Do Something About It!

A Vic Powers story

Gary Lovisi

          When Ronda called me she was angry and almost hysterical with rage.

          “That son-of-a-bitch has been up my ass too damn long now. This is the last time, Vic. I want you to do something. Straighten him out, once and for all!”

          I didn’t say anything, I’d heard this all before. Ronda was a pint-size young gal who had had it with some two-bit moron neighbor who was causing her all kinds of grief. She told me daily stories about how he’d tailgate her small Honda with his big truck down Gerritsen Avenue, terrorizing her when she came home from work, then parking in front of her house instead of his own. Annoying certainly, but not deadly. Your generic Brooklyn bigmouth with shit-for-brains.

          “You there, Vic?”

          “Yeah,” I said. “What do you want me to do about it, Ronda?”

          “What do I want you to do about it! Are you a freakin’ retard? I want you to kill the bastard! I know you’ve killed people before, and some of them a lot less deserving than this freak. I want him dead!”

          I laughed. “I don’t think I can do that.”

          “I can,” she said and there was no doubt at all in her voice. “I hate him.”

          We were silent for one very long second. Then the second was over.

          “Will you come over?” she asked.

          “Yeah, I’ll be right over.”

          It only took me fifteen minutes to drive from my rented dive in Canarsie to Ronda’s small one-family cottage in Gerritsen Beach. She lived alone in the co-called new section, cute tightly-packed homes and bungalows on narrow streets by the water. The whole place looked more like a scene from a New England fishing village mistakenly dumped into the ass-end of Brooklyn.

          I could see Ronda waiting in front of her house as I drove down the block. I saw there was only one parking spot, smack dab in front of Ronda’s house like it was Kismet or something, and I headed straight towards it.

          Out of nowhere a huge shiny black pickup made a screeching turn from the other corner, cut me off, and shot into the spot like I didn’t even exist.

          “What the fuck!” I shouted. Where the hell had he come from?

          The guy, your generic young muscle-bound moron-type parked in my spot and was about to get out of his truck when I pulled up beside him. Real close. My passenger side door was blocking his driver’s side door from opening. He was trapped in his truck, just where I wanted him.

          I lowered my passenger window. I looked at the big mook, trying to keep calm, wanting to keep it gentlemanly. I didn’t want to start trouble with the guy. I figured, with the deepest respect, I’d say, “Hey, fucking asshole, that’s my damn spot!”

Well, that’s what I wanted to say, instead what I said was, “Excuse me, I think you took my spot.”

The guy looked at me like I’d just arrived from Mars. His face twisted when he realized my SUV was blocking him from opening his door to get out.

“Fuck you!” he shouted. “Move your piece of shit out of my way!”

Well, this didn’t seem to be the proper attitude to take at all and I was about to tell him so when he jerked open his door, smashing it into my door.

Now I saw red.

He just laughed viciously, like the big jerk he was, not even caring about whatever damage he had done to his own vehicle. Muscle-bound morons can be like that –all hyped up on ego and testosterone. I saw he had an old guy in the cab with him, most likely his father, and it looked like the relic was already passed out drunk. It wasn’t even noon yet.

“You took my parking spot, now you smashed my door!” I shouted in disbelief.

“Too fucking bad! Now move off, asshole!”

I heard loud booms behind me and was amazed to see Ronda banging with her fists on the back of the guy’s truck.

I sighed, that Ronda, what a gal, she was always ready for trouble. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to calm her down, now that she was all revved up.

Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw another woman bolt out of one of the houses nearby and take Ronda down with a running tackle. Ronda was flung back and both women were on the ground, embroiled in a fierce fight on the small lawn in front of Ronda’s house.

This was all turning to shit way too fast for me. I moved my SUV forward away from the guy’s truck and double-parked up ahead. Then I got out and ran back to the two women to break up their fight.

I tried to find an opening where I could pull Ronda off the thin peroxide blonde. Ronda, while smaller, was a spunky angry little bitch and was beginning to beat the crap out of the other woman, I was kinda proud of her, but I couldn’t let her face a felony beef. I knew I had to stop this before it got too serious.

“Come on now . . . ladies . . .” I finally got a hold of Ronda and was about to pull her off the other woman when I felt a huge hand wrap itself around my arm.

“What the fuck!”

“Let them fight, asshole.”

It was Muscle-head.

I looked at him serious now, “Get your hand off my arm.”

“Make me.”

I smiled, ripping into the steroid-hulk and hammering him with my fists. He never knew what hit him. My knuckles smashed into his face and gut non-stop like a battering ram. His face was soon transformed into a bloody mess. In sixty seconds I had him on the ground and was knocking him senseless. He tried to fight back, but I wasn’t no kid or woman, which I presumed was his usual beat-down partner. He never expected the force and fury of my attack. I was so relentless, so quick, he never had a chance to get his breath, much less go on the offensive. My motto: “Never give an asshole an even break!”

Once he was down and out, I went over and pulled Ronda off the anemic blonde.

“Vic, let me finish her off!”

“Ronda, the poor girl’s got no teeth left, enough is enough.”

Ronda smiled. “I’m glad you came over, Vic. It’s always good to see you.”

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you again, too,” I said with a shrug. “Now that this shit is done with, why the hell did you want me to come here anyway?”

“You just did it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Little Abner. Least ways that’s what I call him. You gave him a beating he won’t forget. Thanks, Vic.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “What about the wife?”

Ronda laughed, “Oh, Daisy Mae? She ain’t nothing. I can take care of her, myself.”

“You sure as hell did. I never realized there could be so many problems owning a home in this neighborhood.”

“You have no idea what I have to go through, Vic. No idea. I won’t even tell you about the problems with all the spoiled out-of-control kids and the stray cats. But the worst is Little Abner. I hate Little Abner.”

I smiled. Ronda could be like that sometimes. “I don’t think you’ll be having any more trouble with Little Abner and if you do I’ll be glad to come over and give him another attitude adjustment.”

“Thanks, Vic, you’re the best. I knew I could count on you to do something about it.”

Copyright 2009 by Gary Lovisi. All Rights Reserved.

Stoop-It

Gary Lovisi

          Jack smacked me upside the head so hard I swore I could feel my eyeballs rattle inside their sockets.

Jack liked to smack. He was very good at it.

          “Wha-?” I stammered, confused. I was just happy to be out of my cage and working again with Jack.

          “Stoop-it!” He said it just like that, using separate words, ‘stoop’ and ‘it’.

          “Look, Jack, I know I’m stupid for loosing the cash and all . . .”

          I can be slow sometimes.

          We’d been doing jobs all along the East Coast, but it had gotten too hot so we decided – well, actually Jack decided – we’d take a trip out West and check out the lay of the land, as he put it. Plenty of young gash and green cash, he said, out in La-La-Land. So we took the plane ride – wow! – got a place, then Jack made calls to people he knew. The unsavory kind. Then he began to line up jobs for us.

          “Now listen to me, moron! Don’t be getting stoop-it like you were back East. This here ain’t New York City and don’t let the fucking palm trees fool you, the skells out here may have blonde hair and perfect tans but they’ll cut out your heart, eat it raw, and then shit it back out at ya before you ever know what hit you. You got it?”

          “I understand, Jack,” I said, trying not to be scared. Sometimes I think Jack told me stuff just to make me scared and then he’d laugh at me, but he wasn’t laughing now. I knew that he didn’t want me going soft in the head like I do sometimes. He told me I had to focus, pay attention to business and above all, remember the rules. The rules were important. I broke the rules when I lost all that cash the first time. Or was it the second time? I forget which. Jack gave me cash to take some place and someone took it from me, but Jack was always right there to surprise them. Then they were made dead and I was safe. That was our main rule. I always did just what Jack told me to do and he always came and made me safe. He rescued me. Jack was happy because he got his cash back from the bad man he had to pay.

          Thing is, Jack and me was partners in crime and partners in blood. He told me we were identical twins, meaning we looked so much alike no one could tell us apart – ‘cepting that I was the stoop-it one.

          Jack always told me I was a shit-for-brains, numb-nuts, brain-dead cretin. I used to laugh at them words because they sounded so funny when he said them. I didn’t even know what cretin was. But I wasn’t all that stoop-it and I was glad to have Jack to look after me. I called him my saving grace, like mama used to say before Jack made her go away. Jack did a pretty decent job looking after me even if he would loose his patience at times. I mean, I guess I deserved a smack now and then.

          Thankfully I had Jack to look out for me. He was real smart, so I knew I had it made.

          Out here in L.A. no one knew us and Jack said that was good. I shrugged, usually I agreed with Jack. After all, Jack was always right. A lot of times when he would work what he called a set-up, he’d have me come out and show myself, then the goons would all come after me. See, I was Jack as far as they were concerned and then Jack would slam the mark with a heavy hit. Down he’d go, deader than dead, never knowing what hit him. It worked good.

          Jack always kept me out of sight until he needed me. I had a room in the basement and he gave me a bed, and I even got a TV. I watch it all the time. Mostly cartoons. I love cartoons.

          I always knew we got a new job coming when Jack unlocked my room, then I’d hear him call out, “Hey, Stoop-it moron! Wake the fuck up! We got work to do!” Then he’d shave me, wash me, fix my hair, and give me new clothes to wear, clean clothes that didn’t smell bad and that I hadn’t made my business in, yet. When I was all cleaned up and dressed I looked exactly like Jack!

          You could not tell us apart.

          I liked that. I liked it when I looked like Jack. But I don’t think Jack liked me looking like him at all. He said he only tolerated it because we had a job to do and we got money for it. Jack got all the money, I never saw any but I didn’t care none. I didn’t need money and Jack said he needed money real bad.

          My part was always simple. Jack told me two, maybe four times already, made me talk it all back to him so I’d be sure I got it right.

          “The job,” I told Jack, thinking hard to remember it all correctly so I wouldn’t get smacked, “is let some people think that I am you. I pretend to be you and go where you tell me to, like some dumb-ass without a care in the world.”

          Jack nodded, holding his temper.

          I said, “I act . . . o-bliv-vi-ous?”

          “Know what that means, stoop-it?”

          “Ahhh . . .? I said. “Ahhh, Jack . . . ?”

          He smacked me upside the head. “Now pay attention, moron! It means, like you don’t know shit. Which you sure as hell don’t! Understand? I don’t know why I have to explain it to you every time we have a job. We always do the same plan. They’re gonna follow you, think you are me, so they can get the drop on you. When they do, I surprise them. Got it?”

          I said, “Yeah, Jack, sure, you surprise them.”

          I didn’t let on to Jack that I had no idea why we were doing these things, nor why we were out here in L.A. doing them. It didn’t seem right at all but I knew Jack was my saving grace and that he’d be there to help me if there was any trouble just like he always did.

          I walked to where Jack told me to, at a corner by an alley. I never saw anyone following me, but Jack said they’d be there. I didn’t care, I was acting o-bliv-vi-ous, just like Jack had told me to do. So I walked down Sunset and then cut into a dark alleyway. It was dark and quiet, real scary, and then I heard the footsteps behind me.

          There were two of them. Big guys and they looked mean. They already had their guns out. They walked closer and I tried to walk back away from them, pretending not to notice them as Jack had told me to do. I walked farther back but I was running out of alleyway. I was in a dead end.

          One of the men said, “This is great, almost too easy. Jack Rawlins, trapped like a rat, and now he’s going to die like a rat.”

          “Pretty damn stupid, Jack,” the other guy said, pointing his gun. “We figured you for better than allowing yourself to get caught in a fix like this, but me and the boys appreciate you making it so easy for us.”

          I got nervous. It looked like they were going to shoot me. I wondered where Jack could be. I knew they thought I was Jack, but I wasn’t! – but of course I couldn’t tell them that. Jack said that was against the rules.

          Finally I saw Jack by a window, looking down at me in the alley below. He was smiling, watching, but not doing anything. I saw him and knew that he saw me, but instead of him giving me the signal that he’d be coming down to help me, he turned his face away and closed the curtains.

          “Jack?” I whispered. “You’re my saving grace, I don’t know what to do without you.”

          The two men with the guns just laughed and came closer. I knew now they were going to kill me and that Jack was not going to come to my aid. Jack knew what was happening and he had turned his back on me. I could hardly believe it, and it hurt so much. I couldn’t figure why Jack had broken the rules and left me to die. I was in a panic when it all suddenly came to me. I had figured it out. Instead of Jack setting up these men for the fall, Jack had set me up for the fall, but why? “Why did you do it, Jack? That’s not right, you broke the rules!”

          “You have the wrong guy!” I blurted to the two men.

          They laughed, then aimed their guns at me.

          I had to think fast. I said, “You’ve gotta listen to me, Jack and me are twins, I’m his brother. I’m . . . slow. Jack uses me to . . .”

          They were on me now, shoving me to the ground, holding me down with their guns to my head.

          I shouted, “”We’re twins and Jack is here watching us. He thinks if you kill me, he’ll get away scot free. Look up there, at that window, you’ll see him watching us. Look, damnit! Look up!”

          One of the men did look up. I saw a strange expression come to his face, then he turned to his partner, “Joe, that rumor might just be true after all. I think I saw him, or someone who looked just like him, and just like this guy here. I’m going on up there and find out what the hell’s going on. I don’t wanna off some freakin’ retard and let Jack get away again.”

          The man named Joe got up and left, the other man stayed with me, keeping his gun to my head, telling me, “Now don’t be stupid, shut up and lay still.”

          I said, “I’m not stupid.”

          He smacked me in the head. “Shut up!”

          I said, “You smack just like Jack.”

          The man just looked at me then, said, “Damn, I guess it is true, twins, and a freakin’ retard at that.”

          I said, “I’m . . . slow.”

          “Slow ain’t the word, buddy, now shut up.” Then he lowered his gun, “If what you say is true, you won’t get hurt.”

          I said, “Thank you, I don’t want to get hurt or made dead. I just don‘t know why Jack didn’t save me.”

          The man just shook his head. “See, we were after Jack in New York. Now if we thought you was Jack and we killed you, we would go back home and tell the boss that Jack was dead. Only Jack wouldn’t be dead, he’d be alive and safe from us being after him. You’d be the one who would be dead.”

          I stood frozen in panic as I realized Jack‘s plan for me. I didn’t like it at all.  Jack had broken the rules. Now I knew I had no choice but to break the rules too.

          I heard the shots from inside the building behind us soon afterwards. Then I heard a crash of glass and saw something fall down at us.

It was Jack. He was screaming but when he hit the ground he was quiet and still. He was bleeding.

          “Jack?”

          He coughed blood, tried to talk, said, “Damnit, I fucked up.”

          The other man ran away now and I went over to Jack. We were alone. I tried to help Jack. I held him in my arms and tried to wipe away the blood but it just kept flowing and I couldn’t stop it.

          Jack just kept mumbling but he couldn’t move.

          I said, “I’m sorry, Jack. It’s all my fault you’re going to die but what you did wasn’t very nice. You broke the rules. You were supposed to help me. Those men were going to kill me and you were going to let them!”

          Jack laughed, more blood gushed out of his mouth. I wiped it away. He said, “It should be you laying here instead of me, stoop-it. I’m the one that had a life and a future, not a shit-for-brains nothing retard like you.”

          That hurt. Jack could say some hurtful things sometimes. I just said, “Well, Jack, I may be the stoop-it one, but I ain’t the one that’s dying. Goodbye Jack, I don’t think I want to partner with you anymore.”

          Jack’s last words were, “Stoop-it! Stoop-it! Stoop-it!”

          But for the first time in my life they didn’t bother me because I knew Jack was talking about himself and not me.

Copyright 2010 by Gary Lovisi. All Rights Reserved.

by

Gary Lovisi

            For decades I had been obsessed with the little known, supernatural conundrum I’d dubbed “The Borlsover Affair”. I’d heard and read snatches of it here and there of course, but never beheld the truth of the matter until now.

          The story particularly intrigued me as I was a writer -- one who can only create his stories in original first draft by hand  -- hence I became obsessed with the tale of an animated appendage told to me by one of the survivors of the affair. The man was named Saunders -- an old and rather unsavory broken fellow living out his last days as a mathematical master at a second-rate suburban school. Upon the application of a far too liberal mixture of alcoholic beverages one evening I forced him to tell me the entire tale -- a grotesque nightmarish story he had often intimated to me, but never fully expounded upon, for the fear was always upon him. The alcohol loosened his tongue as I knew it would that dark late October night, before Halloween would come upon us, as he told me the full tale of the Borlsover Family. He began recounting the sad life of old cantankerous Adrian Borlsover, gone blind but gifted with some form of automatic writing in his animated right hand, and of his young nephew, Eustace -- and then of the hand itself.

          “A beast with five fingers it was, Mr. Jameson,” Saunders grimly whispered to me in the dark corner of a secluded booth in an empty barroom that chilly evening. “Not a proper hand at all was it. Long bony fingers, muscle to it certainly, but no warm flesh nor blood. A demon thing, haunted by some disembodied spirit of Adrian Borlsover or some other of the Borlsover clan -- a human hand that put pen to paper to write such blasphemy as one could never imagine. I think the entire family was cursed. Poor Eustace! The hand took him eventually.”

          I nodded grimly, for I believed the man entirely. I believed him because over the many years of research and through vast expense, I now had the hand in my possession, locked away in a safe in my home.

          I told this all to Saunders. His eyes bugged wide in terror, froth flecking at his lips as he appeared momentarily unable to utter any words.

          “So will you help me?” I asked him plainly, impatiently. My plan was to investigate the hand, understand it, to control it, and Saunders was the one man alive who possessed that knowledge. He was someone who had actual experience with the thing and could help me make it do my bidding. Long ago, Eustace Borlsover and he had discovered it, on that dark day a mysterious small box was delivered to Eustace with his uncle’s severed right hand inside it.

          Saunders shook, took a long drink. “You have it, don’t you? You son of a bitch! Why? Why on Earth! How ever did you find it?”

          “It was not easy, Mr. Saunders, I can assure you. The time and expense was excessive but… Well, who can place a value upon such a thing? I am a writer, as I told you before, and I write all my work by hand with pen on paper -- in the classic style. It is the only way I can write and I make a very successful living from it. All first drafts are done in that manner, then after editing I transpose the manuscript via typewriter for further rewriting and editing, but the idea phase -- that most important part of the creative process -- I can only do by hand with pen to paper first.”

          “Automatic writing?” he asked with a wild-eyed look of suspicion.

          “Perhaps…?” I replied softly. “I imagine one might call it that if one were to think in those terms. The mind creates the ideas, but the hand holding the pen writes them all down carefully and with great speed. Writing them faster than I could ever type them. Better than I could ever speak them into any recording device or to any secretary via shorthand. While each writer has their own system that works best for them, this is the only way I can create my work.”

          “But sometimes, doesn’t it seem to you that your hand writes what it will, almost with a mind of its own?” Saunders asked hoarsely.

          “Yes, it does,” I replied with a sly grin. “Sometimes in the heat of the creative process…the hand does seem to do what it will.”

          “So what is it you want?”

          I laughed at him, then smiled indulgently, “Mr. Saunders, I know not what you are thinking. My success enables me to indulge myself in these little conundrums that I find interesting, fascinating, even exhilarating. The story of the hand of Adrian Borlsover is one I have been obsessed with for a long time, and now I own the thing.”

          “You may think you own it, Mr. Jameson,” Saunders husked dryly, trying to hold back the evident terror he felt lodged within from long dark memories, “but I am afraid that it owns you now as well.”

          “Nonsense,” I said briskly, impatient, refusing to accommodate the fearfulness and abject blue funk that had overtaken the man. “I want to study the thing and more so -- what I really want to do is set it to writing for me, then to read what mysterious words and sentences it will put down on paper. Who knows what mysteries it will unlock and tell us?”

          Saunders looked at me with utter disbelief. “It is a demon haunted thing and no good can ever come of its use. I would fear its words, sir, I would fear the print from a pen written by such a hand.”

          “Not I! I should be delighted to read what it has to write down for us, Mr. Saunders,” I told him firmly. “Come now, join me in this endeavor and I can assure you, you never need want for money. I know you are perpetually short on funds, but if you join me you need never fear that situation again.”

          “Aye, I am low on funds but I fear not poverty -- I drink up most of my pay to keep the nightmare’s away -- for it is an old fear that rattles around in my bones about that hand, Mr. Jameson. I still see it in my mind’s eye, scurrying across the floor of Master Eustace’s library, climbing up the drapes, cater pillaring its long bony fingers along the book shelves. It’s a nightmare I’ll never forget, but I will join you and help you as best I am able, just as I did young Eustace, God rest his soul. But not only for money will I do this work, but upon your command I will be there to destroy the creature when you come to your senses to allow it to be done.”

          I laughed heartily at that, “I don’t think that will ever happen, Mr. Saunders. But I accept your service and will pay you well for your advice and experience. Now let us get home and get some sleep, for we start our adventure bright and early tomorrow morning promptly at eight am.”

          I helped Saunders to a cab that took him to his run-down hovel of an apartment. Then I drove to my townhouse, my mind swirling with thoughts of what marvelous words that amazing hand would soon put to paper for me.

          The next day promptly at eight am, Jenkins, my assistant, let Mr. Saunders into my parlor for our initial meeting. I must say that for the amount of drink, lack of sleep, and his advanced age, he seemed remarkably sharp and alert.

          “I’m here, Mr. Jameson, I’m ready to begin,” he stated firmly, though I thought my eyes could detect a slight tremor of his left hand. Tension, fear, terror, or early onset of some debilitating disease? I did not know, nor did I much care, for we had important work to do.

          “Then let us get started,” I said, leading him into my large wood-paneled book-lined study and closing the door resoundingly behind me. “We are alone now.”

          Saunders looked in awe around my large library, which was the pride of my home. High shelves along all four walls full with books rose almost 20 feet in height, topped off by a large glass skylight in the center of the room. “By God, the place reminds me of old Adrian Brolsover’s library. That was a foul place of dark happenings and dire memories.”

          I smiled ignoring his grim words. Instead I said, “It is time we begin our work. I suppose you would like to examine the hand first?”

          Saunders blanched, “It’s here! In this very room!”

          “Yes, in this very room, I have it locked away in my safe.”

          Saunders gulped nervously, “Young Master Eustace once locked the hand away in a safe -- and it got out.”

          “Fear not, Saunders, all is secure here,” I told him briskly. I would have offered the poor sot a drink but I feared that at the moment he was unnerved quite enough. Better to calm him and show him that the hand posed us no threat.

          I undid the combination of my safe and brought out a cigar-box sized wooden case and placed it on my desk in front of us. There was a bolt lock that secured the lid and I instantly undid it.

          Saunders gasped in terror, and I couldn’t help but let out a slight laugh. “It is quite safe, Saunders, I assure you.”

          Then I opened the lid and we beheld the hand. It was the severed, dried, blackened, long fingered right hand of Adrian Borlsover. There was a deep indentation in it where Saunders had told me it had been nailed to a board by Eustace years before. There was no board, nor nail now, and the hand lay there entirely still and unmoving -- a horrible severed human appendage!

          “It really is quite harmless. In fact, I must admit it rather disappoints me,” I told Saunders, who looked upon the thing mouth agape. I continued, “With all I had heard and read about it, I expected some movement, some form of life or animation of the fingers, something -- but in all the days I have possessed it, it has not made one single movement.”

          “Be thankful of that, Mr. Jameson.”

          I laughed, “Well, regardless, here it is. It is not doing anything, and we can examine it to our heart’s content. Would you like a drink?”

          Saunders nodded absently, his eyes could not leave the hand, “I could sure use one, sir.”

          “Very well,” I called in Jenkins and told my man to bring us two bourbons -- Saunders and I had been imbibing the very same the previous evening so I assumed that would be acceptable to him, and he agreed.

          I covered the hand with my handkerchief once Jenkins appeared to take our order, then uncovered it once he’d brought our drinks and left the room. The hand was still there, of course, apparently having not moved at all.

          Saunders was shivering by now. He lunged for his glass and downed the dark fluid with relief or terror -- who could truly say.

          I sipped my drink slowly as I looked carefully at the motionless hand.

          “And it has not moved since you first obtained it?” Saunders asked curious, somewhat hopeful, to my dismay.

          “Not one iota.”

          He nodded, looked down at the hand laying there upon the top of my desk, “And how long has it been in your possession?”

          “One week, and I have examined it carefully each and every day. I must admit I am disappointed that the thing seems dead, unmoving. How can it write anything if it can not even move?”

          “Is that so important to you? That it take up a pen and write?” Saunders asked me, calmer now, but with serious concern in his voice.

          “Of course! The story about the thing tells us it wrote such diabolical messages as chilled old Borlsover to his very bones. I am a writer. I am fascinated to see what words it will put to paper, but there is something else…”

          Saunders looked at me now with dark suspicion in his eyes. I just laughed, “My dear fellow, it is not that bad, I assure you. Look at my hands, especially my right hand which I use for my writing.”

          “Arthritis?”

          “Yes, rather severe and growing worse,” I told him with a sigh. “Soon my very means of earning a living -- a quite nice moneyed living by the way -- will end. For if I can not write using my hand to hold pen to paper, I am doomed.”

          “But surely you can use a typewriter? Or even hire a secretary…?”

          “For editing certainly, but not for the crucial creative process. No, none of that will work for me. I have tried everything. The creative process is a complex and delicate one, one’s muse can be a fickle bitch at times. I am only able to write by hand and now my livelihood will be ruined. I must find a way to make the hand responsive to my commands. I know it can be done.”

          “That you shall never do, Mr. Jameson. The thing has a mind -- if one can say such -- of its own. It is not the mind of Adrian Borlsover, whom I knew, but something else, something quite malevolent. If I were you I would douse it with gasoline and set it ablaze right away. Destroy it before it destroys you. It is of no use to you as it is, so why not dispose of it here and now? I will help you do it. Please.”

          “Nonsense! Look, Saunders, I hired you because you have experience with the thing, with trapping it and controlling it. I want you to get it working for me. I want it moving and writing again!”

          “You’re quite mad, you know that.”

          “But I pay well, eh, Saunders?”

          “You pay well, and I’ll do it, but not only for the money.”

          Saunders and I worked on various plans to reanimate the hand. After we each examined it minutely, we were convinced that it was indeed dead. This caused me considerable despair, until I decided there might be some way to shock it into wakefulness. Saunders vehemently disagreed with this idea but I overruled him. I began by using sharp probes, long pins and needles, to poke and prod the thing, but it was all to no avail. Old Saunders was alarmed by my actions and warned of reprisals, but I heeded him not. Then I came upon the idea of using a battery to give the thing an electric shock.

          “A good jolt of electricity may just do the trick, eh, Saunders?” I asked, setting up the apparatus. I first tried a 9 volt battery, but when there was no reaction, I grew more ambitious and set it up using a far larger automobile battery. The connection instantly caused the hand fly off my desk and fall to the floor. Still lifeless and motionless. It was hot and smoking as I picked it up and replaced it upon my desk. Saunders was mumbling to himself by then, but I could not make out his words.

          I was severely disappointed, depressed even, for nothing we tried seemed to reanimate the hand. I had spent so much money and many years of my life to procure this now useless object that my frustration boiled over in sudden rage. I attacked the hand with a knife, stabbing it repeatedly as I cursed it and all the Borlsovers. I shouted vile words as I plunged the knife into it again and again.

          “Stop!” Saunders ordered, finally restraining me. “What are you doing! You’ll  make it -- mad!”

          “Good, then if it has any feelings, any life left in it at all, it should get mad. By God, I’ll give the damn thing something to get mad about!”

          “No, don’t do it!”

          I pushed old Saunders aside and continued to stab away viciously into the dried up blackened thing, my knife cutting deep gouges into it -- and through it -- the knife going into the wood of my desktop. The hand gave off no reaction. None at all. There was muscle tissue there, bone and sinew, but no warmth, and no flesh or blood at all.

          I grew despondent, my writing career was over and the fortune I had spent to obtain the hand had been wasted. I was in debt and broke. With a curse I hurled the useless thing across the room where it smacked against a bookcase. It dropped to the floor with a dull thud. Then the thing moved. The fingers twitched, and quickly in the manner of a geometer caterpillar, the fingers humped up one moment, flattened the next, the thumb appeared to give it a crablike motion, and the hand righted itself upon it’s fingertips and quickly shot off behind the bookcase. It was gone in an instant.

          I was astounded and looked at Saunders. He was cringing in terror.

          “You’ve done it now!” he whispered in dire warning.

          “Did you see that, Saunders?” I barked elated now, seeking his verification. Verification that I had not imagined what I had just seen, nor gone entirely mad. Insane.

          “Yes, and you’ve done it now, Master Jameson,” was all he said in an accusing tone,  adding fearfully, “Now you’ve made it mad. Master Eustace made it mad and no good can come of it now.”

          I swallowed hard, it was a lot to get used to. Not the fact that the hand might be mad at me, that was pure poppycock, but that it had indeed moved! That it had actually come to life! This was wonderful!

          “Come on, Saunders,” I blurted full of excitement. “We must trap it!”

          “Aye, now we must, but we shall not.”

          “Oh, come now, it’s just a thing, only a hand, nothing more. We can trap it and then I can use it for my own ends.”

          Well, I uttered those words to Saunders days ago with utmost confidence, but they had not proved true. The thing possessed an uncanny energy and wiliness I never would have thought possible. It hid from us and was difficult to find. Every time Saunders and I would seem to trap it, it escaped our grasp.

          I locked down my library, we nailed shut the windows, boarded up all vents, bolted the door. I gave Jenkins strict orders never to enter the room unless by a prearranged signal. I did not want the thing to get loose and escape. I felt sure that while we had it locked within my library it was just a matter of time before we would find it and capture it.

          Saunders and I never left the library now except to bring in items for use to trap the thing, which all eventually failed. We slept in the library on cots, taking turns keeping watch. We tried many ways to find the thing and trap it but nothing worked. It was as if it were playing some game with us, hiding out just to spite us. Though none of our plans had worked as of yet, I knew I would eventually capture that hand and I would not let anything stop me.

          It was on the night before Halloween when the moon was full, beams of illumination coming in through the library skylight, when I saw the hand. It was upright upon fingertips, slowly walking along the top rail of a high bookshelf. I could plainly see its’ silhouette against the skylight. I dared not move for fear of alerting it. Saunders was fast asleep in his cot -- as it was my watch just then. I reasoned that to awaken him might alert the hand to hide itself, so I did my best to be quiet and began to stalk the thing.

          Silently I moved closer and quietly climbed the mobile library stairway I used to reach the upper shelves. The hand was motionless now, I could see it plainly against the skylight glass. It seemed to be transfixed by the light from the full moon. I moved up the steps. Quietly. Silently. I had just a few more steps to go and I would be even with it -- close enough to quickly grasp it into my own hand. I knew I could do this, I could surprise the thing and capture it in one feel swoop. I took the last step, the wooden ladder beneath my foot gave the slightest creek. I shuddered in fear that the sound had given me away, but the hand remained motionless. I was almost upon it. I reached over and outstretched my fingers to grasp the thing, when it suddenly turned and flung itself off the shelf upon me. It’s long cold bony fingers instantly grasped my throat and closed tightly. I gasped, I could not breath. I was flung backwards by the sudden surprise of the attack and had to do my damnedest using my left hand to hold onto the ladder so as not to fall the 20 feet to the library floor below. My right hand vainly tried to pry the thing’s fingers from my throat, as I desperately tried to breathe.

          By then the ruckus had woken Saunders. “Mr. Jameson?” I heard him ask in alarm. Then he looked up and must have seen us struggling there at the top of the ladder against the skylight and the full moon. He saw me and shouted, “Mr. Jameson! I told you it would come to no good!”

          I barely heard his words for I was in a life and death struggle with a demon thing that possessed supernatural strength I had never encountered before. I gasped for breath, my eyes bulging as I struggled to keep my balance on the ladder with my left hand, while  I tried to pry the creature’s fingers from my throat with my right. It was to no avail. The thing’s fingers were like steel rods. I was gurgling froth, then blood. Finally I could hold onto the ladder no longer. I felt myself losing consciousness and tried to scream -- the scream stifled in my throat by the tightening pressure of the demon hand.

          Then I lost my grip and fell backwards, end over end, hitting the hard wood floor of my library with a resounding whack. I lay upon the floor face up and conscious but unable to move, my eyes locked upon the stub of the hand with it’s long bony fingers still wrapped around my throat. I could not move. I must have been paralyzed from the fall. I was alive, but I could not move, but the hand could move and did. It was still seeking to choke the very life out of me.

          Then I saw Saunders approach out of the corner of my eye. Now I knew he would help me  and pry this hellish thing from my throat.

          But would he be in time?

          “Mr. Jameson, are you alive? Are you conscious?” he looked down at me frantic with terror and fear, staring at the hand upon my throat with dire dread. I feared he might  run off. I know I would have done so, had our situations been reversed. Instead he told me, “You were trying to trap it, now it has trapped you. Your anger brought it to life and once you began to hurt it -- I knew it would hurt you. I am sorry.”

          “Help me!” I pleaded, though no sound could escape my mouth as my lips formed the silent words.

          Then I saw Saunders run off, and I suddenly felt deserted and doomed, for I knew I could hold out for only a few moments before I took my last gasp of air and expired.

          However, Saunders quickly returned and he held the wooden box from my desktop and placed it close to my head. He opened the lid. Then he withdrew a large pair of snipers that he brought up to the demon hand at my throat. He quickly snipped off the thumb of the hand, and as that appendage fell away to the floor in twitching anger, he pulled the rest of the hand from my throat. I thankfully took my first full breath of blessed air as I watched Saunders place the twitching hand and severed thumb into the box. He quickly closed the lid and locked the clasp. Then he picked up the box and left.

          The doctors tell me the fall left me paralyzed and that I will never get out of this wheelchair. My life and my writing career are effectively over. Saunders takes care of me now, I am an invalid and quite helpless, thankful for his company. Saunders assures me that he destroyed the thing but the manner of how he did it, he will not discuss with me.        When I try to write it is quite impossible. Arthritis coupled with the damage done from the fall make it difficult for me to even hold a pen in my hand. But I try. I try because once that had been my profession, my livelihood. I had been a writer. Now I am a former writer who can not even sign his own name.

          I’ve not been the same since my encounter with the hand. I know Saunders told me he destroyed it but I still realize its presence. I can sometimes feel it’s bony fingers pressing upon my throat, but there’s something more, something there that is deeper inside of me. Dark thoughts haunt me; it is almost as if something has passed between us. In the middle of the night, when Saunders is sleeping and I am alone praying for dreams of sweet slumber that refuse to come, I know that strange things happen. In the darkness of night my right hand silently picks up a pen and puts it to paper. It writes such terrible things as send my blood to ice. They are demon haunted messages -- black realms of malevolence that make me shudder, through I be paralyzed -- such is their power.

          I have kept these messages hidden from Saunders, but of course he found the written sheets this morning in my bed and read them in utter terror, but not disbelief. At that moment he realized what I already knew, that the thing had some kind of hold upon me still, and it is only then that we looked upon my offending right hand, realizing what must be done.

END