The Muse

I wandered like an apparition through the party. I floated around and through clusters of people, their jovial jaws worked hard to be heard; too focused on their conversations to notice me. I was looking for anyone who might have a similar demeanor to my own so that we could lament over the successes of our friend and host rather than exalt in them. Sadly, the rain cloud that seemed to be hovering over my head was nowhere to be found among all of these happy people. The whiskey I sipped on in my glass had disappeared and yet I felt none of its advertised effects, so I set off again through the crowd to the bartender on duty.

The event space was the upper level of a popular restaurant in the city. Dark wood tables, black leather high backed chairs and yellow lighting from low hanging chandeliers created an ambiance of a gothic speak easy. Had I not been in a sour state of mind I believe I would have found it rather charming. The bartender blessed me with a generous three finger pour, and I went to work drinking. Suddenly a hand clapped down on my shoulder and a familiar voice was beside me.

“Arthur! There you are! I was afraid you hadn’t come.” The voice came from my friend Peter, the host. He slumped down on the stool next to me and somehow conveyed his order to the barkeep with a one finger wave like a Jedi manipulating a person with a lesser mind. He wore a black dress shirt that was partially unbuttoned at the top, revealing a single gold chain around his neck. He had an infectious smile, and I couldn’t help but to grin back, nevertheless, his pearly white teeth couldn’t distract me enough from the hair that looked thinner on his head each time I saw him. At least that’s one thing my Italian blood blessed me with. I gratuitously pushed my thick black hair back and said, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Peter took a sip of his own libation that had appeared in front of him and said, “I hope not, I couldn’t have done all of this without you.”

I glanced to my right where at the end of the bar was a book easel with a new hardcover being displayed with a fresh stack next to it. The authors name was Peter O’Toole and he continued to speak praise into my left ear.

“Seriously, only a few of us here know just how difficult it really is to write a book.”

“Well, you couldn’t include me in that lot.” I said.

“Oh nonsense. You’ve done everything but publish. Your time will come, I know it.”

He meant it to be a compliment, but it could only come across as condescending. Peter had the idea for his novel a year and a half ago. Now he was published. He credits me with helping him to shape the novel into what it is now, but the truth was he hadn’t taken much of my advice, actually he tended to do the opposite of what I told him. So, as much as I hated to admit it, the book at the end of the bar was truly Peter’s work and I only helped to divert him away from bad ideas.

Meanwhile, I had spent the last 4 years working on my own abomination. I needed the likes of Dr. Frankenstein to help bring the novel back to life for I seem to have only managed in killing the poor thing. What did Peter know of adversity, rejection, or pain? He had found gold with nary a swing of his pick axe, while I continued to dig in vain.

“I hope you’re right,” I said as I felt the whiskey beginning to work, loosening the knots in my mind, “this failed writer persona was cute at first. I wore it as a badge of honor, but now it’s starting to become my actual identity. I’m not entirely sure how to change course.”

Peter looked at me with concern and said, “What would you be willing to do to get published?”

“Nothing is off the table at this point.” I said earnestly. Knowing what I know now I’m still not sure I would have answered any differently. I looked over at him and he was studying me, his face was all scrunched up like he was looking at a modern art piece. Finally, he said, “Are you saying you would do anything to help your situation? To become the writer you dream of?”

“Hell yes.” I said.

He sighed like I had given him the wrong answer and then drained the rest of his drink before he said, “I can help you then.”

I wasn’t convinced, “I don’t need any more, ‘fake it till you make it’ advice, Pete, in fact spare me any advice you might have. A genie might be the only thing left that can help me.”

He smiled and said, “I don’t have a genie, but I would like to introduce you to someone. Someone who helped me. I had them come here tonight because I thought you may be interested to meet him.”

“They’re here? Now?” I asked.

“Yes, but there’s no going back from this. Are you sure you want to meet him?”

“Will he actually help me?” I asked.

“Yes. He actually will so long as you’re willing.” He said.

“Willing to do what?”

“That’s up to him. Are you still interested?”

I paused a moment and thought about my options. Option one was to continue doing what I was doing which had only resulted in multiple ulcers and a pile of rejection letters. Option two seemed to be receive help from a stranger who had a way of turning a nobody who could just barely pass as a writer, into a published author with a book tour. No one got book tours anymore…Again, I looked over at Peter’s book at the end of the bar and then back at the man and said, “Count me in.”

He smiled, but in a way that wasn’t happy but consoling. Like I had just decided to put my sick old dog down and he was going to support me through it.

“Alright then. Come with me.” He said.

I followed him onto the roof. We emerged into a cloudless night. The light from the stars was muted by the pollution of the artificial city light. The LED’s that beamed skyward had their own kind of beauty. The city lights served as a testimonial to vibrant life, whereas the stars were a sullen reminder of something long dead. The real showstopper though was the full moon. Like a giant light bulb in the sky it shown bright upon the city and one could not help but look up at it’s beauty. It was so bright that it cast our shadows upon the squishy tar rooftop. At the edge of the roof which transitioned up about 3 feet so there was a little barrier, a lone man stood with his back to us. He wore a long trench coat and a small top hat, other than that I could only see the occasional cloud of smoke that billowed from whatever he was smoking. As we approached, I noticed that curiously this man did not have a shadow.

“Hello Magnus,” Peter said.

The man near the edge turned around. He smoked a cigar the size of a microphone and the tip glowed like a stop light as he sucked on the end. Only once he removed the stogie from his mouth could I see his face. He looked more skeletal then human. He had deep set eyes with dark circles under them and concave cheeks under sharp cheekbones. His chin was long and his grin was wide and his teeth were so yellow they resembled kernels of corn.

“Hello Peter, I see everything is going as planned. Congratulations.” Magnus said with a raspy voice. Like air was leaking from his windpipe.

“Thank you. You’ve certainly changed my life.” Peter said.

He grinned mischievously and said, “I am but a humble vessel. She’s the real hero isn’t she?” He said pointing to Peter’s head.

Peter nodded and smiled sheepishly. “She is remarkable.”

Magnus then he pointed with his cigar in my direction and said, “Now who is this?”

“In accordance with our deal I have brought you another. His name is Arthur, and he is in a similar situation to what I was in.”

“Is that so?” He turned slowly to look at me while he took another big rip off his cigar and blew the smoke up into space. “Why don’t you tell me about your ‘situation,’ Arthur?”

I answered his question with liquor loose lips. I told him of my ambitions, and my struggles as an artist and by the time I was done he looked at me, not with any kind of sympathy but rather as a predator homing in on it’s prey. He looked hungry.

“I see. Well you seem to be in even more need than our friend Peter over here was.” Magnus said, as he turned away from me and looked up, the pale moonlight spread across his translucent skin. “I believe we can help you become the successful writer of your dreams, Arthur. The question is, are you willing to give us what we require in return?”

I looked to Peter for some kind of assurance, but his face remained stoic. “Is this for real? You trust this guy?” I asked.

Peter nodded and said, “Arthur, this man can give you everything you’ve ever wanted, but the choice is up to you.”

“Thank you, Peter. You can leave us now.” Magnus said.

I swiveled back to look at Magnus who was patiently puffing on his cigar that never seemed to diminish in size.

“Can I ask what it is that you require?” I asked.

“Of course. You must be a willing participant in order for this to work anyhow. What we require is very simple. It’s something inside of you. All human beings possess one.”

I didn’t like the way he referred to me as a human being. Like he wasn’t one. “You mean like an Organ? You need a kidney or something?

“Hm not necessarily an Organ. But if it was, it would be more akin to the Appendix for you don’t even know that it’s there.” Magnus said.

“Okay, so what is it?” I asked.

Magnus paused, took the cigar from his mouth, and said very clearly, “Your Soul, Arthur. We require your Soul.”

At first I wanted to laugh because of how ludicrous that sounded. He wanted my soul? How was I supposed to just fork that over? Then that feeling turned to dread as I looked at the predatory look on Magnus’ face. He was serious.

“You want my Soul?” I repeated.

Magnus nodded.

“What does that entail exactly? How do I give it to you?” I was beginning to get nervous as one does around insanity.

“Well, maybe I should say that we would like to occupy your soul. You see, I wasn’t kidding when I told Peter that I was a vessel. I give shelter to what you would call Demons. They live within me, thousands of them, and like a foster parent I give them a home until I can find them a suitable place to live, but that requires a Soul freely given. Demons don’t have a soul and therefore are forced to live in a liminal space between worlds. Neither alive nor dead, a kind of purgatory.”

Naturally I was in shock by this wild confession. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.

“Are you being serious?” Was all I could manage.

“Quite serious, Arthur. The demons I house are all capable of extraordinary things. They have the power to make your life something that you’ve only dreamed of. That’s why I prefer to call them your personal Muse. They will continue to inspire you and all they ask for in return is a stable soul for them to live vicariously through.”

“But aren’t all demons evil?” I asked.

“Are all humans good?” He countered.

It was a good point but I still couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. “So you’re telling me that Peter has a demon in him?”

“Yes, and I think they are getting along quite nicely from the looks of it.”

“So, he no longer has a soul?” I asked.

“Peter is still in there, and so is his Muse. They co-exist, and have a kind of symbiotic relationship.” Magnus said.

“But the demon, er Muse, can take over at any time and force him to do it’s bidding?” I asked.

“Well, yes. But if you are well suited then you’re happy with their decisions. Like a spouse choosing what you’ll have for dinner. Chances are they know you like the food so you’re okay with them making the decision for you.”

I was beginning to soften to the idea, insane as it was. I was trying to be logical, and weigh the pros and cons. “So, if I barely know their there, I get the life I’ve always dreamed of, while this Muse just quietly is along for the ride, then what’s the catch?”

Magnus sighed and said, “If you must know…”

“Yes, I must,” I said bitterly.

“All right then. When you die, the demon will take over your soul completely, therefore, whatever God you pray to will not be able to find you amongst the souls that could be saved. You will live within your demon for eternity.”

Eternity was just a word then, I didn’t truly understand. How could a mortal comprehend?

“But what if I like my Demon? Then wouldn’t that not be so bad?” I asked.

Magnus smiled and said, “That’s one way to look at it.”

I lifted my drink to my lips and found its contents long gone. Magnus extended his hand and said, “Allow me.” He took the glass and closed his eyes, when he opened them they were not his. Golf ball size orange orbs revealed themselves and they glared at the glass in his hands until an amber liquid began to rise from the bottom. When it was halfway Magnus closed his eyes and upon opening them his own black olive iris’ had returned.

He handed me back the glass and it shook slightly as I lifted it to my lips and tasted the whiskey that had magically appeared.

“They are capable of a great many things, Arthur. Your desires fuel them. Passionate people are the kind of souls that thrive with a Muse.”

That little glimpse of power had shifted something in my mind. I had gone from disbelief, to fear, to potential. What kind of life could I make for myself with this type of power? On the other hand, we were talking about my immortal soul and the fact that I could get paired with a potentially murderous kind of demon who may force me to be the next Dahmer.

“While this isn’t a decision that should be made lightly, you do need to make it rather quickly.” Magnus said.

“Does it hurt? How does the Demon get in?”

“The eyes are the windows to the soul are they not?” Magnus said.

“That sounds like it hurts.” I said.

Magnus wheezed which I took for a laugh and said, “Some people sneeze, but that’s all. So, what will it be, Arthur?”

I took another sip of Whiskey and wandered towards the edge of the building. The world suddenly looked full of possibilities which I had not envisioned for some time. My life had been a confluence of unfortunate events that had only left me with limitations. A life without limits was an intoxicating thought. I thought of Peter’s success and the money and the notoriety. It was a chance to produce something that may be remembered forever. Wasn’t that a kind of immortality in and of itself? I was wrong about one thing though. This success was not Peter’s alone. In fact, how much of it was actually Peter? Only he would know, and at the end of the day he had to live with that. What was one willing to live with was the real question. I strode back over to Magnus with my answer.

A year later I stood on a different kind of ledge, a much smaller one. It was only a six foot drop into the grave where the casket lay with Peter inside of it. He had taken his own life. Most people believed it was substance abuse that brought about his demise, but I knew differently. Turns out that he and his Muse maybe weren’t so suited for each other. Whether it was the demon that craved the substance or it was the only thing that quieted their voice, either way Peter was the victim. His book had become a bestseller, and he would go on to receive the Nobel prize for literature posthumously so he would be remembered for a long time to come, but the cost was heavy.

I looked around at the sea of people who came to pay their respects. Beyond the last row of people there was a tree line and I could make out a lone skeletal figure leaning against one of the pines. I could see the top hat and the smoke from a cigar and a pair of bright orange eyes. I blinked and he was gone.

“Was that who I think it was?” said a voice.

“I think so. Some nerve showing up here.” I replied.

The woman standing next to me leaned over and said, “Did you say something, Arthur?”

I hadn’t realized I had spoken out loud. “No, no. Just talking to myself.” I said with a smile.