Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Ars Daemonorum~The Demon Art ❯ Chapter 1

Ars Daemonorum~The Demon Art

January 13, 2004

How do I begin?

I'm not all that sure where to start, or if I even should, but I feel a need to at least make things clear for myself. I sound so calm considering what I know. But I hear there is certain clarity in the middle of madness much like the eye of a storm.

What I'm about to relay will be - to those who believe themselves to be sound of mind - unbelievable, but I warn you I am not mad: my story is true.

Online journals like this are places to let out our inner thoughts. Glimpses of our lives, if you will: our hopes and dreams, of the things that make us want to scream out loud. Shared with friends, viewed by strangers, they are pieces of our selves captured forever as text in the vastness of cyberspace.

I have expressed myself countless times in this manner; yet as I sit here and read back, I notice that until now I have only mentioned Him in the vaguest of references. Did I suspect? Deep down -maybe on some subconscious level- I knew.

He was so different from those I normally conversed with in chats on my computer, not at all my type. True the group I surrounded myself with online were all artists to one degree or another. He, however… His art was frightening, dark and full of glimpses of things that made us all ill at ease. I was myself disturbed, yet fascinated.

Most artists in our group kept away from Him; they wanted to see Him gone from our circle. None of them had the nerve to speak out against Him openly. Instead they kept their comments in hushed messages to each other in private. Their anger and frustration, they only dared address to him in the form of indifference and in mild criticism of his work.

At first others had approached him, but only once; never again, and they would not talk about what had been said. I alone would engage him in conversations on his work; he in turn would probe me about things that made me think, and sometimes feel as if he were looking and seeing things in me even I would not look at, things that scared me. The exchange was fair, though; I told myself those things were a small price to pay, for he knew so much about the human ego: about its frailty and the darkness that must exist for there to be light. But I must confess that I ignored the darkness at the time and dismissed it as mere speculation. At the time I was preoccupied with discovering the source of his inspirations so that I might adapt his techniques and get out of the creative rut I was in.

As time passed, those around him dwindled as the others in our group shunned him in fear and ignorance of his dark brilliance. Or so I told myself. Time progressed and our chats and talks became more intense. He had, in effect, taken on the role of teacher and I that of the student craving to learn of things best not learned. It was an obsession.

He guided me to other works of art and prose. Were the fictions of those literary minds; greats of their times, dealing with a single subject-the darkness of men's fear-really fictitious? But as I gazed at old paintings depicting demonic creatures and beasts that prey on man's sanity I could not help but notice the lack of authenticity. The artists of old -though great- seemed unimaginative compared to Him. Though His technique did not depict the reality of the scenery or the fine details that artists like Henry Fuseli have in their terrifying art, they seemed in contrast to lack a sense of reality. The beasts of nightmares that they drew paled in comparison to the reality of His paint blithe horrors.

One night he grew particularly quiet, if quiet is a term applied to written text transferred from one cold machine to another. Then he sent my way a short story written a long time ago, about a time even older. The story unnerved me with its similarity to mine, to the circle of acquaintances that formed our group on the net and the ones that formed the central group in the tale. But it was a work of fiction after all and any resemblance was only due to my fanciful imagination increased by the art I'd seen and the words I'd read. The final ramblings of a man at the brink of madness stayed in my head. "It was a photograph from Real life."

"Did it frighten you?"

"Yes" was my simple reply; no truer word had I ever uttered.

"Good, well it should."

Again the silence stretched as the chat box stayed frozen and unmoving as I sat there in the small hours of the night, the time when most of my conversations with him seemed at their darkest.

My breath caught when suddenly a link appeared in the window and with it a password.

"What is this?" I asked as my heart thudded hard in my chest-a reaction a mere link should not have caused.

"Enter and be enlightened."

For days I kept off line, but in the end I couldn't contain my curiosity. I knew I would have to enter the site and find out what lies inside. The messenger's box would provide me with the link; I only had to bring up the history and then go to the site.

So late one night I as sat in front of my computer, firm in my resolve; and opened the net, his box, and then the history. There they were the last two things, the link and the password. Just one quick look to make the nagging feeling leave me and I would exit, my curiosity satisfied - and hopefully my obsession along with it. I had realized in these past few days that it was more than the art that had become my obsession; it was Him. He was the nameless, faceless companion of my nights. His face I conjured from my imagination, His name I refrained from using - it was more of a fright not to name Him. And it drew me to Him, like a moth to a flame. Would I allow my wings to be singed as I was consumed by His brilliance, by the flames of the hell He showed me? I must end this obsession lest it consume my waking hours as it had begun to do to my dreams.

A small sigh escaped me as I realized that I was again putting off entering the site, my mind wandering in an attempt to distract me from my set course of action.

*Click*

A small sound and yet it thundered into the night as the sound emitted at the touch of my mouse button. A black screen opened in my browser. Black and devoid of design except for a small red box which I assumed was for entering the password. "4fFgsZ6", I entered it hurriedly lest I loose my nerve, then hit enter.

I'm not sure if it was relief or disappointment that I felt when another black screen identical to the first appeared with a single word; red text typed in Arial Black: "Gallery". At this point I became impatient to see what lay beyond, my earlier apprehension gone now that I was so close.

*Click*

This was surely more of His art. I had become desensitized to a small degree by the horror and twisted images that I had seen. He had hinted at times that the art he's shown was only part of a vast collection of his works. Now I would see what else His mind had brought to life on canvas and in digital form.

A listing of image files appeared. No thumbnails as in most web galleries, no names to give hint to what lies inside. No discernable order of any kind. Chaos, random numbers and letters make up each file name in the gallery. All save one, the last one, labeled "draft".

I thought of randomly opening a file, but decided against it. Perhaps the works were arranged in some order that I was unaware of. I should start from the beginning. My resolve to only look at one and leave had been all but forgotten by now, so I clicked the first of the images to load it into my browser window.

It didn't load as most images do, slowly, a line of pixels at a time. My screen stayed black until the image suddenly appeared in its entirety; and try as I might, I could not stifle the strangled screech that issued from me unbidden. The works that I had seen up till now paled in comparison to what assaulted my eyes. I had been in awe of the realism with which He depicted the horrors of those works, but this, words can not describe the play of emotions that first image wrought in me.

I opened more images, unable to stop myself, each drawing me down further into the living hell that must truly exist just outside man's ill-conceived nightmares. Demons contorted in the blackness of their hearts, beings that fed on men's fear, their flesh, their very souls. It was a journey down the path to insanity and I could do nothing less then follow it as it lay before me.

One image depicted a middle-aged woman. The harsh years etched in the fine lines that creased a once beautiful face. She sat alone, naked in her bath, a demon perched beside her. It whispered words of anguish in her ear, all the while watching with a terrible hunger in its hellish red eyes as blood of the same red dripped slowly from the open wound in her marred and mutilated wrists. Red drops bloomed outward in the water surrounding her. I sobbed as the words of anguish filled me. Words invoked by the image before me.

And still I looked on...

In some images he showed great groups of men - those who yield power over the masses. In these groups some of the men's faces showed a slight distortion, I recognized these as the changelings, demon children grown into men in the guise of humans. I had seen them in the works of those older artists whose works I found myself comparing with His yet again. They were men whose indirect power controlled nations. Seeing them in this way gave me new insight as to what they truly were: demons of war putting into motion events that caused the killing of men, woman, and children en mass. Do so in the name of patriotism, freedom, human rights, or even purity of the race. War, revolution, and famine; these things were a feast to the beings of hell. They made me faint with fear, sick at the sight of the cold truth of man's existence.


Others showed scenes of violence inflicted on man by man, but always in the shadows the demons lurked; cold red hungry eyes lusting for the kill on which they would feed. Drinking it in slowly like a fine wine to be savored. These images of mass murder were most numerous of them all. Each one had the same theme of man fighting man, or the lynching mobs butchering helpless people. The demons always sat in the shadows waiting to feed off of the aftermath. Dragging the fallen into pits of shadows and consuming them as they cried their final breaths. But not all of the demons waited in shadows, hiding from sight; there were others in the open. These were so bold of demons that one would not even see them if they were to look at one. They stood boldly in the storm of combat, dressed in the clothing of man and, though their features were hidden by careful shaving of the face or bobbing of ears, all showed a distressing kinship to the imps that hid in shadows. What made them invisible was the lukewarm expressions on their faces. They lacked the horror, rage or emotion of other people, and always stood in places outside of direct sight but always in a position that would steer the mobs of people. They were like silent sheep dogs.

The scenes of those older works by artists long dead were similar in their flatness, yet vastly different. No medieval setting, these works depicted modern day horrors. He depicted them at a level far darker than the media presented them in the guise of news. As if history were written in the very paint He applied to his work. A history that is known yet was not complete till now.


We lived in an enlightened dark age.

And if the death of masses of humans was a feast to them; then the slow madness of a single being was a delicacy to be savored over time. Men and women lost forever; vacant eyes devoid of all but the madness and fear that dwelled within. Their very souls seemed to belong to the demons that shadowed them, possessed them. They were mated, human and beast, the demon feeding as intimately as a lover's caress. They are bound together till death and beyond.

And still I could not stop.

The very room in which I sat seemed to grow darker the deeper into the gallery I ventured. The flickering of my monitor's light on the walls behind me was the only indication that I was still safe, or more accurately still sane. Another thought crept into my head: how could He create such works? Was He simply brilliant in His madness, or was He more. The way He probed my mind in our conversations, He kept me coming back when I should have ended our contact. His works were too real - could He be… no, I would not even entertain such a thought.

Finally I came to the last, the image labeled "draft". With shaking hands I moved my mouse over the file to open it.

*Click*

Before me was the darkest image of them all. The most horrendous of demons looked at me from the partially finished work. It was old, this apparition-older than time, older than evil. Paint smudges here and there showed a background not yet started, but I knew the location in which he dwelt, for he was perched upon a bed, atop the figure that had been sleeping there. The demon's face was mere inches from the figure below. The figure too was unfinished, indications of hair and facial features not yet enough to judge gender. The only part he had laid paint to was the eye, which radiated such intense fear that my heart raced as I stared transfixed. There was something besides the fear showing deeper in that orb of green, deeper and to me more terrifying then any thing I'd seen so far. Transfixed on the demon above; it showed recognition.

That's when His messenger opened and two words appeared in the box before He signed out.

"Sweet Dreams."

He knew! Knew I'd look, knew I had been there, and was there. I stared blindly at the computer as a deep-seated fear gripped me, welling up, forcing its way past my constricted throat, and issuing forth into the night in the sounds of an ear-shattering scream. My hand slammed against the keyboard; the computer flickered once and shut off, plunging the room into darkness. Sweet dreams… why had I even dared to delve into things best left unknown? It was insane-how could any of what I'd seen, any of His art, His horrid works of damnation, have any basis in reality?

They could not.

They did not.

They did.

No!

I lay in my bed in the dark time before dawn; in each shadow I fancied a demon, each sound the whispers from their dog like contorted mouths. I peered into the darkness, the shadows, seeking to still the fear of the things that plagued my mind. Tomorrow I would delete all references to Him, wipe my hard drive to purge it and in a way purge me of Him. The thought tore at me, for deep down I knew I had sought Him out. I had been fascinated not only by the creatures He had depicted, but also by him. He had filled the loneliness in me, had become the companion I looked forward to being with. The images of those lost souls in His works came to me.

NO

I tried to clear my mind of all save pleasant thoughts. Musings of what it would be like to not be alone, to be held in the warm, secure hold of a lover in the night, safe from all harm. It was no more than a fantasy, but one I embraced nonetheless as sleep finally took hold of me.

I was plagued by dreams as I slept, dreams that I could not grasp. Images swirled just beyond my mind's ability to touch and see them. At some point they faded as feelings and emotions took their place. In my sleep I felt a weight as if the lover of my waking fantasy had come to me. I felt him near, enticing me to wake so he could embrace me, love me. In my dream my lips parted in silent invitation to him. Kiss me, wake me, my dream self urged. His breath fanned my face as his body moved closer to mine. Then his lips touched mine, capturing them in a single kiss.

Lust, greed, unleashed power, dominance, and possession all translated to me in a kiss as cold as death; by the icy touch of his lips. The dream ended as my eyes flew open and the reality of a waking nightmare took hold. No lover was he, come to entice me in the ways of a man and a woman joining their bodies in love. A demon from the underworld pulled back, breaking the kiss to hover mere inches over me. My lungs constrict as his weight, crushing against my chest, became painful in my fright. Unable to move I stared; green eyes opened wide, captured and held the hideous deformed creature above me. Elongated ears ending in sharp points adorned each side of his head, companion to the snout like features of his nose and mouth. Those things I barely noticed as I stared into the red blazing depths of hell that were his eyes.

I knew not if he would devour my flesh, feeding on it along with my fear, terror, and pain, or if he would simply stare at me with those hellish eyes, possessing me, till my heart ceased to beat. I tried to scream but no sound would come, for more maddening then the hell in the depth of those eyes was familiarity. I had seen his face in my mind, seen it in the dreams that plagued me, and seen it in the guise of a man. And that man had a name. The name was on the tip of my tongue yet I dared not speak it, for I had never spoken it. For now I know he is both heaven and hell, man and beast.

Him

A hand reaches out to still my own trembling hands as they rest on the computer's keyboard. I blink and in a moment of clarity see all that I have laid to text. Before me is a screen of random letters and symbols. It is the ranting of a madwoman.

He draws me up, laying a small kiss on my brow. "Time for bed, I will be up soon." His word is command and I obey without reply.

I turn to him as I open the door and notice him smiling as he looks over my testimonial of events… my insanity. He looks up at me, a slight red gleam in his dark hooded eyes; noting with satisfaction the void of all save the fear and maddens in those returning his gaze.

"Sweet Dreams."