The Lancet Pen

It’s December, and I am stuck in a constant state of irritation and perpetual wincing at the mere mention of jolly ol’ Nick, the happy festivities and the hope of a snow filled Christmas. 

And who can forget about the biting cold?

But there is nothing happy, at least not for me, I am not a holiday person. Don’t call me Scrooge or the Grinch, they at least got some heart to them at the end of those stories.

This is not such a story. 

I work a monotonous job, hour after hour spent hunched over a desk, day after day. And at the end of those days, which often turned into late nights to finish the work of those that made more money than me and still took the credit, meant I in turn often missed my bus to get home. So, I found myself at the quaint antiques shop where my bus would stop in front of, filled with shelves and shelves of obscure and unique trinkets and books. Searching through these shelves of spoils of the past and the people they had come from. 

“You seem to favor that one.” I heard a soft voice sing from behind me. I turned to find the source and found the sweet shop owner standing behind me. Yes, there was something I did favor. 

The shop owner was a woman who looked to be in her late thirties, with curly black flowing hair. She was beautiful and often let me browse without ever buying anything, especially on cold nights when the bus was running late. Had I developed a crush? Maybe missed my bus on purpose once or twice? I can say yes now, can allow myself to admit there was… Something there. Like I had known her, seen her somewhere else before. But I knew she was referring to the book currently opened in my hands.

“I like a good read.” I shrug and close the book.

“How did you learn Latin?” She asks casually, turning to rearrange a few trinkets on one of the shelves behind her. I looked at her confused and lifted the book in my hands to reread the title, the front cover now showing the title of the book in Latin, The Magni Mali. Or, as I had read earlier The Grandest Evil. I quickly opened the book to a random page, coincidentally the same page I had been looking at before, and found the pages in English.

“A mismatched cover, perhaps. The inside of the book is English text.”

She muses to herself, “Ah, right... So, all the books for your reading pleasure, and you always choose this one. Something interesting?” I look down to the page I find myself reading every time I come to the store.

The Demon of Desire.

“Daemonium Desiderii.” She says. Again, Latin. She turns to face me then and gently holds one half of the book up while I hold the other.

“The Demon of Desire, first a human given the power to conjure anything he willed turned by a dark witch's love as he burned for heresy; takes the form of what will suit it best as it seeks out innocents to corrupt; by seducing them with their deepest desire. At a price.” She stops reading suddenly and hums, “If you could have anything you ever wanted and all you had to do was lose a little blood, would you?”

The question that should have rung alarm bells in my head like a distorted version of the bells those jolly ol’ Nick’s out there use when seeking donations. It should have made me run, and I could chalk it up to the winter air locking my legs in place, but really; like I said, I had grown to like the small little shop on the bus stop corner. And it’s beautiful shop owner.

“I beg your pardon?” I had finally found the words to speak again.

She simply smiled and walked to the front of her shop to go behind the counter and push aside a long red velvet curtain with gold accents that hid another room. How hadn’t I ever noticed that before? 

I looked down at the book again, wondering how bad losing a little blood could really be if I could get everything I wanted. Busting my ass at work wasn’t doing the trick after all. I placed the book back on the shelf and decided to follow the shop owner to the counter. She returned from behind the curtain and placed a small rectangle box on the counter. 

She gestured for me to open it and In the box was an equally beautiful gold pen. But unlike the other trinkets, those that showed wear and tear, a history of life; this pen looked brand new. I had become mesmerized by the pen, not realizing the sweet shop owner had been talking this whole time until I looked up at her again.

“A gift. A good luck charm, maybe,” The woman was saying, I looked at her puzzled as she pushed the pen closer in my direction, “Always missing the bus in this cold, for example.”

“And how is a pen to help me with that?”

She shrugged, “I suppose it depends on your level of faith.”

”Faith in what, exactly?” I picked the pen up, enjoyed the slight heaviness and sleekness of it resting in my palm.

“Magic.” She said simply, like I should have known this all along.

I laughed, but tried to stifle it with a cough when I noticed she was frowning slightly, “And if I don’t believe in magic?”

“Well, I’ll have to fix that won’t I?” She said with a small smile while pushing a blank piece of paper toward me. 

“So, what? I write down what I want with this pen and I get it? I thought this was an antique shop, not a magic shop.” I replied amused, twirling the pen in my hand before clicking the top of the pen and wincing in pain. I heard the thud as it fell to the counter top, I watched as blood droplets pooled out of my thumb and fell onto the page. 

“What the hell was that?” I said sharply, looking up quickly while she rushed to find a tissue under her counter. She wrapped it around my thumb, and suddenly it felt like the air around me slowed; and I could only feel her hand wrapped around my own. Then, all too quickly, I smelled the slight must of the shop and heard the light pattering of rain starting to fall against the shop windows.

“It needs your blood to write. Go on…” She whispers and her eyes flicker to mine, beautiful small marbles of abyss staring back at me.

I was surprised, not because I followed her suggestion but because my body didn’t stop me. No goosebumps, no red flags waving frantically as I picked up the pen and watched it write… Or rather, bleed.

I want the bus to arrive now and wait for me to board.

A sudden dizziness overtook me before a bright light outside the shop window further blinded my vision, then I realized it was a bus turning the corner and stopping in front of the shop. Doors open, almost like it was waiting for me to board. I laughed without humor, suddenly wondering how long I had been in this shop. It felt like hours.

“Coincidence.” I muttered unconvincingly to myself.

“Magic, maybe.” The shop owner offered with a satisfied grin. She places the pen back in the box and slides it to me, “Yours, for the taking. Happy Holidays Christopher.” She moves quickly behind the red curtain while I look down at the box. 

“How did you know my name?” I call out suddenly, but receive no reply. I move to the front door, though each step feels heavy and sluggish. As if something is holding me back. I turn once again to the box and hurry to pick it up before heading out into the rain. Running to the bus, which is still waiting…

Once home, I take the pen out of my jacket pocket and place it on my bedside table. I try to forget about it, while changing out of my work clothes but I can’t get the image of the shop owner out of my mind. I can still feel the prick of the pen and the change in air. I sit at the edge of my bed and stare at the box. A part of me, one that scares even me, wants to open it. See what it can really do. 

“Coincidence.” I mutter to myself again before leaving the box where it is and turning the light off to try and fall asleep. 

Now I rarely dream, or remember my dreams, but tonight is different. I can feel the air on my exposed arms, feel my feet dig into a black sanded beach. I can smell vanilla and clementine trailing away from me and see the back of a beautiful woman. This scent is most familiar, but I’m unsure where or who it’s from. I feel the pricks of sand clinging to my feet, ankles and parts of my legs when I stand. The woman is waiting for me, so I follow.

I can’t see her face, and her words are slurred and sound far away. But what I do catch forces a heavy pit to sit in my stomach… “Cursed… Lovers….”

What did this mean… Were we lovers? Cursed, and for what reason? She reaches for my hand and I wince, looking down to see some blood falling from it; but no cut in sight.

“Give unto me your memories, death seeks to bury. In every life I search for you. Remember me, my lovely corruption… Remember me.” I heard her plea now. I could feel something pulling me away, and though we desperately tried to cling to each other; it wasn’t enough. I was pulled toward the ocean, felt the cold wrap around my ankles and draw me under. I could taste the salt water and flailed my arms around for any kind of help. 

I awoke to find myself standing, drenched in sweat instead of sea water and to my horror, felt the same heavy sleekness of the pen in my hand, blood dripping from my thumb; and on my wall - my handwriting - my blood:

I want to remember who I was.

I didn’t touch the pen the remainder of the night. Though I wanted nothing to do with it, I also couldn’t be away from it. Instead, I settled on the floor by my bedroom door and didn’t move, using it to keep myself propped up and awake. I stared and stared at the wall, trying to remember when I had gotten up to grab and use the pen. I didn’t need to remember who I was, I was me. I was home and it was just a bad dream. But the writing on the wall proved it wasn’t just a dream, and that something was happening. 

“Who am I, then?” I whisper to myself, my eyelids slowly dropping from the heaviness of lack of sleep. 

Again, I dreamed. Only this time I was not on a beach, this time I watched a man in what looked like 16th century attire sitting at a wooden table, pages and pages full of red ink, the same gold pen in his hand. My body moved closer on its own will, and I realized the pages weren’t full of red ink, but blood. That this man, was me. But how? 

Then suddenly, I heard yelling and banging on his door. The man rushed to scribble down more words before the door was broken down, and a riot of angry townspeople rushed in to grab the man by his arms and force him out of the room. Those that had stayed behind, lit fire to his room and the papers. I watched the pen disappear. The words I caught repeated over and over, chilled me to the bone.

I want them to bend to my will or suffer under it.

I followed the angry townspeople out of the burning room, the fire quickly dancing from room to room before engulfing the whole home. I could feel the fire licking at my exposed feet when exiting, followed by the dampness of the grass outside. It had rained, but it had cleansed nothing.

“Beloved!” I watch a woman scream, her frame oddly the same as the woman from the beach. The same following hair. She watches in horror as the man is tied to pikes. Dry grass and bark left at his feet. She moves to stand with him, but is pulled back by a sneering man that intends to force her to watch. 

“Keep it safe, avenge me. Curse them, for they have cursed us.” He roars, not taking his eyes off his beloved, and somehow, I know he means the pen. I see someone light a new flame, while the woman mutters quickly to herself;

“Dust to dust, I summon thee,

Dust to dust, I set you free, 

Come to me,

Darkness of Destiny.

Fill my love with demon leprosy.”

Suddenly the man’s eyes turn black and a wicked smile forms at his lips, the villagers are yelling, condemning him for his crimes against nature. Crimes that began to fill my mind like my own memory with scenes of stolen fortunes, the enjoyment of the slow kill against those who had treated him as deficient, mediocre. Then I watch the flame in slow motion being thrown; but cannot bear to watch it land at his feet. The screams after were enough, or was it laughter? And suddenly, I felt as if my flesh were his. That I was burning too.

Abruptly, I awake again. Though unmoved from my spot at my bedroom door. I can still feel the flames on my skin though uncharred. 

There will be no sleep tonight. I can feel the bags under my eyes but push myself to throw on my clothes from earlier and grab the pen. I look down at it and notice my blood which had been filling the chamber, once red now oozing black…

How I had made it back to the shop, to her, is anyone’s guess. But there I stood, watching the flicker of a few candles in her window. I had hoped this too was a dream, that I would not find the shop door open. But I felt the cold pierce my palm as I grabbed the knob and turned it to walk inside.

“Back so soon?” I heard her voice, but did not see her anywhere. Suddenly the few candles spread about turned off and left no light, aside from a faint glow coming from behind the red curtain.

I pulled the curtain back to find a small table surrounded by shelves of more books, these ancient and sacred, along with herbs and candles. On the table is a small cauldron and I watch her, suddenly mesmerized and dizzy. Something about this again seems familiar. She takes a small bag, tying various herbs together and what looks to be the bloodied napkin from earlier when I first used the pen; to put inside of it.

”Lemongrass, datura stramonium and,” She pauses, drawing a small dagger from the table and slicing her finger to let a few drops stain the green of the herbs, “Some blood.” She drops it into the cauldron, mumbling under her breath before a fire starts and begins to burn the bag. I step back slightly bewildered, but the fire, though small, is intense and I can’t look away. My eyes burn as I begin to see images, memories dancing and flickering in the fire.

Of me, of her. A life… Or rather, lives together. Centuries of chaos and destruction, and her beautiful smile. Then, a dark shadow emerges from the fire and I am helpless to its hold over me. The way it settles into me like old skin. 

”Took long enough. Welcome back, Dezi. It’s getting harder and harder to bring you back to me. To make you remember. You must be hungry, and in this time, there are so many souls, desires, to feast upon. Just a signature away.” She says softly, putting her hand out as I watch the pen materialize in her palm. 

I look at her and feel my lips stretch out into a smirk, before catching a glance of myself in the mirror hanging between two shelves. The face staring back at me is mine, but the eyes, they’re his and I too, welcome him home again.