The Hand of the Shadowed Man

The First Session “Welcome. I understand you have been struggling with distress and depression. May I call you Jack? Have you ever been to a psychiatrist before?” “Yes, that is my name. This is my first time seeing a psychiatrist.” I replied. “Very well, Jack. In your voicemail to me, you sounded panicked. You were on the verge of a meltdown. You described a sense of entrapment within your own town, your own home. I remember you claimed that… someone was stalking you. Can you tell me about the town you are from, and your childhood? You live almost an hour away from here. You traveled a great deal to escape for the day.” “I’m from Rend Bog. You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a small, desolate marsh. Barely qualifies as a township. It’s more of a gathering of lowlives and shabby structures in the middle of a swamp. That place changed throughout my life. As a child, I remember seeing normal people and animals. It was far from a metropolis, but I had neighbors, a neighborhood. There were cars, the barking of dogs, roosters crowing in the morning. Rend Bog was surrounded by lush woodland. I found solace in those melancholic woods. Now… the trees are dead. The rotting bog infected everything. Nature has died. A thick layer of dead leaves blankets the ground. Perpetual Autumn. The bog’s odor is wretched, pervading my home day and night. Monstrous flies, black and bloodthirsty, torment any who pass through.” “The Feint Murders drove all the rational people away. The ones who didn’t fall victim. Those who remained are inhuman. Abominations, like anthropomorphic rats in tattered brown coats. Some of them live in the bog - they’ve inhaled too much of the miasmal gases. Their bodies and faces have degenerated. Their eyes, stained yellow, bulge from their sockets. Walking like trolls with hunched backs… They look at me like live prey.” “I hate Rend Bog. I hate it more than anything. But I won’t leave. I can’t leave that house… My house.” The psychiatrist leaned forward in her chair. With a ballpoint pen, she recorded notes on a clipboard. “Please tell me about these ‘Feint Murders’.” She requested. “They have been happening for a long time. Since I was a kid. Entire families have been slaughtered. Found with strange, black idols implanted in their headless necks. My parents were always skeptical of The Feint’s existence. Maybe they wanted to protect my innocence. But none in Rend Bog remain innocent. Those black idols, they're some maddened religious effigy. A black cylinder with strange symbols inscribed into the wood. Always inserted into the decapitated necks of victims. The victim's heads are never found. The black idol resembles a monk infused with chaotic island voodoo. The depicted face appears to be at peace - but a wicked smile and razor sharp teeth betray the farce. This image plagues the paranoid minds of Rend Bog. The houses started to rot and collapse. People hide in their homes like anchorites, rotting behind thick blackout curtains. I… am one of those people.” “The Feint Murders still occur to this day?” She asked. “Yes.” “Strange.” She tapped her pen on the clipboard. “You think the murderer would have been caught by now. Or they would have outgrown their cruel profession.” “All valid, logical thoughts. The propositions that have puzzled police for decades. You see… they don’t look for The Feint anymore. Rend Bog is society’s sacrifice to The Feint. Once they knew they were never going to catch the killer, they gave up and turned Rend Bog into his playground. When mankind encounters an insuperable entity - they make offerings. They slaughter sacrifices in its name. Such has been the way since ancient times.” “I often think about my own purpose… And the purpose of The Feint Murderer. Do you think The Feint condones their actions? What is this idea of ‘purpose’? They say that without purpose, humanity would decay.” The psychiatrist crossed her legs, touching a pen to her lips. “Most say that purpose is self-deduced. Life is a constructed edifice of priorities. Do you agree?” I froze. “I… I don’t know what to think. What meaning could one find in Rend Bog? My only purpose, if purpose exists, resides in… that house. That beautiful house I grew up in. I still live there. Even though the bog has changed, and the trees are never coming back to life, I still see the forests that once existed. To leave that house would be to accept that nothing is ever going back to the way it was. But I feel that if I do not escape… I will become one of those rat people. Maddened by the voices of the bog, flies feasting on my brain…” “Yes, if there is a purpose, it has to be the house. The house…” End of Session. The Second Session “Welcome back.” The Psychiatrist twirled the clipboard, paying it little attention. “Last week we scraped the surface of your depression and anxiety. Much of which is tied to your hometown. But in your initial message to me, you described a greater fear. Something far more disturbing than the bog. Can you please tell me about your paranoia?” The psychiatrist was dressed casually, lacking her typical formality. She spoke slower, friendlier. “All my life, someone has been stalking me. Not in the sense that some creepy man is watching from the bushes. I believe there is a shadow man standing behind me at all times. Since I was a child, I’ve felt eyes piercing the back of my head. At night, I would see a dark figure in the corner of my room. I would shiver under the covers, crying as it whispered to me. As I grew up, that presence never abated. Walking through the house alone at night, I could hear its footsteps behind me. The slight creaking of the hardwood floor. Determined to catch a glimpse of the shadow man, I would jerk my head around. Sometimes, I saw a blur of movement. Dodging my sight in the blink of an eye. I used to spin in circles, hoping I was faster than him, but he always remained behind me.” “Do you believe that someone is behind you, watching you right now?” The psychiatrist asked. “I-” I turned around quickly. There was only the white wall behind me, the chair firm against it. “He’s not… right behind me all the time. When I cannot physically see him, I detect his presence from a distance. I think he’s outside this building, stalking me from the woods. I feel him there, I hear the whispers. When you spend your life tethered to someone, you can sense their spirit, their presence.” “How do you know he is really there?” She asked. “Because I know - People have told me before. Yes, they have told me that someone is standing behind me. Someone evil, cloaked by shadows. I remember when my older sister used to tease me. One day she stole my magic 8-ball, hiding it in her room. I couldn’t steal it back during the day - she was bigger than me, and could physically block any effort to retrieve my toy. I had to find it at night, when she was sleeping. I crept through my dark house, sneaking into my sister’s room. She lay in her bed, softly breathing, unmoving. I felt like a killer… like I was wandering into her room to murder her. I remember a strange urge… an urge that lingers to this day. Then, I heard a familiar creak behind me. The footsteps of the shadowed man. My sister woke up and looked at me. Immediately, she began to whimper. I remember her trembling breaths, seeing her dark outline quiver.” “‘Jack…’ she muttered. ‘Who is that thing?’” “That’s all I can remember of that night. But there have been other times… other times that people have seen him.” “Sometimes, he touches me. Always at night, always when I am sleeping. His hand grasps the back of my head. I raise my head and I feel the fingers choking my skull. I physically feel them, it is not a delusion. The hand of the shadowed man squeezes tightly, and I feel like it may crush my skull. This happens more often than I would like to admit… I awake from an unexplainable nightmare. In the dream, I stare at a cosmic entity. This creature looks like the monk on The Feint’s black idols. Then I awake to the sensation of a malevolent hand on the back of my head. Sometimes I hear muffled whispers… talking to me.” Intrigue stung the psychiatrist’s face. “Jack, who do you believe is stalking you? Whose hand guides you in the midst of the night?” “...The Feint Murderer.” I replied sullenly. “It has to be.” “If that is so,” she began. “Why haven’t they killed you yet, like everyone else?” “That is the question I try not to ask myself. It must have to do with his purpose. In a world where he kills all who cross his path, it can only come down to purpose.” I swallowed, looking deeply into the psychiatrist’s eyes. “I have a confession to make… Everything I said about my own purpose, the house… I don’t know if it is true. Perhaps I would like to believe that there is truth to it. But I can’t help but think it is all a lie. One can hope they decide their own trajectory, but it is the universe that assigns purpose to all. Perhaps The Feint has plans for me.” End of Session. The Third Session “Tell me about the recent Feint Murders.” The psychiatrist commanded. Her clothing was black, revealing. Her eyes were sunken and hollow, lined by dark makeup. Crossing one leg over the other, she jostled her clipboard playfully, carelessly. “You’ve heard?” I asked surprisedly. The Psychiatrist replied with a sardonic stare. “Very well,” I began. “A family of three recently moved to Rend Bog. A mother, a father, and a daughter. A terrible mistake. They were skeptics, dismissing The Feint as a delusion of isolated minds. But he was hiding in their basement all along. As they slept at night, The Feint emerged like a demon from hell. No facial details were obtained from the home’s security footage, but crucial evidence was obtained - his height, body shape, potential weight. He wore a black cloak, crafted from a shadowy fabric. The details didn’t line up with their previous findings.” I paused. “He lured the family to the basement door. To attract the mother, he made soft crying sounds. Pretending that he was the young daughter, that he had fallen down the stairs. As she approached, The Feint choked her, dragging her into the darkness of the basement. To attract the father’s attention, he pretended to be an old, stern man. Resembling a figure of authority from the father’s life. That father fell victim to the same trap, swallowed by the basement. Finally, to lure their six-year old daughter, he imitated the soft, cooing of birds and the purring of kittens. The very sounds that had brought them joy, serenity, love… had led them to death. They were found headless, hanging in the basement. Black idols jutted from their necks, that strange deity grinning in the wooden design. Chains entangled the family, intertwining their lifeless bodies. Never separating, never letting them fall apart.” “Why chains?” The psychiatrist asked. “Perhaps… They represent fate, how everything in the universe is connected. Throughout my life, I have come to believe that free will is an illusion. We are not in control of our own actions. Everything we do, every thought we have is predetermined by billions upon billions of micro forces set in motion at the dawn of time. My thoughts, my actions are not of my design. I am an actor, an agent of the cultural upbringing, colliding societal forces, and inherent self-serving bias that compose every human. This very conversation is the result of an unstoppable chain of cause and effect.” “Then by that logic, everything is inevitable.” The Psychiatrist was curious. “The future is predicted.” “Yes, but it is impossible to foresee… at least for now. There is both order and entropy to the course of history. The future is inevitable, irreversible. But it's not as if some ancient document details the events to come.” “Jack,” The Psychiatrist drew closer. “What do you believe this future has in store for you?” Tears rolled down my cheeks. “I felt the hand of The Feint last night. I spoke to that thing in my dreams. I think that it was whispering in my ear as I slept. All it said, all I can remember, is hearing - ‘Someone has to do it.’” End of Session. The Fourth Session “Tell me about the death of your parents.” The Psychiatrist asked. She was dressed in chains and spikes. Her eyebrows, lips, cheeks, all pierced by dark metal jewelry. Black stockings ran up her thighs. “What?!...How did you know about that?” I asked. She leaned back in her chair. Her little finger toyed with her bottom lip, smearing the thick, dark makeup. “I never told you that.” I said, detached, incredulous. The walls of her office were suddenly constricting, a trap. “But they are dead nonetheless?” She asked sarcastically. “It, it wasn’t long after the last murders.” I began. “I’ve been walking in the woods a lot lately. Brooding, alone. In the distance, standing behind a tree, I saw him. The Feint Murderer. Dressed in all black clothing, a long black cloak of shadow. He was just standing there… casually… watching me. No immediate agenda, posing no threat. I… I thought of confronting him. Walking up to him, facing him. I didn’t care if I died. I’ve always traveled that road anyway. But as I grew closer, as I saw his face.... I ran without looking back. He did not chase me. He did not follow me. He only stood behind that same tree, like he had stood behind me my entire life.” “The following night, I had that same, dreadful nightmare. I was staring into a dark void, conversing with that thing. The smiling monk with jagged teeth like a devil from dark, forgotten islands. Shadows radiated from the shapeless form, the face glistening like deep black obsidian. Those eyes were omniscient and cruel, without empathy or humanity. It watched me, staring at me wordlessly as it floated in endless void. That dream… nightmare… went on for what seemed like infinity. Until finally, the idol whispered-” “‘Someone had to do it.’” “I wasn’t even sure I awoke the next day. But familiar screams pierced my sleep. My mother uttered a blood-curtling cry, her guts being torn to shreds. My father joined her, his wails of misery like a man swimming through an ocean of knives. I swear, I can still hear the slicing of their necks, the thump as their heads fell to the floor. I wanted to save them… I would have saved them. But I couldn’t move! My vision was pure darkness, like I was permanently imprisoned in that infinite void. And something lay atop my face, covering my eyes and mouth. The hand of the shadowed man, blinding me like the hand of God. I struggled hard, attempting to breathe through the malefic hand, seeking to break free. But no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried to intervene in the taut strings of fate, I could not save my family.” “I blacked out, suffocating from the hand. When I came back to reality, the murders seemed like a dream, an echo from a distant reality. I walked down to the kitchen, my house as silent as a cemetery. Sitting at the table was my family. My mother, father, and older sister. Headless, with black idols stabbed into their necks, the dark monk smiling in their place. I screamed viciously. So, so viciously - because I knew that behind me, rubbing his hands together - was the shadowed man.” The Psychiatrist twiddled her fingers. “And you didn’t think of calling the police, did you? You’re still living there by yourself, your dead family sitting at the dinner table. Do you still eat with them? Them, and the idols that dominate their corpses?” “I… how…” I asked no further questions of the Psychiatrist. “Yes… I eat with them. I told you I can’t abandon the house. I can’t abandon my own purpose, because if I do, then my fate must lay within The Feint’s hands. There’s no use to calling the police. Do you know why they have never been able to catch The Feint? Every time they think they know who it is, when they have enough evidence to identify a suspect… they find that very person dead. Headless, with the black idol mocking them from their stump of a neck. The Feint does not embody a single person. It is a successive force - passed through a predetermined lineage like a crown passed through a dynasty. The true Feint, that mad, taunting entity… one cannot place that in a prison. It already rules the world from a ceaseless void. “ “Perhaps it is the will of God… A force of nature that has existed since the universe’s conception. A tool wielded to maintain the machine of existence. Did you know that there can be no good without evil? That without suffering, there can be no pleasure or safety?” “Picture the slope of time as a mountain, at the peak lay an infinite amount of round boulders. These boulders roll down the mountain at varying speeds, all traversing a path determined by the mountain’s contours. Each boulder represents a person, a thing, a time - the weather, the color of curtains, the flavor of a person’s coffee. The boulders eventually collide - millions, billions of collisions each nanosecond. Thousands collide at once, turning some to rubble, altering the path of others. But this mountain has no bottom, and there is no limit to the number of boulders. This is the schema of life. Free will is simply non-existent. All of history, the present, and the future, has been determined since the first boulders rolled down the mountain.” “The Feint must be the hand that first pushed the boulders. ‘Someone had to do it’, it says. ‘Someone has to do it’. My God, what does The Feint want with me? What path am I rolling along?” End of Session. The Final Session The Psychiatrist wore a deathly, black cloak. Familiar symbols lined the ethereal fabric. Symbols seen floating in a dark void. I sat across her, covered in gore and filth. My clothing tattered. My face torn by cuts and bruises. “Tell me, did you have a dream?” She asked. Her words were heavy, inevitable. As if nuclear war could not deter her breath. “It wasn’t a dream… I woke up in some kind of prison or insane asylum. It was the most vile place I had ever seen. Face down in a pit of bones, brown ooze filled my mouth, layering the walls and ground surrounding me. Above me was a ledge, and I could see dark hallways leading into the labyrinth. Severed human heads stared at me, eyeless, countless numbers of them. The smell was awful, like melted metal seething in a stew of roadkill. I clawed my way upward, my fingers bleeding as I attempted to gain footholds on the dirt wall. I kept falling down, eating mouthfuls of that bile as I rolled and tumbled. After several attempts, I finally clawed my way upward, gasping like a prisoner escaping a life sentence.” “Wherever I was, whatever kind of place that had been - it was long abandoned. All of the windows were shattered. Eldritch symbols lined the walls like midnight graffiti. There was a constant dripping sound, like thousands of leaky faucets flooded each room. I entered a dark hallway. Each room I passed was ransacked, the furniture broken, shattered porcelain across the floor. Grey daylight pierced the broken windows, barely illuminating the hallways. My bare feet bled as I crunched glass with each step. I passed a large bathroom with dirty, blue tiling. Looking inward, I could barely see the interior. On the left were three sinks, dirty, unusable. On the right were closed stalls. That maddening drip-drop was loudest within this bathroom. Against the far wall stood something black and solid. At first, I thought I was looking at a man. The same shadow that stood in the corner of my bedroom as a child. But it was too small, the size of a garden gnome.” “No matter how I acted, I could not enforce my own will. If I continued down the hall, I was in rejection of something, I was afraid. But if I entered the bathroom, and approached that thing… I was perverse, in denial. No matter what I did, no matter what thought I had - the boulders were rolling, colliding. And so a plaguing thought struck my mind. A thought malignant and obstinate since my troubled childhood. If the future is inevitable, if nothing can be prevented, then what purpose is there in attempting to enact free will? Why defy destiny if destiny is currently in motion? I entered the bathroom, the sound of dripping, running water turning to deafening static.” “Against the far wall stood the idol - the smiling monk. Beautiful and serene; yet poignant and terrifying. I simply stood and stared… understanding its message, but unwilling to comprehend the implications.” The Psychiatrist smiled. “Tell me about the man you killed.” “I turned around, and he was there. The Feint Murderer, the man that currently possessed The Feint. It was him that I had seen in the woods. Draped in a long, black cloak, with eyes that were lifeless, not his own. He attempted to seize me with hands clad in leather gloves. Slipping on the bile, I fell backward toward the idol. It was blunt, bruising my back with an intense jab. But as the wheels of a maddened survival instinct turned - I grabbed the idol and swung it at the killer. I remember the monk’s smile as the hardwood caved the killer’s head. His blood sprayed the wall beside us, turning the blue tile red. He writhed on the floor, his brains visible through the gap in his skull. I bashed again… and again. Driving the idol through his skull, destroying the barriers of bone, liquifying the guts. When my vision returned from a blood frenzy, The Feint Murderer was dead. His head was a pile of gore on the bathroom floor. I had killed him. And within my hands lay the black idol.” “And… you planted the idol in his neck?” The Psychiatrist asked. For a minute, we sat in silence. I stared into her eyes as a fiendish smile flitted about her lips. On her robe, dark intaglios caught my eye. I stared at them, unable to avert my gaze. “Yeah.” I replied pensively. “Yeah, I did. I don’t know why or how I did it. I was a victim of the circumstances, of the blood rush and emotion. Everything had led to that. There was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent it.” I lifted a trembling finger, and pointed to the symbols on the Psychiatrist’s robes. “You… you know…” I said with a scared, accusatory whisper. Scrawled in apocalyptic white ink were the very symbols that decorated The Feint’s black idol. She giggled seductively. “Someone has to do it, Jack. This world is composed of many creators, and many consumers. But every now and then, a destroyer is born. Because destruction is a force of nature. And nature presents itself in all its beings, whether they drive cars or breed in nests. Many wallow through life with a sense of safety and pleasure. Unaware that these sensations are products of evil, that without destruction, their happiness could not exist. Are you willing to accept this destiny?” And before I could answer, before I could remove my eyes from The Feint’s smile, she interrupted me. “That’s too bad. It was never yours to begin with.” End of Session.