Memento Mori

Warning: this story includes sensitive content, such as occultism and death

Friday night. Darkness outside. Some raindrops.

“What a boring day it has been,” I thought to myself. I hadn’t planned anything, neither for the night nor for the weekend. Since the electricity was out for my apartment building, I couldn’t play a quick game on my computer either. So I gazed. At the clock and its intriguing font, for which the word “QUARTZ” was spelled out. At the window, trying to people-watch and come up with stories for anyone passing by the old, rugged street of Downers Alley. But that gazing ended quickly, as not a single person passed by, and there weren’t enough moving objects in my room to put my eyes on for the rest of the hours that the night had to offer.

That wasn’t until I got a call. Private number. Ringtone I haven’t heard before.

My phone must have changed its settings again, since I dropped my phone in a puddle yesterday, and ever since then, strange things have been happening to my notifications and particularly my e-mails. I seem to be automatically subscribed to sites and newsletters I have never seen or visited in my life. I should definitely get that fixed soon, but the call was my first interest. I picked it up, hesitantly.

A raspy, deep voice whispered, “We’re waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I asked.

“Tempus fugit et memento mori,” the caller added.

These words usually wouldn’t have any meaning for me. And definitely not after dropping Latin class in high school, but that was the exact phrase that the latest newsletter on Gmail showed me with pentagrams and black gradients in the background, with a phone number to call. I dismissed that notification yesterday as soon as I realized it looked like a stupid hobby club that my phone probably subscribed to after the puddle drop. But what if the person calling was from this “club”?

“I don’t have time for your occult crap,” I yelled and ended the call. I turned off my phone completely, in hope for not applying to any other newsletters for the time being. I didn’t take the call seriously, but my body was slowly starting to tremble. As if I was scared of something. But it was just a call. Why would I be scared of that? Not five minutes after I turned the phone off, the doorbell rang.

Friday nights, after work, absolutely no one pays me a visit. Family is outside of town, and my friends are currently studying abroad. “Must be the mailman,” was my first instinct...but it’s around 10 PM. Leaving the question aside, I hurried downstairs and took a peek through the peephole. Black coat, long hair, some strange object in hand. Now my goosebumps were definitely confirmed, and my body wasn’t overreacting. Yet I can’t seem to explain why my hand moved before I could even think. I opened the door.

“Can I help you?” I asked. A black envelope dropped. No response.

“What is this?” I asked again. The strange object, being a metal pentagram, now held towards the sky. No response.

He mumbled some occult gibberish and turned around without a word. I genuinely didn’t know what all of this meant, but next to being slightly scared, I was also very intrigued.

“This Friday night might not be that boring after all,” I thought.

After picking up the envelope and closing the door, I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a knife to open it. Inside was a letter with burnt edges. Two sentences were on it. A single phrase on the back consisted of the same Latin words the guy on the phone called out. And the phrase on the front side showed an address with a red cross. Surprisingly, the address seemed to be way closer than anticipated. It was two blocks down and definitely a walking distance. I quickly grabbed my coat and a butter knife from the kitchen, for some reason. I was interested in finding out what this club had to offer, but I felt some sort of ominous danger lurking behind the caller, the guy on the front door, and the envelope. Better safe than sorry.

Close to crossing the first block, I thought to myself why I didn’t bring a sharper knife for self-defense.

“Oh well, I probably won’t be using it,” I reassured myself. After reaching the second block and the doorstep of the exact address on the note, I had more shivers and goosebumps than after the call. Something wasn’t right inside this building. I could feel it. I entered what seemed to be a regular apartment, but the atmosphere was anything but “regular”.

If minimalism is sought after these days, this apartment and staircase would probably be the dream for those kinds of people. There was no decoration. No paint other than black. As well as no name tags on the mailboxes in the entrance. Without asking too many questions, I made my way to the second floor. Just as the letter suggested. The second floor had only one entrance compared to the first one. And it soon started looking less and less like a regular apartment, and more like a hideout of sorts. Candles illuminated the entrance, and an orchestral echo came from the inside of the door numbered “6.” I took small and quiet steps, not to alert anyone. I wasn’t sneaking in; I got an invitation after all. But it all seemed to make total sense in that moment. After having my left foot inside the room as well, the door slammed shut immediately. My goosebumps were now more than visible, and I could feel the bones in my body tremble. Something. Definitely. Was. Not. Right.

“Come, child,” a deep voice echoed from the hallway. The voice reminded me of the caller.

“That must be him,” I thought, and made my way to the candlelit hallway. Two rooms were at the end. One colored white. And one colored black. The walls of this apartment were monochrome inside and out. But this specific door had a different enough shade to contrast the color on the wall. I definitely had to choose, since the voice didn’t call out for me again, and it seemed like I was being tested for something. My heart yearned for the heavenly white, reaching for an escape. But my body reluctantly picked the now well-accustomed deep black that my eyes had laid enough time on. I entered. It was dark and gloomy. The windows might’ve been open, since I felt a breeze around me. And it was moving loud enough for me to decipher this room as being bigger than the previous one I walked in. Then suddenly, the lights turned on.

One man grabbed me from the back, the other hurrying towards me with a blunt object. I could feel the coat of the man behind me drape around my legs. I knew it. It was those two people. However, the guy in front of me should have my attention first. His pentagram-shaped object was reaching out towards my face. Definitely not at a speed that would leave me unconscious. But more so in a “you will die now” way that I would not be able to survive. I remembered the butter knife I brought. The guy in the coat was tasked enough with holding me down, so he didn’t check my pockets. I quickly took out the knife and tried to stab the guy behind me with a reverse grip. It might almost be as blunt as the pentagram that the "caller" held, but it would cause him enough pain to let me go. He yelled out, and his grip weakened. I crouched down in an effort to dodge the object’s swing. This effort startled both of them, and one of them was now leaning towards the open window, where I was feeling the breeze the entire time. Something took over my body, and I rushed to him with my shoulder in an offensive position. My approach seemed to have startled him as well, as he was leaning his back more and more towards the window edge.

I pushed him. The body dropped. Car sirens echoed. The sight of blood on the roof of a gray sedan startled me more than the sight of death that was imminent for the black-coat guy.

My eyes widened, just like they did for the caller. He grabbed the pentagram again and rushed towards me. I realized and got away from the window as far as I could. I ducked away from his swing again. Now we were approaching the cold, black wall that was behind me. I had nowhere to run. With a form of courage, the guy walked slowly towards me.

Tears in his eyes, he said, “You will be our sacrificial lamb.” I still had my butter knife in hand. I gripped firmly, and my courage to try to stay alive seemed to be bigger than his killing intent, and I got up. I turned the knife towards the “sharp” side. We both swung at the same time.

A thump hit my head.

And a swish cut his throat.

I was bleeding. He was bleeding.

I was breathing. He wasn’t breathing.

My butter knife, almost as blunt as his pentagram, seemed to still have caused more damage than I anticipated. His throat was dripping in blood, with his hands trying to cover the wound. My vision weakened, and my head started spinning from the hit of his five-starred object. But I was still alive and well. A few minutes later, his attempt to try to stay alive ended. And I got back to my senses. The floor was now completely covered in blood. So were my knife and my hands. I'm a killer now too, aren't I? I couldn’t believe this happened.

How I dreaded the boredom of the evening, but now these emotions are high enough in intensity to be a burden to my heart. I have to accept it now, don’t I? I’m officially a killer. In warm blood.

I wish I could, but...

… I can't undo it.