Messenger of Fear Novella #1 Read Free Page A

breathe, and whisper wordlessly of dread. The mist blanketed the dozen students and the frozen teacher and formed a rough circle around the three of us. I could feel rather than see that the classroom was extending, spreading out to make room for the Master of the Game and whatever game he had brought with him.
    He has a flair for the dramatic, the Game Master. And he did not disappoint.
    I won’t go into describing the hideous guises in which I had previously seen this creature, but will confine myself to telling what I saw on this day at this time and place.
    He did not so much emerge from the yellow mist asform himself from it. Tendrils of that diseased cloud swirled to the center, twisted around like a small tornado, and slowly solidified into something that might be flesh and was very definitely blood.
    He was roughly human in shape—two arms, two legs, and a head—but was taller than any human outside of the NBA. And from the top of his head, blood flowed down to coat his entire body in red gore. It was as if he were a sort of volcano, with a caldera opening the crown of his head, with the viscous red slicking down across his face and down his neck, and spreading across every inch of him.
    I had steeled myself; I thought I had prepared myself, yet I took a step back and turned my face away and cast my eyes to one side, seeking the reassurance of Messenger’s calm face. I had been prepared for a creature of horror, but the smell, that primal, salty smell of blood, massive quantities of human blood, that smell . . .
    I did not faint. I did not vomit. Both threatened, but by looking away until the gag reflex was lessened, I avoided shaming myself.
    Yet when I turned back, jaw set, muscles all clenched, I saw still worse, for the Master of the Game is nevertruly singular but comes with other creatures attached, an infestation almost, a sort of ant colony that crawled and swam against the eternal flow of blood.
    Not ants of course, but tiny human creatures, men and women, young and old, all of the same race now, a red, red race.
    I had avoided disgracing myself. Barton did not. I smelled urine and vomit and yes, indeed, young Barton Jones had collapsed on the floor and was whimpering. No trace of the cool, calculating killer could be seen on that tearstained, vomit-flecked face.
    Those with tender hearts would probably imagine that mere exposure to the Master of the Game constituted punishment enough. But while Messengers of Fear may have their own individual emotions, including compassion, their duty is not to bend the world toward mercy, but to correct the balance that is harmed when terrible crimes go unpunished.
    As for the Master of the Game, whether he is unique or one of several of his ilk, there is no pity within him.
    Upon completing his dramatic and mind-shattering appearance, the Master of the Game asked in a voice like corpses speaking, “You summon me, Messenger?”
    â€œThis is Barton Jones, a murderer. He has chosen to play the game.”
    Barton did not voice an objection to being called a murderer. I doubt very much he was capable of speech at all.
    I heard tiny cries and choking sounds coming from the creatures that swam and crawled and drowned in the blood that flowed down the Game Master’s form.
    â€œThe game is this,” said the Master of the Game. “I shall summon twenty-one creatures. You must cut the head completely from each one and fill that bag”—whereupon a large canvas sack appeared—“and complete this gruesome task within five minutes. If you do this, you will have won. If you lack even one head, you will have lost and be subject to punishment.”
    â€œWhat?” Barton asked pitiably. He looked to me, eyes drowning in tears. “What is happening to me? You have to help me. Can’t you help me? Call my mom. I want my mom!”
    I knew to remain silent.
    Beside the sack now lay a machete. I looked meaningfully at the machete,