John Logan is a writer living in North Carolina. His stories have appeared on The Moonlit Path, The Horror Garage, and in the print anthologies The Horror Library Vol. 1and Dark Distortions Vol.1. 

The Count of Misrie (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)

My eye, my damned right eye, weeps a bitter fluid as retribution for my sin. I fancy each tear a particle of my soul, bonded into a drop of my sanity.

What follows is a confession of my part in the murder of Thomas Ligea and the disposal of all his remains save for one fatal piece.

Thomas was a man forever chasing awe and I was swept in his rush to adventure, although never without protest. One particular adventure with a wild boar left me with a maligned hip and an oft ridiculed hobble. I was only able to walk after many painful surgeries paid for by Thomas’s wealthy family.

Before I go on, I must make one thing clear: what happened was not about revenge for my lameness. I loved Thomas, and if not for him would have spent countless hours alone with no achievement save the drudgery of work. If he insisted on something dangerous, it was only because he wanted to impart some of his vitality to me.

If only he knew how much!

When the Count of Misrie arrived on a black horse, I saw something akin to disgust on Thomas’s face.

“Where did he get such a title?” He asked. “No one has ever heard of such a place.”

“I’ve heard his family hails from six different nations in Europe.” I told him. “I believe he is the Count of nothing, of nowhere.”

Such a shudder passed through him, belying the warm night and my curiosity was piqued and when he spoke, the tone held tremors of terror.

“I’ve heard he does experiments.” Thomas said.

Of course he heard this: since childhood we had all heard such stories surrounding the perpetual travels of the hermit-wanderer count. My favorite at the time was the count’s journey to a far-off island in search of a way to trap a soul. Or the jaunt to Africa for a mask to induce invisibility.

“Why don’t we follow him. See what his night holds for him, and protect our town from his presence?” I asked.

Thomas smiled often, but I had never noticed his teeth before that moment, so large and pale in the moonlight. Even his ample beard could not hide his open-mouthed shock at my suggestion.

It was my turn to chase awe and I found it intoxicating.

“Come now…” He whispered. “There’s no…” And his voice trailed off, his eyes fixed on the path traveled by the Count’s horse. “We’re not schoolchildren anymore…”

“Of course,” I said, my voice full of false cheer. “Let us go home and pass the time.” At that, I planted my cane in the cobblestones and started ahead, not looking behind me. He lasted only a moment.

“Wait.” He said, and paused again. When I turned I saw his jaw was set with firm resolve.

“The Count has haunted me since I was a child. Perhaps it’s time to grow up.” He said, and didn’t return my smile.

The Count was staying in a nearby farmhouse, and many carriages had arrived with wooden crates prior to his arrival. We approached with bold fervor, as two children on a dare, our blood illuminated within us.

I knocked on the old door with my cane and it flew open and the Count looked down at us, a wrinkled white face and long gray curls hanging askew.

“Good evening, Sir!” Thomas cried. “We’ve come to share a moment of this lovely evening with you. Have a drink with us?”

The Count regarded us with frigid eyes, his neck creaking as it moved from Thomas to me. He said nary a word, only fidgeted with an odd tube in his slender fingers.

“Sir…” I began. “We only wish to introduce ourselves. This is…”

“Speak no more.” He said.

“My good man, you will show a gentleman proper respect…” Thomas began, but never finished, as the Count put the tube to his lips and with a simple whistle through his teeth, blew something into Thomas’s face and slammed the door, a cast-iron knocker clattered in our faces.

I looked to Thomas with a grin.

“Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea?” I said.

“Perhaps not.” He said and leaned toward me. “What is it?”

A shiny black nevus was fixed to his upper lip. A cloud overhead blocked the moonlight, but for a moment I could see my own reflection in it, like a tiny pupil fixed to his face.

We walked back to my place and I collapsed into a chair, feeling tired but satisfied when Thomas leaned into me, his face mere inches from my own. His mouth opened to say something and I have no memory of what happened next.

I awoke to a sharp sensation in my head: a wondrous clarity. Color was saturated, the tiniest of sounds magnificent, and a multitude of smells invaded my senses.

The pain in my hip was gone and replaced with a sublime euphoria. I still walked with a limp, but imagine my joy, however short lived, at my lack of pain.

Thomas was dead; his head had burst open and pieces of his skull languished throughout my living room

I am not proud to say I disassembled his body and burned it piece by piece in the fireplace. My newfound strength and vigor translated to desperate energy, and I used a heavy hammer to crush his bones on an anvil and added them to the ash.

When finished the gruesome work, and cleaning Thomas from my skin, I noticed a black hole in my own head. Only there was no reflection, only darkness.

The tears flow without end despite the lack of pain. No one would find Thomas, but it seems part of him found me.

As his head exploded, a tooth – I’m sure it was a tooth – broke loose and crashed through my skull. And now it chews its way into my subconscious, killing my pain and bringing to life my utter, horrible guilt.