"When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you."
Winston Keys. It is a name that commands respect in every literary circle, silences every book critic, and demands the absolute and total attention of any reader. Many say that his works are all destined to become classics, icons of literature taught in every school around the globe. Few have been able to the clarity of his writing and none have matched his eloquence.
His first book, Nightmares is an evocative coming of age story of a young exorcist that seeks to combat the demons taking over his village. Readers sympathize with Valis as he tackles demons and evils more ancient than the human race. It set the tone for all of his future successes, even spawning two sequels: Madness Returned and Touch of Terror.
It is, however, his second book that won him international acclaim and success. The Midnight Trial has been hailed by some as the most horrifying book ever written and justifiably so. In a bombastic tale of uncontrolled debauchery, rampant depravity, and sadistic murders, one man stood against the corruption and became something more. Critics have cited its in depth exploration of human nature as well as its plainly terrifying imagery.
Two years later Keys left the Horror genre behind he blew the world away with the romance Lost in Translation that spoke of a young immigrant's attempts to woo a woman entirely above his standing.
Winston Keys currently resides with his wife Helga in Narvik, Norway.
It was dark outside, despite being 3:30PM, and would remain so for the rest of the day. The Sun was notoriously shy around this time of year and he was used to it by now, having lived in the cold city for twenty years already. Winston leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way into his wife's room, where the machines beeped and hummed as they always did. The moon was obscured tonight, a small lamp lighting the room in a soft orange glow. The doctor had gone home already, it was late, so he sat beside her and held her warm hand in his.
"My love," he whispered, "We'll find a way. I promised you we would, the doctor says he's close to a breakthrough. There's a new treatment, they said it is supposed to help people regain their senses. We'll start it tomorrow alright?"
Then his wife did something she hadn't done in the last twelve years: her eyes opened. Only they weren't the pale stone grey eyes he had fallen in love with, but twin black pits that stared in every direction at once.
"God above!" Winston leaped to his feet, only to stumble over his chair and fall onto his posterior in an undignified heap.
When Helga spoke, it was with the force of a dozen voices that echoed through the room and his head several times before it was silent,
"We have granted your desire. We have complied with your every request. We have now come for payment."
Winston scrambled to his feet, "What... what are you talking about? What did you do with my wife?!"
His wife's head turned, the two black pits boring holes through his chest and skull.
"We are the Dark. We are the Many. We are the Forgotten."
At this his face turned pale. He recognized those words: he had written them. It was what his first protagonist, Valis, had faced off against in Nightmares. It was what the demon had said to the exorcist as he had entered his lair, shortly before he tore the poor man to pieces and devoured his soul.
"No... you're not real."
The flesh of his wife's face began to pale, then draw tight as if the flesh underneath was being sucked away. Winston screamed in horror and desperately grabbed her shoulders, but all that happened was the head turned until the twin black pits were staring squarely at him once more. He knew where this was going. If this was what he thought then his wife was becoming, if his books were correct then she had already died and was now...
"A Puppet," a voice hissed into his ear, "A flesh doll for higher powers."
Wheeling around he saw a man sitting upon the windowsill, a raven perched on his shoulder and a smile etched across a face that would have been handsome if it were not so obviously dead. Clouded eyes and pallid skin hung from his skull but he didn't seem overly concerned with it.
"Who are..."
"You know who I am," the man raised his right hand, which held one of his books: The Midnight Trial.
"Dark Apostle," he breathed, "A true sinner."
The man grinned and tossed the book over his shoulder and out the window, "Yes, I am those things, but that is not what I was going for," he spread his arms slightly and took a mock bow, "I am your muse."
Winston staggered back as if struck by a blow. This couldn't be! He had spent countless hours slaving in front of the computer, his fingers tapping out words late into the night every night. It was him that had spent even more hours pouring over his material and ruthlessly excising any weaknesses and ambiguities in his stories. Decades of hard work attributed to a person he hadn't know existed prior to this moment? Absurd!
Yet... he knew this man was right. That faint voice in the back of his head, giving him ideas, quietly spurring him on, it all fit the description of how a Dark Apostle would work. Given the nature of his writing it wasn't too much of a leap anyhow. He had just never expected them to actually exist. Winston clenched his fists, his gaze shifting from the strange man to the now skeletal frame of what had once been his wife. Questions raced through his mind at a hundred miles an hour but he took a deep breath and asked as calmly as he could:
"Why me?"
The man grinned, "Because words live longer than men. In five years your books will be the trendiest book to hit the shelves. In ten they will be classics. In a hundred, they will become the bible of our people, of our ways. It will preach and spread the word of Sinners and the defiance of light and order for centuries to come! You, however, shall be dead in five minutes."
"This... no. I'll stop you. I will order every copy destroyed, I cannot let your evil spread in this world!"
The Helga-thing sat up abruptly, "You already have, Preacher."
The man also stood, dusting off his velvet jacket as he did, "Do you remember how Lost In Translation ends?"
Winston gulped and nodded. Heidi survived as a vegetable while Gary was thrown into a fjord to drown and freeze. Although he had tried to break away from the gruesome aspect of his writing with the book, the ending had been too fitting to not put in. Now, at least, he knew why.
The dark apostle smiled, "I shall enjoy your suffering."
Then the Helga-thing opened its mouth, but it was Winston that screamed as his mind reeled from the abhorrent thoughts streaming into his mind. Clutching at his head he kept screaming, even as he barreled out of the window with a crash and fell twelve stories from his apartment to the frozen ground below. As his body hit the ground, the Helga-thing fell back as color and life returned to her face. In a moment she had been restored, the same silently sleeping form that had lay on the bed for thirteen years as the machines beeped and hummed as they always did.
In the darkness beyond, soft laughter was echoed by a muted scream echoing into the halls of time.