverse. The horrible thing quivered back to life, then cowered with a feeble growl that seemed to say I'm sorry, Master. Please don't hurt me again. Phil became overwhelmed with a mixture of horror and disappointment. Stabbing it, drowning it, now bashing its ugly head in...all failures. He sobbed. It would take a miracle to destroy it.

It took a miracle, or more specifically, a spell, to create it...



...It wasn't one of your legendary, roof-raising, call-the-National-Guard house parties, but then it's rare that they get to that level in a one-bedroom apartment. Still it wasn't bad--a low-key get-together with some co-workers and peripheral friends. Phil normally didn't like a whole lot of people hanging out at his place, but this was his friend's twenty-fifth birthday and his neighbor works late, so it was all worthwhile. Besides, this would be his first opportunity to hook up with Desiree, his workday crush.

It was getting near midnight when he was first introduced to that weird, raven-haired girl who's name now escapes him, a close friend of a co-worker. She was cute, but the piercings in her lips and nose made it clear she was not his type. She was also carrying a briefcase-sized black box in her hand which she explained was her Ouija board, but it didn't look like the kind you'd find at a toy store. "Everytime I walk into an strange house, I try to find the spirits who live there," she said.

Phil downed the last sip of his beer with feigned interest. "No shit. You see dead people?"
He could tell she wasn't thrilled to hear that tired movie line again.

"Kinda," she replied. "I guess you could say I'm a divining rod for the undead."

"And they're walking around all over the place?"

"Yeah, especially houses." Her pallid face seemed to perk up with the discussion of her hobby. "It's like, every house has spirits. Good ones, evil ones, placid ones. They all need a place to live."

"Uh-huh." He snuck a peak at her ample cleavage. "Well, I don't remember hearing any footsteps or rattling windows or anything like that since I've lived here."

"Well, a spirit can manifest itself in all kinds of ways. Most of the time they're invisible, but I've been to places where they've taken the form of a mist, or a big ball of light. I was in an old hotel room in Sedona that had a gnome in it!"

"What?" The hip-hop music was a little loud in the place, but Phil was pretty sure she said "gnome." Visions of little statues of bearded Irishmen flooded his head.

"A gnome!" she reiterated. "Can you believe that? It was, like, a little man that wasn't really alive, but existed in a three-dimensional way. You know what I mean?"

No, not really, he responded in his head. "So you really think my place is haunted?"

"Not necessarily haunted. Just...occupied." She smiled at the look of doubt that cast over Phil's face. She was used to that. "I can probably find him for you," she proposed.

Phil chuckled. "Look, I'm not turning the lights out and getting everybody in a circle..."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," she said, touching his arm. "Just show me where the bedroom is and I can do it myself."

"Show you where the bedroom is?" The idea aroused him, but he was having none of this wacko.

She laughed. "Whoa! That sounded kinda forward, didn't it? Actually, spirits are more likely to hang out in the bedroom than any other part of the house."

Made sense to Phil. There wasn't much to his apartment other than a bedroom, a bathroom, a couple of closets and the wider space where he watched TV on an old, comfortable couch. The bedroom was where he spent most of his time as well. He obliged and led her down the hallway to the room, clearing out a couple of guests who really were just sitting on the bed, talking. "How long is this gonna take?" he asked her.

"Not too long," she replied as she opened the box. "Thirty, forty-five minutes at the most." The board she pulled out was as black as the case that contained it. The numbers zero through nine, the alphabet, and the words "YES", "NO" and "GOODBYE" were printed in red on its surface, much like the old party game Phil remembered. Unlike the game, there were strange symbols on the board as well, one of which he recognized as a pentagram, another he might have seen on one of his dad's old Led Zeppelin albums.

"When you find this guy, let me know so I can make him sign the lease," he quipped as he closed the door. He grabbed another Fat Tire from the fridge and mingled for awhile.

About a half-hour later he heard a noise that sounded like an angry animal coming from the ceiling, a disquieting gurgling that startled him even in his mildly inebriated state. Just then, Ouija Girl bolted out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her and clutching the board to her chest with a frightened look in her eye and a slight heaviness in her breath. She quickly stepped back into the party in the living room. She found Phil in the kitchen carrying on a meaningful conversation with Desiree and tapped his shoulder. The spooked look on her face escaped him.

"Oh, hi," he said, politely bothered by the interruption. "So did you find anything? Desiree, this is...I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

"I need a pen!" she urged. Another burst of gurgling from above.

"Anita?"

"No! I need a pen! Please get me a pen!"

Desiree, a curvy, attractive, yet modest and bookish brunette, set her diet cola down on the counter. "Are you alright?" she asked the Gothic girl. Phil, finally sensing her agitation, started shuffling through the junk drawer, moving address books, batteries and small hand tools aside for a Sharpie and a small pad of Post-It paper. "What happened in there?" he said as she snatched the writing implement and paper from his hand. The gurgling got so loud the guests were beginning to notice, but most reacted with either laughter or puzzled curiosity.

Ouija Girl wrote some letters on the yellow pad, peeled off the top layer and handed it to Phil. "That's its name," she warned. "Whatever you do, don't say its name out loud!"

Phil stared the sticky note hanging from his finger, and the strange word written on it:

IXLAGOR

Before he could ask her what the hell it meant, she had taken her friend by the arm, and they were both heading out the door with quick, perfunctory goodbyes. Phil wasn't sure what to think. He knew there were certainly no ghosts or goblins roaming around his apartment, and the woman was probably just some nutjob with a thing for the supernatural. He also knew when people were scared, and the expression on her face spoke volumes. The burning question wasn't what did she see, if she saw anything, but rather, when the party's over and he finally hits the sack, would he see it too? He paused. The gurgling sound was softer this time.

Desiree asked him a question he didn't quite hear, and it brought him back to reality. He stuck the Post-It note on the refrigerator...


...and it remains there. The ugly word. The word he foolishly recited out loud one day, just to find out how it was pronounced. Because he was so sure of himself. Because he didn't believe in all that bullshit. Because he didn't know or care.

And the word gave birth to the thing in his closet, a thing that apparently cannot be killed, or even sent away. It was neither animal nor man, but more resembled the latter. A small man, actually; not one who's growth impaired, but closer to a muscular three-year old boy. Its skin was the color and texture of beef jerky, scarred by hundreds of years of fire. Onyx-colored eyes bulged out of its oversized head, which held an obscene number of pirahna-like teeth in a gaping mouth that looked as if it was sliced to the earlobes by a serial killer with a fetish for smiles. And it wasn't there to haunt him or murder him or possess his soul.

It was there to serve him. Its sole purpose was to protect him and his dwelling from all intruders. And whether Phil needed its services or not, it would fulfill its purpose by attacking and eating anyone on the premises who wasn't Phil. Not to quench a hunger (it had no use for food), but merely to satisfy the requirements of its punitive destiny.

Which has led to what is now his third failed attempt to eradicate the soulless creature. Its problem was its total lack of discrimination, it's inability to distinguish between an invader and a guest. It's already killed a handyman as well as a policeman who came to investigate the scene of his death, which made Phil into a suspect for a while despite the fact that both bodies were found partially eaten. It came way too close to an animal control officer who tried to capture it and bit some of his fingers off. "This is no dog, cat or ape," he later said in his official statement, "and though it may resemble a human being, my experience with it convinces me that this is not human at all. In fact, this may be something beyond any beast that exists in nature." Phil was relieved and somewhat surprised that his name would be cleared thanks to that testimony (along with a solid alibi), but found little comfort. He was living with a killing machine and had no idea how to stop it. What if his mother came by? What if he needed help from paramedics? What if Desiree wanted to stop in for a drink and a make-out? He was paralyzed by the thought of what could happen to them, all ripped flesh, exposed bones and drained blood like those two poor stiffs who never saw it coming.

He sat with his back to the wall and his head in his hands, his dark brown hair squeezed between his fingers like clumps of clay. The light of the day was slowly fading from the room as if distancing itself from his personal anguish. The monster simply crouched in the doorway of the closet, nervously clenching and unclenching its fists, digging its claws into the decayed flesh of its palms. Phil turned and stared at it with contempt. The rage was too much for him to contain.

"You listen to me, you little shit!" he screamed at it, waving the wrench near its head. "You are gonna stay in this closet, and when I mean 'stay', I mean sit there...shut up...don't move a fucking muscle, until I call your name again! You understand me? Not one foot outside this space until I call you! Got it?"

It emitted a sound that was a cross between a whimper and a belch. He smacked it across the cheek anyway, and it yelped and scampered back into the corner of the closet. "Now do as you're told!"

He relaxed. It felt good to yell at it. Still, he knew ordering it around wasn't going to be enough. He hated it. He wanted it gone. But twice he tried to make it so, by stuffing it in a box and dumping it in the arroyo during a couple of potent monsoon storms. Both times it came back, not drowned and not offended, as if nothing had happened. The damned thing was like a stray puppy with a mean streak. It seemed like only an exorcist could help him now. But then he thought about what he had just said to it, and the outstanding position he'd now put himself in. It was probably more afraid of him than he was of it. The last thing it was going to do was disobey him.

Perfect, he thought. It'll never hear its name again.



The new place was, as he put it, "tight." More spacious, cleaner, closer to the bars on Mill Avenue. The only thing he disliked about the two-story townhouse was that it was further north and east of where he worked, and he would have to adapt to rush-hour traffic. But it was in a much more friendly neighborhood than the low-rent meth-'burb near the airport he lived in before--and where, he hoped, he'd left that murderous gargoyle behind.

Moving into it was strenuous, but a lot easier than Phil imagined. Being a single guy, he didn't have a lot of stuff, and certainly nothing so big he couldn't move it himself (except, of course, the couch, which he left behind and paid whatever penalty was necessary to remove it). It's been nearly two years since the move. He remembered this because he was trying to recall the last time he felt uneasy about visitors ringing his doorbell, and he could only pinpoint the first week after moving in, and only because he wasn't sure if the thing was gone for good, or if it would follow his final command. But, knock on wood, he hasn't seen, heard, or smelled anything resembling the hideous beast in the twenty-one months of living there. As far as he was concerned, it was still cowering in that dark corner of the closet in the old apartment, waiting for him to call it out.

Tonight, however, was the real test--his girlfriend was coming over. After paying for all those movies he didn't want to see and restaurants too expensive for his tastes, he was finally reaping the rewards with the honor of calling Desiree his girlfriend. For most of the girls he's known, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble, but he really liked Desiree. She most closely fit the pattern of his ideal woman: a kind, unspoiled MaryAnn among a pack of glossy, high-maintenance Gingers, with a smile that reveals instead of masks, and a body that Michelangelo probably had some outstanding dreams about. Their feelings for each other were mutual, yet surprisingly the couple had yet to, in the bachelor lexicon, "close the deal." He wasn't sure how long he would have to wait, but he knew she was worth waiting for. And who knows? Maybe tonight would be the night she finally comes around.

It was 8:05. He was just lighting the second candle on his coffee table when the knock came on his door. He smiled as he walked to it, thinking about how much nicer it was going to be with Des. No games, no lying...just geniune passion without pretense, not just on his terms, but to the benefit of both. Phil let her in, still captivated by her warmth and her almost angelic demeanor, completely unaware of the real reason why she was there.

After about 45 minutes of small talk, watching TV, sharing a couple of Zimas and cuddling on the couch, he finally decided it was time. They kissed in increments of deepness until Desiree put her hands up to his chest, a look of concern suddenly washing across her face. "Phil..." she started. She finally decided it was time.

He brushed her hair from her face. "What's wrong, Des?"

"What really happened? You know, that day...in your old place?"

His disposition sank. Internally, he knew he would probably have to answer for that dark day for the rest of his life, no matter how much he tries to disassociate himself from it. But knowing that makes it no less difficult, especially when it concerns someone he cared deeply about.

He sighed and gave her an honest answer. "I don't know what happened."

"Phil..." And this time the way she said his name made it unnecessary to augment it with I think you do know. You know something, and you need to tell me. It went unsaid.

"Oh my God. You don't think I had something to do with that, do you?"

"I don't know..." Inside, she was kicking herself for getting involved. She liked him too much to do this to him. "It's just that no one really knows what killed those guys. Was it an animal or...? What was it?"

He turned away from her and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. "It wasn't an animal." He thought he heard something walking on the stones outside, but he ignored it. "If I told you what it was," he said with a pensive smirk, "you'd probably think I was crazy. Or posessed."

A sick feeling welled up in her stomach. "I already know what I think. I love you, no matter what. Please...just tell me."

No woman other than his mother had said those words to him, and it almost felt the same, like he was in her arms right now, big and warm and wrapped up tight. He knew she was sincere, and he owed her his sincerity. The rustling sounded like footsteps now. It gave him pause.

"There was something evil living in my old apartment," he started, looking directly into her widening eyes. "A kind of demon..."

A loud knock on his front door shattered the stillness of the conversation, followed by the sound of a man yelling "OPEN THE DOOR!" from outside. It startled both of them. "Who the hell is that?" Phil said.

There was confusion on Desiree's face, but not for the reason he would assume. "I dunno," she replied dumbly.

The knocking came louder and the commands more direct. Phil really wasn't sure if he should open the door, but felt he had no choice. He got up from the living room and quickly walked to the door. "Who is it?"

"POLICE!" came the response with an air of authority, "OPEN THE DOOR, NOW!"

Phil couldn't see anybody through the peephole for the darkness. He was very unsure, but if this really was the authorities, he knew the best thing would be to surrender to them. He would have to tell his story in court, and Desiree would find out then. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he unlocked the door. A nine-millimeter handled by a black glove poked through the crack, and the door flew open, nearly yanking his arm out of its socket. Two men in dark blue hooded sweatshirts and baggy black shorts burst in. "GET ON THE GROUND!" one of them screamed. Still thinking it was the police, Phil did what he said.

Desiree couldn't believe what she was seeing. The investigators told her all they wanted was a confession, that they weren't going to make an arrest until later. But these guys didn't look like cops, their faces masked by sunglasses and hoods wrapped tightly around their heads. She saw one of them was carrying a large gym bag, and their voices sounded young, like high school seniors. Her heart dropped. She, too, complied as she was ordered to the ground. She kept perfectly silent.

It wasn't until it was too late that Phil realized the situation he was in, when one of the home invaders put the cold barrel of his handgun beside his ear. "Get up!" he hissed. "Don't say nothin', and don't look at me! You understand, dumbass?"

Dumbass. How appropriate, Phil thought.

He slowly got up and turned away from the hooded thief keeping his hands in the air, praying they would hold on to their sanity long enough to spare his and his girlfriend's life. Soon he and Des were both sitting across from each other in kitchen chairs, bound and gagged with duct tape. Phil felt thoroughly helpless. Desiree felt equally scared, for her life, and for being found out.

Number One with the bag started rummaging through the downstairs portion of the townhouse, stocking up with kitchen knives and anything that could fetch decent coin at a pawn shop. The other found an ATM card in Desiree's purse. "What's your pin number?" he barked, pointing his gun and yanking the duct tape from her mouth. Flinching from the pain, she nervously gave it to him. "0-9-9-3," she said.

"Got that, dog?" he called out to the one with the bag. "0-9-9-3 on this one!" He smoothed the tape back onto her mouth.

The bag man approached with an unseen menace on his face. "If you're lying," he said, "we'll be back!" He wrote the number on his forearm using the Sharpie he found in a kitchen drawer.

"We might be back anyway," remarked Number Two. "She's kinda cute!" He caressed her neck with the pistol as if it were a sex toy. Phil was enraged, but was in no position for any act of chivalry.

"You got a nice set, honey," said Number Two with the brazenness of Tony Montana in Scarface. He grabbed her t-shirt from the bottom and lifted it over her bra. She winced. "Whoo, now there's some titties, man!"

Number One stopped disconnecting the DVD player from the TV, turned to Number Two and sternly shook his head at him as if to say, Not now, stupid! Let's just get their shit and get outa here! He then noticed a white wire leading from her waist and stopping at a point just above her left breast where a piece of tape was attached. "Take her ipod," he said.

"What ipod?" Number Two searched her body for something resembling a Shuffle, but found nothing like one.

Phil was fighting the tightly-wrapped tape around his wrists, willing to pay any price to bury his fist in the face of that cretin pawing his girl. He glanced at her. She was crying. He never noticed the microphone strapped to her chest, and it probably wouldn't have mattered if he did. They could steal the place bare if they wanted to. All he wanted was a way to get out of the situation with her dignity intact.

And that's when a cold shiver struck him from his spine outward, a wave of dread that flushed with an odd combination of hope and terror.

There was a way out.

"Quit squirming, dumbass!" Number One brandished his silver piece, pointing it at his temple. "What about you? What's your pin number?"

Risky. Terribly risky. But just maybe...

"Talk to me!" He ripped the tape, and some unshaven facial hairs, from his mouth. Phil struggled to remember...

"You better give it up, bitch, or your girl dies!" Number One then pointed the gun at her chest, with Number Two responding by aiming his at the back of her head. Ish...Ish...shit, what was it?

"Pin number! Now!!!" he screamed in his ear.

Phil looked again at Desiree's tear-stained face. He hoped he could stop it in time.

"You got five fucking seconds! Five!"

It suddenly came to him in a whisper. "Ixlagor..."

"Four!"

"Ixlagor! Ixlagor! IXLAGOOOOR!!!"

"Shut up!" Number One pointed his gun back at him. "What the hell are you sayin'?"

Phil took a breath. He hoped it would work. He hoped it wouldn't work. "5-5-2-9."

"What?!"

"5-5-2-9."

Phil could feel the brow furrowing underneath Number One's hood. "You better not be lyin' to me!"

"I'm not lying," Phil said, exasperated. "It's 5-5-2-9."

Number One wrote the second number down on his forearm, then searched him for his wallet. "Where is it?" he demanded.

"Upstairs. In the top drawer of the nightstand. Next to the closet."

Number One wrapped the duct tape back over his mouth and kicked over his chair for emphasis, sending Phil hard to the floor on his shoulder. He then motioned to Number Two. "You keep an eye on 'em. I'll get it." His jet black hiking boots pounded the stairs on the way to the bedroom.

Phil looked up from the dirty tile floor of the kitchen to his girlfriend. The other thief mercifully decided to leave her alone, but couldn't grant her the dignity of pulling her top back down. She was looking at him as if saying I'm sorry, her tear stains glistening like snail tracks on her face. He wasn't sure why she felt that way, but he forgave her, and hoped she could forgive him. He trembled inside, preparing for the most dire conclusion to this circumstance, wondering if it could possibly end any other way...

...and a low-pitched gurgling sound came from upstairs...

...and the smell of cold, rotting bacon...

His stomach swirled from the thought of what he had reconjured. His regret was immediate and thorough.

...then a loud, piercing animal shriek, accompanied by an almost comical human sound that was a cross between a scream and a gasp. Two bodies were tussling on the bedroom floor above.

Number Two was clearly agitated. "You got a dog up there, man?" he asked nervously, and started walking away to the stairwell with his gun drawn before he could receive an answer.

He stopped midway when he heard his partner's muted scream, then rushed up the remaining four steps. It was quiet again except for the dark murmuring, but not for long.

Two gunshots shook the room. Another scream, this time not so muted. A disquieting thump on the ceiling.

The twin explosions shook Phil into a stark realization--he realized he was the only one who could send it away. He wrestled manically with the binds around his wrists and ankles. Desiree sounded like she was trying to say something to him underneath her sealed lips, but he couldn't hear her.

But he could hear it. It was now at the foot of the stairs. Desiree screamed through her nose.

He twisted his head as if trying to throw the duct tape off his face. "GO AWAY!" he hummed, "STOP! LEAVE HER ALONE!" The beast couldn't understand him. It snarled at the sobbing intruder strapped to her chair.

Phil could only close his eyes and wish he was deaf. It would do its job. And continue to do its job. On the bad and the good. On the people he loved. On innocent strangers. And never lay a claw on him. A warm, pungent red syrup seeped underneath him. His only thoughts were of Desiree and who the hell was going to untie him.

Just then, a team of policemen rammed themselves in, a few minutes late, and their useless guns drawn.