Jones and Benson

Here’s something I decided to start at 2200 in a sleep-deprived state. It flowed on the page and I got the first 1000 words down in an hour. Somewhat disturbingly it was my subconscious that seemed to be writing. Oh well. It is hard to continue it at the moment, but here is the beginning…

Over there… in the corner shadows. Did I see it or did I only think I saw it? The rain is pattering against the windows. If I had curtains I would shut them to the world and I would feel safer, for out there in the dark of the night something roams the country and stalks the streets of this town and I know it is looking for me. I have only kept my sanity thus far with the aid of whiskey, but the bottle has run dry. Dry too is the interior of my mouth, and I would gladly substitute the dampness of my cold sweat for the cracking dryness that assaults my tongue. It is freezing in this box room, but I do not dare to open the door for any reason, not even to stoke the boiler. It is a profound terror that holds me in its grip and it will not let go even at the breaking of daylight over the rooftops outside. I am writing in the poor light afforded by a single candle; I am too afraid to switch on any electric light, for without curtains it will surely mark my presence from the street outside. I have no watch, yet the only use I now have for one is to watch the seconds running out. I turn at every sound both real and imagined, and the movements in the shadows are the product of a feverish mind. At least that is what I tell myself in the terrifying calm between first sight, and a few seconds later when it becomes clear it will not attack. The ceiling appears to me intimidatingly high above my head, though I remind myself that even if I hid in a cupboard It would find me. This is not my abode; it’s previous occupant lies dead on the rug in the centre of the room. I do not remember how I came to this place, but his blood and fragments of his skin stick to the undersides of my fingernails. I awoke as if in a trance, lying in this very spot, and slowly remembered the causation of my panic.

Two days ago I was not in this state; shadows held no menace to me and I lived by electric light, standing proud and unflinchingly. Only now am I starting to remember the precise details of my transition to this wretched victim of damnation who is scrawling these very words on the stone floor, my pen a knife-blade and my ink the previous resident’s blood. Two days ago I had no real trade to speak of, but did collect books, and I earned my money to this end through any means available. I collected but I never sold, and this proved to be my undoing. I was indiscriminate in my collecting; I would acquire books on the basis of their construction rather than content; typesetting and binding were my main areas of interest, and every so often I would occasion to read through one or two specimens if their first pages caught my eye. Two days ago I was in my library depositing my latest acquisitions I happened upon a book I did not recall purchasing or being presented lying upon a poorly used shelf. It was in a worn condition; the binding was coming away and I thought to dispose of it. This was not a natural thought for me, though, as I acquire only specimens that will last and continue even after my departure from this plane. I decided that to rid myself of a book that I had obviously at one point deemed worthy of my collection, without further investigation, would be hasty. At this state of mind I left the book and retired for the evening.