The Letter.

My name is Jonathan Young. The strange event surrounding my disappearance left a lot of unanswered questions. It was not an abduction, suicide, or murder; and not even God, because neither he couldn’t stop the evil I’d unleash.

Starting from the beginning, my childhood was a bed of Rose-stems and thorns. Growing up with my parents was difficult. I was the odd one out of the family; and it’s not that was a bad kid, I was introvert -and it was misinterpreted as contemptuous and dismissive behavior.

On the other hand, my sister Annette, she’s two years older than me, seemed to be everyone’s favorite.

No; I’ve never felt left out. I was not the jealous brother. Annette was a very dynamic woman, fearless, outspoken, and highly intelligent. My parents praised her repeatedly trying to motivate me, but I was set on my ideas; I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to become an artist.

Since my young years I displayed a tendency for drawing and painting. After college, I enrolled in a fine arts school.

As was expected, it did not settle well with my father, who wanted me to take over the family business. He owned a jewelry store, and had repeatedly tried to educate me, and teach me the tricks of the trade, but I had no interest.

As a businessman, my father was highly successful, but on a personal level, he was an aggressive, abusive alcoholic gambler and a cheater.

My mother knew all about him, but she was in love with him, and love is blind. She had said, the one and only time we talked freely and openly.

A few weeks after my twenty-first birthday, I decided to move out and explore this great big world.

I wanted to get away from the everyday fights, and my mothers’ cry for help. On a few occasions I had called the police, nonetheless she said she’d slipped and fallen on the front porch stairs to excuse the bruises and the black eye. On another occasion, she said that nothing had happened, and I was just a dysfunctional kid.

I invested my time in my basement studio, painting portraits, landscapes, but none was exciting as creating surrealistic images. I was still exploring the world of canvas and I was excited by the possibilities.

I participated in a few contests, and I won top prizes. I’ve made the decision to move to my own place to follow my dream.

My parents made it clear, if I move, I shouldn’t be expecting help, I’ll be on my own. I left and never looked back.

I moved into a basement studio. My first apartment, my dream of becoming a recognized artist -and be independent, free of the toxic home was becoming a reality.

Driven by determination, I worked frantically, and two months later, I displayed my work in a small neighborhood gallery. My first exhibition, my first success.

I displayed nine paintings, and I sold every single one. I was finally independent with the cash I had earned from my art -and very proud of myself.

However, my success was short-live. In less than two years, I had to face my first eviction from my spacious two-bedroom loft apartment I had moved to. I moved back into a studio, and three months later I was evicted again, and again, and again.

My last apartment, a moldy, wet basement room I rented for seven-hundred-dollars in a rundown apartment building on sixth street and Market, in the heart of tenderloin. I painted, I produced painting after painting after painting, trying, and trying, but it was useless. I was getting raving reviews but no sales.

In hope for some cash, I put on my happy face and visited the convenient liquor stores in the neighborhood offering to cover the graffiti covered storefronts with artistic designs at a very cheap price. Some laughed, and some said no.

One rainy November day, I returned to my apartment, and I faced another eviction. I had no resources, neither my father, my mother nor my sister returned any of my desperate calls for help. I was alone, hungry, homeless -and desperate with no one to turn to for support.

Disappointed, I started packing my most prized possessions. Magazines and newspaper clippings of my glory days, then, an article caught my eye.

ROBERT LEROY JOHNSON: An American blues musician. Born on May 8, 1911, and died on August 15, 1938, at twenty-seven-years-old. Throughout his short and poorly documented life, influenced generations of rock and blues musicians, also have given rise to much legend, including a Faustian myth.

According to legend, as a young man living on a plantation in rural Mississippi, Robert Johnson was ranted with a burning desire to become a great blues musician. In a dream, he was instructed to take his guitar to a crossroads near Dockery Plantation at midnight. There he met by a large man, the Devil, who took the guitar and tuned it. The Devil played a few songs and returned the guitar to Johnson along with the mastery of the instrument, in exchange for his soul.

“The Devil?”

It was my fifth eviction, and though I was determined to make it, the idea felt like a dream destined to remain a dream.

I knew the procedure well. In three days, the Sheriff will knock on my door and for one more time I’ll be on the streets.

Desperate, I sat on the floor and read the article one more time. The thought of why not? I have nothing left to lose; it crossed my mind.

I’ve decided to read more about the Robert Johnson story. I went to the library.

The limited information only intrigued my imagination, and I explore books on the occult.

It was two days before the landlord change the locks and throw me on the streets.

I gathered my best brushes and canvases and went to the closest country crossroad.

I’ve arrived a few minutes before midnight, I set-up my tripod with a brand-new canvas and on the stroke of midnight a large and very tall man appeared out of the thin air. He took my paint brushes one by one he smelled them and licked each one of them. He then painted the painting I call the gates of Babylon. It hangs above my bed -and it’s painted by the Devil himself.

Late afternoon the next day, the owner of the gallery who hosted my last exhibit knocked on my door and handed me a check of fifteen-thousand-dollars. All my paintings were sold, I had escape been evicted.

I returned to work. Horrifying images of my childhood nightmares parallel to Francis Bacon and Lovecraft emerged on my canvases. A year later, I purchased a three-bedroom home on Pacific Heights. I’ve become the artist everyone knew. My paintings hung in prestigious galleries, private collections, and museums. The fame, the money, the high life, the respect, and the recognition it was all that it mattered.

But everything has a beginning and an ending. I had reached the peak of my career, and it was time for payback.

The agreement was, after I reach the peak of my career, he’ll have everyone who owns me. In my desperation, I did not read the fine print, but suddenly, it all made sense.

It was at the same time mysterious and unresolved murders headlined the media, which refused to publish photos of the macabre crime scenes.

Nonetheless photos appeared on the Internet. Bodies sliced in half, and others eaten alive. Judging from their facial expressions, others had been pulled apart. Then in one picture, I saw one of my paintings. I downloaded every picture available to examine them closer. Only then, the meaning of He will have who owns me, make sense.

My paintings. All the horrifying monstrous depictions of monsters and mutilated faces, one by one, were coming to life to kill. To kill in the name of the Devil. And I was the only one who could stop it. 

I tried countless ways and methods, but all failed. They won’t burn. I sliced the canvas into pieces, but the pieces came back together, and the painting repair itself.

I had read the thirteen unwritten laws of the black arts.

The curse ends at its source only after completing the cycle; was the fifth. But what if the source was eliminated before the cycle was completed? Will the curse end?

I couldn’t allow the massacre I’ve unleashed to continue. I spent the night trying to find a way to stop it. Perhaps after all my paintings have come to life and kill in the name of Devil, the curse will end, but there were hundreds sold around the world. They were in museums and private collections.

Throughout the night I contemplated, thinking that it has to be another way, or maybe the curse must come to a complete cycle before it ends, regardless of if the source, me, eliminated. Perhaps after all my paintings have come to life and killed in the name of Devil, then killing myself might not be the solution, nevertheless It was a chance I had to take.

I gathered all the paintings in my studio, along with all my paint and brushes, tripods -and even blank canvases and drove to the crossroads were everything started.

Here I was three years later, returned to the place where I’ve given my soul for fame and glory.

I piled my paintings, my brushes, paint, and pallets in the middle of the intersection, right where he had appeared, and I poured gasoline. A strong gusty wind blew some of my semi-completed canvases flew away. I chased them and put them back on the pile. I struck a match, which was immediately extinguished by a gust of wind. I tried again, and again, and finally I started the fire. I got on my knees and for the first time in my life I prayed to God. Then I poured gasoline all over my body and jumped on the burning canvases. I felt the touch of the hot flames engulfing my entire body and felt like a relief; I closed my eyes and prayed to God, nevertheless the Devil protected his assets, and a downpour extinguished the fire.

I questioned if there was another way to end the curse, but none of the occult books in my collection offered any solutions.

Confession? Yes, a confession could be the answer. Confessing that I’ve sold my soul to the Devil for fame, money, and glory would be the right thing.

I called the Grace Cathedral on California street and I set up an appointment for the following day at three in the afternoon with reverent John who is the Dean of the cathedral.

Prompted for my three o’clock appointment with reverent John, at two forty fine I parked my car in the parking lot, took one painting and reluctantly, I walked towards the Cathedral. Nonetheless, the Cathedral seemed to be getting further away. I ran, and the more I ran, the church kept getting further and further away. I knew it was just an illusion. He was only protecting his assets.

I closed my eyes for a short minute, and then I looked around, I was standing beside my car with the painting in my hands, had I even moved away from the car?

There was fresh dirt and grass on my shoes, so it was not an illusion. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. Was I standing with the painting in my underarm for one hour and a half? Or the fact that I was at the cathedral was even real?

I left the painting in the car and walked to the cathedral; I felt nauseated, a strange dizziness took over my body. I climbed the front steps and the closer I got to the door; the dizziness intensified. Then fear, unlike anything I felt before, agonized me. I turned around -and walked back to my car; I retrieved my painting and returned to the Cathedral. This time I made it to the steps. I reached the door, nonetheless I was unable to walk, breathe or talk; I placed my hand on the door handle.

The painting became heavier -and felt hot, like molten lava. Strangely, I could feel the intensity of the heat, but it did not burn me. Then the creature slid out of the canvas, and right before my eyes, the gruesome creature grew two, five, eight, fifteen feet tall.

With its fiery eyes looked at me for a few short moments, then spoke.

“Don’t.” Its voice sounded inside my head. It was an ear-piercing growl. I tried to ignore the fear -and I continued into the cathedral.

Dark clouds covered the sky and a rumbling sound of thunder echoed, a wave of fire consumed the surroundings, and heavy rain immediately started. I mustered every ounce of strength I had left -and pulled the heavy double door.

Darkness! The otherwise brightly lit nave was as dark as a moonless night. Another illusion? I wondered.

“This way!” A voice sounded next to me. It was soft -and soothing. Someone took me by my hand and guided me into what seemed to be a tunnel.

The reflection of a flame glimmered on the wet and shiny walls, a faint scent of melted candle wax, but there was no one. I held my breath and squinted, trying to distinguish some noise, some shadow, nothing; there was no one next to me. Nevertheless, a hand was guiding me somewhere. Was I blind? No -I wasn’t. in the distance far ahead of me there was a light. A dim flickering light.

I tried to walk faster towards the light, but the invisible hand, held me back.

“You’ll get there, but not just yet.” The voice sounded. I knew I had heard that voice before, but who was that familiar men.

I walked for what seemed hours, but I never got close to the light. I stopped and looked behind; I was still at the door, and though seemed I had walked for hours, I had not moved away from the door.

The rain had stopped, there was a small pile of ashes lying on the steps of the church and it was all that remained after the fire, the creature I had created, deployed at me, the rain washed away my ashes.

I was dead. Burned by my creation in the same way as my victims had died.

Was I in Hell? Where is the tall man to whom I gave my soul for fame, money, and glory?

Had I become a ghost destined to roam the Earth trying to end the curse?

Vague silhouettes appeared out of the thin air.

“Why?” a voice asked. I recognized my grandmother, and my childhood friend Justin, who had been killed by a drunk driver the day we graduated high school, asked. “Why?"

Why? I’ve asked the same question. But I knew the answer. Greed, hunger for success, money -and fame.

“Come.” The voice sounded. I turned to see the man with the familiar voice. It was me. It was me guiding me through my success, my mistakes, and the choices I had made.

I walked in places I had lived and talked to people I had met. My customers, my victims. I felt their pain, the agony of being eaten alive by my monstrous creations. I was there at their time of death. I tasted their blood in my mouth and their pain in my soul. So! This is Hell.

Hell is to live over and over all the emotions, the feelings, the pain, and happiness; of your Earthly plane, but where will this end? If there is an end, or perhaps another life to redeem myself?

Heaven and Hell, God, and Devil, are within. Good does not exist without Evil, and Evil without good.

God and the Devil are in the heart of humanity, there always been and there always will be. But in the end, it is your choice, and you have a lifetime to choose. I have chosen Hell. What about you?