The Thomas Carlisle Files

    I died here seven years ago in this very same season. In the autumn winds I was buried by the trees beneath the changing October leaves. Somehow my resting place was different than Mr. Morgan's, who slept beneath the cemetery's soil, no more than 10 feet from my own.

                 

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    This graveyard has been one of my frequented 'haunts' for more than a decade. When I was younger a friend had shown me this reclusive spot so well suited for deep cerebration. It was during one of our trips frequenting the small back road, which we had so righteously dubbed "Dope Rd.", that he pulled into a cemetery. Only after the series of familiar twisting turns and sloping hills did we find the overgrown clearing that lay just off the roads course. Visible but somehow hidden from the casual observer was a graveyard, which couldn't have been any larger than 40ft by 40ft.

    Although the clearing was small, I couldn't help but be terribly surprised that, with the hundreds of times traveling this road of choice, I had never noticed the little memorial to fallen families of an older age. Leaving the car behind we made the short venture onto the hallowed ground and I began to peruse the contents of the headstones. A bit shocked, I came to find that there were no gravestones any newer than around the turn of the 19th century. The youngest being a man named Richard Morgan: "Father, scholar, and adherent to the traditions of old. Never a better man was born and never a better man was buried in these parts." his tombstone read, "Born May 13th 1863, Passed on August 23rd 1913."

    A little presumptuous on his part. Well perhaps not his, but on whoever chose his resting places epitaph. All the same though he was clearly a respected man amongst his own fellows and smiling at my friend I said, "Now that's how I want to be remembered. Are you going to write something that nice on my tombstone buddy?"

    Snidely he retorted, "Thomas Carlisle, boggarted the blunt like it was a talking stick and never fired it up in a timely manner, we're glad he's out of the circle now. God if you know what's good for you won't let him in on rotation."

               

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    In the past I only visited this place with the intention of getting high with a friend or two. Times have changed so much since those days. For so long I had thought of them as "the good days" where the whole of my life revolved around getting stoned or perhaps piling out. Now life is different... better now I'd like to believe. There are no drugs for me any more, just life and my dreams.

    Every Fall I come to this place to pay homage to the ghost of the man I once was. He died here. There was no after life for him, only life. This was the place I buried my habit. Near the trees by the ravine leading, ever so steeply, down to the creek there is a small wooden cross. Engraved on the front, in a simple sort of scratch, it reads "T.C." followed by seven slashes (one to denote every year of my drug abuse) "bidding an unworthy man a fond farewell." And so it was here that I laid my demons to rest.

    So now it is the Fall of my sixth year of life and I sit beside Richard Morgan as I did in those days so long lost in ancient summers. I can't help but smile as I look up at the clear blue of the country sky. During these visits I enjoy contemplating the nature of my journey. Retracing the twists, turns, hills and valleys of my own road so similar to the one that winds its way to this little cemetery.

    Time always seems to pass in an odd manner while I lay against old Dicks' tombstone. Arriving at 4:00 p.m. every year there should only be three to perhaps four hours of light left in the sky, but somehow time seems to drag on for so much longer. Maybe it's just the stillness of the place, being surrounded by nothing but the tranquil sounds of the creek and a few woodland creatures, while I'm so used to the commotion of inner city sounds and tightly packed schedules.

                                                   

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    The warmth of the sun pressed against my face, giving birth to a smile. With an odd fondness (quite similar to old thoughts of the good times throughout an almost entirely abusive relationship) I began to reflect on my time in the quiet town with ideas of friendships that have long passed as the years have progressed. Curious thoughts of how we'd all come to spend so much time together simply because of such irrational habits bounded through my mind. And at last, a simple sort of somber sorrow crept in (again much like the realization of the chronic abuse and how few and far between those "good times" truly were) as I remembered how we had fallen away from each other when my time hidden amongst my habits had finally come to pass.

    I received no more phone calls from these supposed friends, unless it was in hopes of my knowing where to "pick up". Even those calls came less and less frequently as the old crew eventually realized that this wasn't a temporary endeavor for me. Sitting there against the old headstone, so comfortably, my mind drifted from those who had left my life to a poem I had read when I was much younger. It was by Robert Frost and I don't fully know why it came to surface in this time or place, but it is called "The Mountain".

The mountain held the town as in a  shadow.
I saw so much before I slept there once;
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed; I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring:
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.
And there I met a man who moved so slow.

                                                 

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    Something suddenly changed, it was subtle but there seemed to be an odd electricity gathering in the air. Looking around I noticed the leaves churning round and round reminding me of small tornadoes. Strange as it was the cloudless blue sky was quickly turning into a rather disconcerting shade of fuschia; thick black clouds, which seemed to morph in shape and size with every passing moment, began to amass from all directions.

    I remember thinking to myself, "Perhaps it's time for me to be leaving, this storm seems a bit unusual and it may be best to seek shelter."

    Standing to leave, I turned to bid my goodbye to the quiet inhabits of the little cemetery, when the sky erupted with the bellow of thunder proceeded by a torrent of lightning spreading its spindly fingers across the heavens. Rain began to pour down from the black clouds, that as I had now noticed, were taking forms of things most unspeakable. There was a grotesque beauty to the monolithic entities which seemed so akin to the primordial dark gods or the primeval demons.

    Turning my head from the shifting sky I appraised myself. Was it the off colored sky creating this illusion or was my skin steadily becoming a darker shade of red. Sliding a hand down my arm the red smeared revealing a tainted but pinkish version of my flesh beneath. So strange it was, until that moment, dread had not set it. There was a certain sensation of panic which had started to creep up my spine at the sight of the clouds, but this was too much for me to comprehend; a gripping dread clutched at my very soul and planted me where I stood. Unable to turn and flee I could only stand beneath the rain of blood and contemplate the demons above.

    A strange sound was mingling with the roar of thunder and the wet splattering sound made by the blood rain. It was the sound of something scraping against wood or perhaps gravel. I couldn't quite place where it was coming from until I began to look around. In a world of illusions, I said a quiet prayer in my heart that, I had simply fallen into a greater realm of delusion. For all around me the earth of the graves was bulging. Almost as if a rhythmic heart, beat beneath the very soil.

    Nausea crashed over me like a tidal wave. My world was helter-skelter and it felt as if I was spinning out of control on a carnival ride. A tight coiling sensation wound its way around my ankles and for a moment everything shifted back into focus. Looking towards the still pulsing ground, to my horror, decrepit hands clasped around my legs from beneath the blood soaked soil. I couldn't help but take in the ghastly sight of the gray-green flesh which was stripping from the bleached white bone that it was attempting to conceal.

    My mind was at odds with my limbs; all attempts to compel them to movement seemed futile. The thoughts racing through my head weren't concerned with the imposibility of the situation, everywhere I looked fetid bodies were climbing from their graves. Hideous masks of tattered flesh and worm eaten eyes stared in my direction ravenously; the scalps of some clung teetering from bits of sickening sinew while others merely adorned their dirt caked skulls. Maggots protruding from hollow cavities where cheeks should have been shook lose of the rotten flesh as the possessed dead seemed to jest at my terror inspired paralysis.

    It was only as the empty ocular sockets of a skull peered up from below me,  that I regained some modicum of control. The horrifying entities head had been clearly shattered and was beginning to collect the red rain like wine into a chalice. Finally, with this monstrous sight, my minds natural instinct to flee overode all barriers of terrified reasoning.

    With great force, my less than willing legs fought against the stiff grasp of the split skulled demon below. Violently I pulled against the dead hands, and with a sudden sloppy rending sound, the decayed flesh slid from the bone like a glove yet still clung to my ankles. The disturbing nature of the horrid moment did nothing to phase me. I was free of the death grip and sprinting full bore, hurtling rising corpses as I went, toward the ungated exit.

 

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    The moans were low and rattled with a snakelike hiss. Hollow breaths rasped on the night air faintly; barely audible over the sounds of falling rain. Fearfully I ran with a sense of trepidation, not daring to look back at the ghastly terrors which were rising behind me. Unfortunately in my disconcerted mind-set, and with the sting of blood mocking my eyes, I failed to notice the downed tree limb lying ahead.

    Stumbling, momentum carried me with an unparalleled violence of force, headlong into the muddy earth. Congealed ichor and thick dirt fell from my open mouth as I pulled myself from the mire. Choking on the taste of death rot I wiped the muck from my brow and attempted to force the sludge from my nostrils. The view before me was that of a man clad in a white tailored suit adorning a fire red necktie and a matching suit hat. His appearance reminded me of the "made men" from the mafia movies.

    He leaned against my car untouched and unafraid. Not a drop of crimson fell upon his suit and the demons laying seige above seemed of no concern to this man. His calm demeanor spread over me like a warm blanket. Softly his voice sauntered across the wind ever so gently into my ears, "Come with me and I shall cleanse you of this fear; follow me and I shall show you grace."

    "Who are you?" I asked, "how do you brave this storm while even now the dead rise to claim our souls?"

    While he paused, appearing to contemplate my question, I noticed the pale silhouette of his face showed a certain frailty. There was a gentleness to the delicate lines of his slanting jaw which formed the perfectly dainty chin. Directly beneath his deepset eyes, his round cheekbones protruded in a way that seemed almost jovial and inviting.

    A wry smile sprang across his slender lips as he retorted, "For I am an angel sent to guide you. The end of the world is at hand and you are to play an important role. Come, take my hand and allow me to lead you from this place. I have much to say and we have little time to make preperations."

    "But how can these things be?" I replied, "It's impossible, these things I'm seeing, how? And what do you mean I have an important role to play?"

    "Do you doubt me Thomas?" the angel said with an edge of irritation rising in his voice. "Look behind you and see what awaits if you don't take my hand and come away with me. Only I can save you!" While he spoke the soft lines of his face turned hard and his jaw clenched, the wry smile gone.

    Fearfully I decided it better to obey than risk this righteous figures wrath. Something unsettling had begun to stir in his eyes. Slowly I stepped forward closing the distance. When I was within range the angel held out his slender hand, the smile returning to his lips. Inside a fear had been welling, the closer I walked the greater my dread had grown. Withholding my hand from reach I stared up into the eyes of the towering angel. They had changed from the opaque blue to a ferocious red.

    Suddenly I was taken aback as the angel pulled his arm away from me and with a look of displeasure flung both arms out to his sides. A mighty pair of beautiful feathered wings unfurled as pieces of the fine suit fell in tatters. My awe was interrupted as the angel again spoke, "Do you doubt me Thomas? I am Gods messenger, take my hand and do his will." This time the voice was that of thunder itself. It rumbled through my head so loudly I feared I would be knocked down.

    Lighning slashed across the sky creating a cryptic illumination of the angel before me. Startled I faltered and took a step back. Again lightning illuminated the small clearing and again the same grim visage was revealed. In the flash of lightning the angel had been revealed for its true form. His attractive slender face was actually composed of burned and discolored flesh. The pointed cheekbones and delicate chin were actually punctuated by twisted spikes of bone. Most horrifying of all though was the metamorphosis of his wings. Their beautiful white doves feathers had been transformed into the leathery paper thin image of charred batwings.

    Speaking again in the voice of thunder the demon said, "Yes Thomas Carlisle, now you see me in my true form! You know who I am and I have always lived within your heart. Through your nights cold and shaking, longing for a fix, I was always there to oblidge. I am the Dark Other and you are to play the role I demand of you. Now take my hand and do my bidding." Stretching out his charcoal black hand, the nails like razor blades edging closer to my face, he bellowed a mocking laughter.