The Suicide Note of David Brahn A Short Story

I’ll spare you the story of my origin, as it is unremarkable in every aspect, a nice prohibition era town, loving parents, and a great chance at an even better life. Where my troubles first began was around the time I chose that my calling would be a detective for the Cape Cod Police Department, in Massachusetts. Law enforcement was a traditional occupation of my family, and I chose the task of perpetuating the tradition much to the chagrin of my parents. In hindsight, maybe my mother and father knew my heart and mind wasn’t stoic enough to handle the horrors that were destined to find me. As any stubborn and invincible youth, I ignored the constant beseeching of my parents, and took the badge and oath to serve and protect.

The first couple of months at Cape Cod Police Department were nothing extraordinary, the normal delinquents and rabble rousers would come and go, almost like grudgingly seeing old friends. Then you had your bootleggers, who were terrified of time behind the cold and unfeeling steel bars of the human cage of jail. They were our proverbial goldmine, profusing information about local speakeasys, in hopes of favor from blind law. This is where my budding detective skills were able to flourish into the bedrock that I based my career off of. Interrogation, I learned, was key to finding the information the lawmen needed to wiping the alcohol off of the streets, and keeping our town dry. All seemed well, I was making a name for myself, a sleuth, able to extract any clue from the most unwilling of tongue. Then as fate would have it, one night, the wagon rolled in a little before midnight, bringing a vagrant that would set forth the motions that would end with me, writing a soon to be blood spattered letter of resignation of my life.

James McElroy, age 63, was his name, an Irish immigrant, who came from overseas in hopes of a better life, but yet, found dismal stagnation. After a string of rather bad luck, he found lucrative opportunity in the underworld. A rather out of place earnest man, in a sea of dusty criminals, he stood out, with his short but strong stature, graying reddish hair, and eyes that spoke a lifetime of hardship. He, as most Irishmen, heavily clutched on his faith to persevere through the hard times, but unlike others, he wore no crucifix around his neck, but a strange stone pendant, of which material I cannot accurately place, with miniature bas relief carvings adorned upon it instead. When inquired as to where it came, he was visibly defensive and secluded, stating it’s from something older than the fields, the streams, mountains, and sky itself. While tucking it back in his shirt to divert our gaze and questioning of it, he surrendered the fact that it was given to him by a strange elderly Indian man he met and befriended in a stay at the port of Chennai in his seafaring days. Presuming that the rot gut, had not only taken his liver as collateral, but his mind too, I attributed it to ramblings of an old drunkard, and commenced with my questioning. Under the promise of possible favor and early release and also being of a mentally fragile state and generally timid nature, he was an easy individual to crack and produced a surprising wealth of information. Surprising, in fact, the level of detail he gave to me, about the inner workings of Cape Cod’s underworld, the locations of numerous speakeasies, informants, lookouts, enforcers, and booze runners. Either this man was much more than had previously met the eye, or he was divulging fraudulent information as a ploy for us to show favor on him and relinquish him from his holdings. Unprepared to receive the vast wealth of information I encountered, I left the interrogation room, and asked my superior as to what to do next. Always the intelligent and cautious lawman, he decided it would behoove the department to hold him and investigate his leads, in the chance they were true. I nodded in agreement, noting his years of experience on the force, and countless similar situations to the one at hand that he must have encountered.

As I reentered the room, Mr McElroy was tucking the stone pendant back into his shirt, seemingly flighty and wanting to leave, remembering the promise I gave him of favor and early dismissal. He looked up, with those hardship stricken eyes and uttered “That’s all I know mister, now can I leave ? You promised me right ? I need to get on my way”. Feeling a small ounce of guilt take clutch in my soul, I begrudgingly looked up from the dirty tiled floor into his eyes and rescinded my promise. It was hard to break that small of a promise to even a common vagrant, but in the end I told him “You’ll be under police custody until our new leads you’ve provided us with check out, for securi....”. At that time the seemingly harmless and meek vagrant, became possessed by a spirit of rage, flipping the table and almost seeming to snarl as he cut me sentence off and screamed: “YOU DAMN LIAR, YOU’RE ALL DAMN LIARS !!! YOU’RE NO BETTER THAN THE SONS OF BITCHES THAT IM MADE TO WORK FOR ! DAMN YOU ALL TO THE ABYSS !!!! MAY PRETA DRAG YOU ALL TO THE DAMN ABYSS !”. He came for me in a blinded frenzy, turning over chairs that landed on the already toppled table and pinning me into the corner, I had to yell to overcome his volume of voice, I tried reasoning with him to no avail, but nothing worked. He was almost inhabited by superhuman strength that I attributed to adrenaline fueled rage, as his thick calloused fists collided with my face, I began to lose conciousness, I felt his hand grasping for my holster. Everything seemed like a maelstrom of instinct and violence, it was evident that my life was on the line, and my own prehistoric instinct of survival overrode my mind, finding my revolver before his hand could, pressing it right under his hyperventilating lungs, and pulling the trigger six times. Then as a runaway train slows at the end of a wreck, my adrenaline withered away, the maelstrom of violence subsided, and I watched, as he still grasped my now bloody shirt, staring into my eyes. He spat up blood, then relinquished his hateful grasp, and what came next has haunted me since the events of that fateful moment. He muttered one last sentence, an untrerance of syllables that I could not place, wet with blood, his tougue roared “MAHAAN PRETA MERE DUSHMAN KA UBAPHOG KARAT HAIN, MAIN NAPHRATA KARATA HOON”, then the life ebbed from his eyes, and hauntingly leaving only malice. Malice glaring at me from now a still warm but lifeless corpse on the tiled floor, almost mockingly. What seemed like ages had passed since he sprang up from his chair, but in reality, it had only been 57 seconds. The room was soon flooded by my brothers in arms, ready to defend my life from the now lifeless attacker. Most ran to his body to start vain resuscitative measures, but before I lost conciousness, I witnessed some turn their concerned gaze to me and rush to my aid. As the first helping hand reached me, a calm blackness was taking over, as conciousness flowed as freely from me, as life did the vagrant. The last thing I remember is hitting the floor.

Ubaphog.....

Dushman....

What did they mean? Why did he utter “Mahan Preta” with an almost reverence, while the rest was screamed with an inhuman growl seared with the deepest contempt the human soul could muster ? What does it all mean ? Why me ? Why the outburst ? He was normal, a normal man, almost pitiful. The undeniable hate, the malice that protruded from his eyes, it hit my soul, almost physically, I swear I could feel it. Why ? All of these thoughts entered my head, as one thinks before he or she wakes, but their eyes have not opened to receive the morning yet. It seemed as I was in a state of sensory deprivation, floating in a black, senseless infinite abyss, no mass, just me. These thoughts were almost auditory, as they swirled in my mind, inhabited my psyche. They were the only things that kept me company. Was I still unconscious ? This was much more lucid than dreaming, as I could control my thoughts and somewhat of my movements. I must be dreaming. I kept telling myself that, one part trying to make sense of what was happening, another trying not to panic. I can not accurately describe how I felt in that abyss, I felt weightless but at the same time like I was being held down by one thousand pounds of force. I could move, but it took every ounce of concentration I had. PRETA. There it was again. That time I knew it wasn’t a thought, I actually heard the word Preta. Horror started to sink in, its tendrils creeping into my mind slowly, like ivy into stone and mortar. I realized this was unlike any unconscious state I’ve ever experience prior in my life. PRETA. This, this is somehow real. I thought to myself, as I started to try to resist. But resist what ? To this moment, I am still unsure of the answer. I was in a matterless abyss, devoid of any sensory stimuli, but at the same time being pulled by an overwhelming force on a track unseen towards an unknown destination. Why me ? What did those words mean ? PRETA.

What was once an almost tranquil confusion was now nearing full panic, I was completely lucid, in control of my thoughts, in a place that seemed outside of time and space, and abyss black as the night sky, but contained no stars. Relentlessly, I was being pulled by an unseen force, where ? Why ? A speck of light started to come into view, as relief flooded over and into me. Was it a star ? Finally some sense of normalcy, it seemed to calm my nerves. One doesn’t realize how the smallest of things, that we take for granted every day can provide the most profound impact when everything normal has been taken from our senses. That shining beacon mustn’t have been far off, it was growing to rapidly in size as I approached it. Then what little short lived reprieve I had left me at once, as I realized this wasn’t the normal orb shaped star that one observed in the night sky. Where the hell am I ? Why me ? I thought to myself, as the shape took on a more rectangular appearance. It was so close and huge now, that it dominated my vision as I came to the realization I was being pulled into its almost gravitational grasp. I felt all of the emotions associated with impending doom, panic, and terror. Was this it for me ? What exactly is it ? Am I going to die ? God above, please don’t make this painful, please. I clenched my eyes, gritted my teeth, and tears streamed down my face as the light was so near and so great that it was blinding. This was it. No more darkness. Goodbye.

A subconscious roar so startling that it jolted me awake. I was back on the interrogation room floor. Had it all been a dream ? My cheeks were still wet with the tears that were streaming in my hallucination. The door of the interrogation room. The door must have been what the rectangular star was, I must have been subconsciously preparing myself to wake up. That had to be it, I thought as relief washed over me. It was short lived as I reluctantly realized as the interrogation room was not in the same state as it was as I conciously departed from it. The room was dimly lit, and there seemed to be signs of a great struggle, nobody present, not a soul. Tables were flipped and shards of glass and wood lay on the ground, seeming like islands in the vast pools of blood that were standing stagnant in sporadic splotches. What the hell happened here ? I thought, as the flickering lights above seemed to punctuate my thoughts. God I have always hated flickering lights, I thought, sitting there collecting my thoughts. PRETA. Oh god, oh no, please no, no no no. Where and why did I just hear that ? PRETA. I’m not imagining this, I actua - PRETA - lly heard that. PRETA. The sound was at almost a chant like state now, droning, coming from within the room, more frequent by the second. The lights breaking my psyche as they continued to flicker lending to no comfort. Then, the last flicker of the overhead lights revealed a vague shape in the corner. Shoulders, a head, a short stout body, standing idly facing away from me. It was dark, the light fixture was illuminated no longer as it’s intermittent flickering came to an end. I was not alone. Now how I wished for the lights to flicker, as seconds before I cursed it.

There was an evil laugh that came from the darkened corner of the previously thought abandoned interrogation room. Almost guttural, in its sound, it had no place leaving human lips. Please God, let me still be asleep, don’t let this be real, I thought silently to myself. Then, to shatter what little reserve of fortitude I had still left within my soul, the voice laughed and replied “This is very real David. Your God isn’t in here now, only my God.” Oh God no, did it just read my thoughts. I heard wet footsteps approach me in total darkness, and I knew it was making its way to me through the blood. “You know David, I didn’t want this life, I didn’t want this to happen, but you were going to end my life, and you did. Preta saved me from the abyss.” Just then, a swirling blackness that I can only describe as an almost palpable shadow flowed over me. I could feel it’s cold touch, and even though it was pitch black in the room, I could somehow see it. “Ah there she is, Preta my God you have came to witness” the voice in the darkness proclaimed.

The footsteps grew closer until they were in front of me, as hands reached down and grabbed me by my collar in a vaguely familiar way. In a bout of super human strength, they lifted me up, and pinned me against the wall, I felt as though I was as helpless as a toddler sitting from a high chair, because my legs were dangling. Then all of my horrors became realized as the face came into view as was that of James McElroy, the Irishman I killed. His eyes, black, peered into my soul, his lips snarling back to revealed blood stained teeth. Somehow I knew that the blood on his teeth, while some was his that he spat up from his internal hemorrhaging, the rest was from the blood of my fellow policeman. Seemingly reading my thoughts, a demonic grin tightened across his face to reveal black gums, and breath that of a carcass. He said “You’re a very smart man David, you’re right. They didn’t put up much of a fight” . He went on to tell me the source of my horror “you see, when I landed in that far away land, I learned more than their customs” his black soulless eyes, still peering at me “I learned the truth of all, I learned the truth of what permeates through the universe. The locals call it Preta, it means ghost in Hindi, and they simultaneously revered it as an obscure ancient god, and feared it as a force that permeated through the aether of the universe. Preta, she’s older than our solar system and has consumed countless systems in the past for it disobeying her word, just as she will consume you David. You see, the locals made amulets, to protect themselves from her, and I was given one as a kind gesture, but instead of using it to fend off the boogeyman in the dark, I worshipped it, knowing it was the source of all consuming power. As he leaned into me, peering into the depths of my soul, his black grin, lifeless eyes, carcass breath, all unhinging me from my normal composure, I saw it. The one thing that caused unbridled terror to unfurl into my soul, whose black tendrils gripped my heart, and made my ventricles contract like never before.

I still cannot fully mentally grasp what I saw, but as the best of my words will allow, I’ll try to describe. It was as if it were darker than black, an unfathomable color never before seen by mortal eyes. Atoms from some unreached corner of the abyss of the cosmos, congealing to make a singular form, coming together to make a terrible form of the most unholy and unnatural. Ethereal aether becoming solid, to form the fabric of ancient robes, wrapped around evil flesh whose sinews lead to wicked bone. As the unholy terror came forth into physical form, the realization clutched my psyche, that I was witnessing something that no mortal should witness, the daemonic entity, Preta. With a hand, that was as inorganic as it was alive, as solid as it was permeable, stroked my face, I stood in frozen terror. The Irishman sank into maniacal laughter, screaming, singing, worshipping at his goddess in physical form, and at his success of summoning her to protect him. It moved in unattural ways, like nothing seen on earth, flowing, smoking, ebbing, filling the interrogation room. The Irishman took great delight in seeing his supposed deliverance from harm, when a guttural noise wet with blood rose through his vocal cords. He looked down and saw a tendril sharper than any steel protruding through his chest. What he could not see, that I unfortunately could, was it was emanating from Preta, from the void behind its cloak. It was apparent at that moment that it didn’t give a damn about loyalties, that we were nothing more than ants to a much older entity. He seemed to levitate as the tendril hauled him into the air, screams tried to exit his mouth, but his whole body was clenched in agony, pouring blood onto the cold tile floor. In one blur of indifferent slaughter, the tendril snatched upwards towards the heavens, showering the room in a red deluge that landed just as lifeless on the floor as the two halves of the Irishman had. Then, without hesitating, as if it sacfrice fueled hunger had not been satiated, it turned its ancient inhuman gaze towards me.

Pure adrenaline fueled instinct flooded my legs as I found myself escaping the room and sprinting down the hall, my mind locked with terror, but my body wanted me to live. My muscles in my legs, stocked with blood and andrenaline, pumping, stomping, sprinting in search of refuge. Behind me, I could hear the heavy metal door blow off of the hinges and glass explode and shower the floor with deadly sharp crystals. It was coming for me. The ceiling crashing, cinderblock walls being blown out, craters being knocked into the floor, it was horrifyingly apparent that an unstoppable ancient force was pursuing me. My only chance at salvation was the armory at the end of the hallway. When this police station was constructed, the architect had reinforced the armory, supposedly fearing civil unrest or a mafia strike resulting from the looming prohibition. It could withstand a bomb blast, the same type of blasts that sound like are getting closer to me. As I neared, to my relief, I could see the door was not only unlocked, but standing ajar, allowing me to rush inside without hinderance. I slammed the vault like metal door shut behind me, and turned the lock to secure the tree limb sized dead bolt into place.

Momentary relief washed over me, as I sat behind the inpenetrable steel wall of the door, and even more as I realized I was surrounded by every firearm the force had. The feeling was too brief, and the sense of reality hit me, that an entity from another realm in space/time wouldn’t flinch at the sensation of bullets, and the door I was cowering behind would soon be blown off the hinges no matter the amount of human engineering that tried to make it indomitable. Hopelessness filled me, I realized I had cornered myself, just as a stupid animal does when awaiting impending slaughter. The end is inevitable. No way out of the room and the door will soon be blown off the hinges, and I, in no way will be consumed as the Irishman was, I will not go out that way. No amount of these firearms will serve my salvation, and this door will crumble as surely as the walls of Jericho had. Death is as inevitable for me now as the coming entity. I will not be slaughtered as some sacrifice for some thing of providence unknown.

The time has come. The rumblings has stopped at the door, the metal has started shearing, the pitches and agonized howls of the reinforced material is deafeaning. It too knows I am going to die, just as it too is meeting it’s end. My name is David Brahn, I am a son, who loves his parents very much. I am a friend of those, whom I hold very dear in my heart. I am an officer whom upheld his duty until his last moment. Please forgive me, Mother, Father. Please do not look at me as a coward, and do not remember my last moments, as filled with terror as they may seem, I am now relieved I will soon not be feeling them any more. I have loved you all in this life, and I will ceaselessly do so in the next as well. No need to grieve this will be quick, and painless. Oh God make this quick. Forgive me. The last hinge is starting to break. The barrel of my .357 fits flush against the side of my head in a soothing way, it’s steel is cold, it’s the last thing I’ll feel on earth. The door has hit the ground, goodbye.