Article 5 – Lurking Just Beneath the Darkness
by Peter Harris
Introduction: My three year Bachelor of Arts degree from UCN provided me with exposure to new learning and fresh understanding. During that time I had the pleasure of enrolling in a fourth year condensed American Gothic Literature class instructed by Professor Ying Kong. This course bestowed in me a love of the psychological elements that mark Gothic literature. The dark feelings and uncertainty that the reading audience experiences while engaging in Gothic Literature has made it one of my favourite genres and is the inspiration behind âLurking Just Beneath the Darkness.â The art work for the cover was done as a personal favor to me by the very talented artist, Shane Murray. I hope you enjoy this short story as much as I enjoyed composing it, have fun on your Gothic experience.
My mind sinks into the confusion of the world. Thoughts are like a blowing leaf caught in the wind, uncertain, spiraling and twirling out of control. Can this really be happening? The Goblin Horde finally decided to rise up and march on the world of men. They are crawling from their hiding places like insects, they rage out from the darkness to attack and dismay. All I want is to answer with a red, hot rage of my own and destroy these nasty, little monsters.
Crimson blood stains my great sword and I canât help but marvel at it. No wait, not crimson blood, but black blood, black like the soul of a horrid goblin. My swordâs thirst is insatiable. In the clutches of my battle frenzy, everything seems to pulse and undulate. The dark walls of the fortress breathe with life of their own. Fear; the stench of it hangs heavy all around. I ignore the invaders hiding behind the wooden doors that I pass; they can be dealt with after. For now, my intention is to stop the ones that plan on escape. Right in front of me, one of the little creatures reveal itself as it dashes out from a cranny in the wall. It is trying to get away but that doesnât stop me from leaping on top of it and driving my blade through its back. The creature sprawls away in wild pain. I leave it in anguish and continue my determined march forward, making my way toward the gatehouse. My plan is to confine the goblins, to lock them in here with my rage. I plan to stop the Goblin Horde here and now.
Warmth shrouds me, I feel almost fevered. The adrenaline that courses through my veins urges me forward; it gives strength to my fury even as it takes its toll. Sweat breaks on my brow regardless the cold chill that haunts the place. My head pounds and my mouth and throat are swollen with thirst. It is hard, strenuous work being a hero. The thermos presses against my parched lips as I try to quench my need. Not a thermos, but a goblet, no, a wineskin. I toss the drink away. Never mind, there are more pressing concerns. There are foul goblins to dispatch. If it is my fate, ridding this shattered world of the menace will be the last thing I do.
Accessing the great dining hall from a back entrance, I can see tables and benches that have been knocked about and scattered by goblins in hasty retreat. Near the front of the room there is a group of the repulsive, animals cowering. Why come with malice and hatred in their black hearts only to hide and cower? Am I really that imposing? I know that I am. I am the great Hendrik, slayer of goblins and all things evil. Let them cower and beg. It makes their pathetic ending all the more satisfying.
âFight me!â I call out. My words are thick and slow as if they drown in icy water. âFight me you cowards,â I say again, issuing the challenge to any and all. The group of goblins weep and beg to be left alone, to be left in peace. But how can I leave them in peace? They attacked the fortress. They brought this upon themselves and have to pay with their lives. I shout again, âFight me you bast—-â
Like an unseen shadow, a big goblin lunges at me from out of nowhere; it almost knocks me from my feet as we wrestle for my blade. In my heightened state the goblinâs strength is no match for mine. As the element of surprise vanishes I push back. With a quick slash of blade across its grimy throat, the creature gurgles and gasps for breath. I force my weapon into its chest, right through its evil heart. So quickly it happens, but there is no doubt that the beast is dead as its lifeless body slides free from the blade. The group that is cowering make good on my distraction and flee from the great dining hall. As I try to follow them, another goblin, big like the one just vanquished, leaps out from behind a counter, wildly swinging a giant, hefty, metal soup ladle. Like a prism that refracts light in dancing embrace, colors explode all around as I get struck in the head. It is like being hit with a damn hammer. This beast isnât playing; it is trying to kill me. My ears ring from the blow but it isnât enough to slow me in my frenzy. I revel in my assailantâs agony as I respond with two quick thrusts of my own weapon, penetrating its stomach, the beast keels over, howling. Without bothering to finish off this foe, I rush passed in pursuit of the others.
Like a violent autumn storm I crash into the front corridor. There are goblins everywhere, trying to get out through the front entrance. Rushing and scrambling, trying to escape the fortress that is consumed by my fury. It is like I am demon possessed. Hendrik the Destroyer! Menacingly I wade into their ranks, slashing and cutting. I stab one in the back that is fleeing, rendering its evasion useless. I cut an arm here, stab a leg there. I smash one in the face, breaking its nose. I continue to cut and slash and smash and maim. I grasp the wall for support as I vomit. How many goblins have I injured or killed? Fifteen? Twenty? How many of these vile creatures have fallen on my blade? I get sick again as my bloody hand smears across a cascading, column of narrow metal doors. None of this makes sense. The corridor empties as goblins find their freedom. All around are the injured, moaning in pain, and the dead still bodies of my enemies. I get sick again as the blade shakes in my grip.
The glass on the gatehouse shatters as the goblins outside hurl canisters of noxious gas into the fortress. They are trying to subdue me so they can reclaim the place. My head pounds and I fight the nausea. I canât allow that to happen. I compose myself, spit vomit from my mouth and square my shoulders. I ignore the gas and clasp my hand tight around the grip of my great sword. I am ready to sacrifice myself, ready to die rather than surrender to these filthy brutes. With my blade raised above my head I charge forward just as armoured goblins smash through the gate yelling and shouting. Fear does not hold me.
âFreeze!â One shouts as it aims a large crossbow in my direction. The beast fires its weapon before my blade can find purchase on its dirty hide. With a thunder of dragonâs breath, the bolt springs from the crossbow to tear into my stomach. The pain is tremendous and stops me in my tracks. I fall to my knees, laid bare before my enemies.
âFreeze!â Another goblin commands as they rush and try to swarm me. The goblins canât win, I wonât be taken alive. As everything spins out of control, from my knees I slash out trying to kill one more putrid, little goblin. I want to take one last disgusting goblin life with me when I go. Another blast of dragonâs breath rings out as another bolt anxiously springs from a crossbow to tear into my shoulder. I sprawl backwards onto the hard, unforgiving floor. There is blood everywhere, mine included. The pain is terrible, all of my fight leaves just as my consciousness flees the world too. I canât help but wonder as I lay here dying, am I truly the hero.
Death is unsuccessful as I battle my way back to this side of the living. I claw my way back from the darkness. My mind is filled with nightmarish images of castles and goblins and I hurt beyond imagination. I am unsure of where I am and the light is uncomfortable. Movement only amplifies the pain. Helpless like a child!
âGoblins,â I mumble through dry lips in an almost forgotten voice.
Slowly I begin to realize Iâm in a hospital room. There are beeping monitors connecting wires and tubes to my broken body. At the foot of my bed I sense someone standing stoic vigil over me. It is my wife, Violet. Her presence calms the confusion that assaults me.
âWhatâs going on?â I ask in a shaky voice. âWhy am I here?â The room distorts and churns, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut to ward off the vertigo.
âEverything is alright Hendrik,â Violet says, coming up to my side. She pushes the distress button to notify the medical staff that I am awake. She takes my hand in hers. When I work the courage to open my eyes again I can sense that her smile is forced. Looking into her eyes I can tell that something fundamental has changed between us. Things donât feel alright!
âWhat is it?â I ask, afraid of the forthcoming reply. Bloody goblins skirt the edges of my muddled memory. âWhat did I do?â Initially Violet is reluctant to enlighten me. She encourages me to rest, to worry about details later, but how could I? âWhat did I do?â I ask again. Despite the pain, I persist and she relents. She begins to fill me in on what has taken place. A nurse rushes in and starts checking my vitals as I listen to the story of a student prank gone way too far. Violet and the nurse are unsure how to approach me, the nurse moves about as if she is walking on eggshells. Both are unwilling to look me directly in my sunken eyes for any length of time. Was I the victim or the villain? I am in some disbelief as Violet tells me that with a pair of steel scissors I injured or killed twenty-one students, three staff members and caused the death of Mr. Hampton, who I stabbed through the heart. Mr. Hampton was my friend. Some of the injured are still in critical condition, fighting for their lives. She explains how police officers shot me twice in an effort to subdue me.
The nurse changing my I.V. bag adds in a sheepish voice, âThe doctors are calling it a psychotic break brought on by a near lethal dose of poor quality flakka.â
âFlakka?â I ask, confused.
âIt is a powerful, new street drug. It is a synthetic stimulant that is known to cause excited delirium and violent outbursts. Overdose is common so you are lucky to be alive.â The nurse stops herself. âMaybe it is best if we wait for the doctor to explain any more of this to you.â My only response is a gentle nod of acknowledgement as she leaves the room.
When I look again at Violet, the worry is plain on her face. My poor wife, her world must be in chaos. I have been her husband for almost twenty years. For me to go on a violent rampage through the school I teach at must be a hard pill for her to swallow. Of course she has no idea how to act towards me. How will she ever look at me the same again?
âSome of your students admit to spiking your coffee with the flakka,â Violet says. âInvestigators confirm large doses found in the thermos you tossed away in one of the hallways.â A single tear rolls down her cheek.
She doesnât have to tell me which students. I know the little monsters she is talking about. I caught them cheating on an assignment recently and as payback they drugged me. Those filthy, little creatures! If I had the energy I would be downright pissed at what they did to me.
âThey had no idea the drug would make you go crazyâŠâ Violet has to bite off the last of her words. âIt is all over the news, âTeacher Finally Snapsâ.â She struggles to tell me more. My eyes are heavy and I feel weak with exhaustion. âAfter your mental collapse, the students came forward, scared what would happen if they lied and then got found out. They will be expelled from school but because of their age and the fact that they are cooperating they will most likely only get a slap on the wrist, but nothing more.â I scoff at this, which the pain makes me regret immediately. âAs for you,â she continues, âthey are unsure what should be done.â More tears cling to her cheeks. âIt is unprecedented what has happened, what you did. People arenât sure what to do. Are you a monster? Or are you the victim?â She tries to compose herself. âIt isnât like you meant to hurt those people?â She asks, unsure herself, her question more like a plea. âThis isnât your fault; it was because of the flakka.â Her words are clearly for her own benefit. I donât bother trying to explain the Goblin Horde that my drug addled mind hallucinated. What would be the point? Everybody, the nurses and even my wife thinks me insane and maybe they are right.
I canât help but think about the little bastards who drugged me. It wasnât my fault, I am a victim. It is hard to believe that I could intentionally do something like this; it is like a different life she is describing. I know these last few years I have grown tired of teaching ungrateful students. No longer do I care the way I once did and I am slowly becoming bitter. But am I capable of this? I canât help but wonder though; maybe the evil has always been a part of me, before the drugs, before my rampage through the high school I teach at. As I submit to the exhaustion and as the pain killers cloud my mind and force me off to sleep once again, I canât help but wonder if the evil was always there lurking just beneath the darkness.
With tired eyes, I notice scattered among the other medical instruments on the nurseâs tray, a pair of sharp, steel scissors. They sing to me like a sad sirenâs song, pull at me like a beacon that I canât ignore. With it nearby I find peace in the margins of my thoughts. As the drugs in my I.V dull the pain and slowly encroach on my mind, I know I am ready for the next goblin invasion. My great sword is so close at hand!
About the Author: Peter Harris is a recent graduate from the University College of the Northâs Bachelor of Education program. He teaches a grade seven homeroom class in Thompson MB and although his new career is not without its challenges he enjoys being a teacher and hopes to find success helping shape the young minds of his students. His love of writing continues to grow and he plans to keep improving his writing ability. âLurking Just Beneath the Darknessâ is his third publication in Meuseâs from the North.
About the Artist: Shane Murray is a Manitoba born artist, spending his younger years in Thompson MB and Teulon MB. Shane is inspired by renaissance masters like Michelangelo and da Vinci. He also finds inspiration from Salvador Dali, Bob Ross, renowned tattoo artists and from countless comic book artists spanning multiple generations. Shane currently resides in Winnipeg MB with his family where he enjoys sharing his artistic ability with the eager pupils of his art classes.
Instructorâs Remarks: At UCN, we offer courses on special studies for third or fourth year English major students. Special studies courses allow students to pursue advanced study in a particular area, genre or period. In 2016, as requested by students I developed special studies course of American Gothic Literature in the 20th Century (ENG 4000). This course covers a selection of 20th century American Gothic literature in poetry, drama, short stories and fiction. Peter Harris liked every piece studied in that course. Inspired by the spirit of Gothic literature and based on some of his own experiences, he created the Gothic mode in his fictional story of âLurking Just Beneath the Darkness.â (Dr. Ying Kong)