“Vengeance to God alone belongs” – Walter Scott

I’m drowning, I muse as I pour myself another glass, for tears and whiskey will be my undoing. I slowly fumble over to my old leather couch and allow myself to sink in, taking a deep sip of the amber liquid as I do. The ache in my chest evaporates for an instant before returning with a vengeance. Thump.

With a trembling hand, I offer some of the golden nectar to the dark stranger watching me from the corner, but instead of obliging, he simply continues to stare, nonchalant and unconcerned with my self-medication. His eyes are black and beady, features ageless and sharp enough to cut. The tailored suit covering his wiry frame gives him an air of sophistication, slightly dampened by the office clipboard in one hand and the ballpoint pen held loosely in the other. Despite his expressionless stare, I can tell he’s waiting for me.

I’m not ready yet, though. Thump. I gently lean forward and a tear falls into my glass. Thump. I sit, lost in thought, for a few minutes as I continue to nurse my glass of whiskey. Old memories, better memories, pass through my mind, coaxing ever more tears from my bloodshot eyes as the ache clawing at my chest grows.

“Don’t cry, my love”. My head jerks up, surprised by the sudden voice, and a pair of soft hands reach out to cradle mine. The woman behind them is beautiful, her eyes a gentle ocean blue and hair a lovely hazel. A Celtic knot hangs from her neck. My vision blurs momentarily as the liquor settles.

“Annabelle!” I gasp as I desperately pull back my trembling hands in horror. “I’m so sorry, Annabelle. What have I done? What I have I done?” I bury my face in my hands, dropping the glass and spilling the whiskey on my lap. I seize the couch’s arms to steady my shaking body.

“Don’t cry, my love”, the same lovely voice repeats, whispering this time. With still trembling hands, I bend forward to retrieve the dropped glass and notice the stained papers shoved under my seat, all medical bills and research studies. I crumple them and toss them across the room. Thump. My heart starts racing.

“Oh, Annabelle.” I look up, hoping to see her lovely face once again, but she’s gone.

“Don’t cry, my love”. Now, she’s standing by the door, cradling her expectant belly. “Don’t cry”. Thump. Thump. I stumble out of my seat, desperately trying to reach her, to touch her, but I slam into several pieces of furniture and collapse on the floor in a drunken stupor. I sob and roll over onto my back, smearing whiskey and spit across the floor.

Now, she’s standing above me and with a sad smile, she looks down the hall. I follow her gaze. She’s staring at what was once my office, a dreary room off to the side. Now, there’s only an empty cradle, an occupant without a use in a room that will never be used, never hear the laughter or joy of a child. I look back at Annabelle, but she’s gone once again. “Oh, Annabelle. It will all be right after tonight”.

I prop myself up onto my knees, tears streaming down my cheek, and notice the dark stranger tapping his leather clad feet. He’s getting impatient. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I force myself onto my feet. I inch towards the hall and flick the switch, drawing a dim glow from the flickering hallway light and casting shadows across the insidious looking hallway. The walls are narrow, creeping closer together in an attempt to smother me. Step by painful step, I make my way to the basement door on the far end and from behind the thick door, I hear a sound that makes me gag: a muffled scream. Fumbling, I remove the padlock sealing the entrance and creep my way down in the depths, pulling the creaking door behind me. “Don’t cry, my love”, a voice whispers from behind the sealed door.

The screams get louder and sharper as I make my way down. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I nervously look around the concrete hell. There’s not a window in sight. A rusty drain lies in the center of the room and a series of exposed pipes crawl across the low ceiling. A single lightbulb dangles from a wire and only a simple surgical table and three metals chairs furnish the room. My guest is currently sitting in one those decrepit chairs, his arms and legs fastened down by thick leather straps and mouth gagged by a stained and oily cloth. Occasionally, in a desperate attempt to escape the inevitable, he throws himself back, slamming the chair against the brick wall, causing a dull thump to echo through the room. Thump.

Today is a not for tears, not a day for sorrow or regret. I must steel my nerves, steel my conscience, in light of what must be done. Annabelle deserves justice and I will get it for her.

I shuffle to the small table and grab the scattered papers. I wipe my tears before speaking, “David Waters. Twenty-four. Head researcher.” I look at my guest, pausing in hesitation, clearly enunciating so my words will not be lost on him: “Do you remember Annabelle Gracin?”

His eyes widen in shock, staring from me to the empty chair, frantically shaking his head as he attempts to tear himself from the restraints. I grab his chin and force his head forward. “You killed her. You killed her baby.” I shove him back and his head smashes into the concrete with a dull thud. “She came to you, and she asked you, begged you, to save her child! You could have! You didn’t even try.” He tilts his head up, disoriented. From behind me, the dark stranger strolls past, taking a seat on the second of the three chairs. He’s still bored. My voice rises to a crescendo. “Three months later, she went to the hospital and she died there”.

I walk over to the table, deliberately grabbing my first instrument, a small scalpel, and I walk up behind the man, pulling his head back as I do. I place my face next to his and whisper in broken words, “N-Now, you shall feel pain as she did, for I s-speak for the dead and today, the dead demand vengeance.”

The dark stranger leans forward intrigued, as I gently place the scalpel on the corner of my guest’s mouth. With a deep breath, I slash the scalpel to the side as the man screams, the flesh on his cheek now hanging by sinews. I gag and a sob begins to form in the back of my throat. Blood paints his face as he forces a pained moan. The gag slips through the rendered flesh and from my bloody guest, a single question slips out: “W-Who is David Waters?”

“Don’t cry, my love!”. I spin around and see Annabelle sitting on the third and final chair, her once gentle reminder now raised to a shout. “Don’t cry, my love!”. My eye twitches. She’s saying it too much now, too loudly now.

I gently drag the scalpel across the skin to this stomach and with moans for mercy falling on deaf ears, I plunge the scalpel in, dragging the blade length-wise down, opening his torso and spilling its contents across his lap. Another scream from him. Another sob from me.

“Don’t cry, my love!” My hearts races faster and my face gets warm. “Don’t cry, my love! Don’t cry, my love! Don’t cry my love!” Her face is next to mine now, behind me now, in front of me now. She is everywhere and nowhere. “Don’t cry, my love”, she shrieks from all directions. “Don’t cry, my love!”.

Suddenly, I feel a snap and a wave of heat washes over me. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, you whore! I’m doing this for you!” My eyes shut in frustration and I whirl around, flinging my scalpel, hoping the blade finds its mark and puts an end to the unholy screams.

“Don’t cry, my lo – “. Silence suddenly ensues and I crack open my eyes. In front of me, no more than a foot away, Annabelle stands, cradling her expectant belly, a small scalpel lodged in her chest. But her face, oh her face. Her eyes, once blue, are now beady black dots in a sea of white, her smile now drawn unnaturally from ear to ear. Her skin, once a supple gentle hue, is blue and white like frost. Her belly convulses, small handprints pushing outwards across the veiny flesh as if something were trying desperately to escape its hellish prison. “Why are you crying, my love?”, she chuckles, craning her emaciated skull to the side. With jerky movement, she slides the scalpel out of her neck and with a swift movement, plunges the blade into her stomach, furiously stabbing again and again as she cackles in delight, “You did this!”, she shrieks. I scream in horror, burying my face in my arms as I drag myself into dark corner.

Suddenly, it grows quiet, the only sound provided by the steady drip of blood from my guest, still tied to the chair and bleeding out. “Why are you doing this to me”, I moan, slamming my head into the wall repeatedly as I do.

I hear her voice again and I look up in horror, expecting the infernal specter to loom over me once again, but only Annabelle, my Annabelle, looks back. With her gentle voice, she whispers, bending over so our faces are side by side, “I speak for the dead and the dead demand vengeance. But I will not be the instrument of that vengeance, dear husband, and neither will you. A greater power than I will pass judgement.” She takes my trembling hand and places the bloody scalpel in the palms, wrapping my fingers around it. She places a gentle kiss on my cheek and she vanishes, but her voice, once melodic and sweet, remains and grows into a choir of chanting voices. “See the product of your sins!”

I look over in horror to the dark stranger and my heart drops when I realize the occupant of the adjacent seat. A corpse, flesh falling from bone, lies limp, a lovely Celtic knot handing from the dry, sallow skin. A river of dried blood runs from a small incision in the neck and its arms and legs, merely sticks now, are pulled inwards in a futile attempt to protect a lifeless belly. I turn to my guest, my bleeding guest, hoping for a face, any face, to quell my unbridled terror, but he’s gone, not a drop of blood, dried or otherwise to show he was ever there. Only the chair remains.

The voices scream louder now, almost unbearably, as if Hell itself is trying to hail me, “David Waters. Prepare yourself for judgement!” I feel the walls closing, as if trying to suffocate me and oblige the demanding voices. It’s all a rush of thoughts of now, of terror and regret, of fear and sadness. I just want silence and I will have it. With that, I pull my hand into my chest and the blade finds its mark. The voices stop. The walls as well.

I slump down, feeling warmth spread from my wound, and my head rolls over as my mind starts slipping. The stranger stands up and brushes off his suit, still bored, and walks over to me. He looks from me to his clipboard and dipping his pen into my wound, makes a quick note before tossing the clipboard at my feet. He pauses and grudgingly extends a thin hand out. Annabelle, my Annabelle, the epitome of beauty and the love of my life, welcomes the hand as she smiles at a small boy by her side. The dark stranger nods and without a another look in my direction, turn and guides them out. They look happy.

Time’s up now. There’s no hope for me now. As I close my eyes, tears falling, I can only remember the blood red words on the clipboard: “Judgement rendered”. Silence. Shh.