The Chest

    The year was 1888, his livelihood depended on his ability to finish at least one.  He needed something special, he needed to end this one.  This time it would be different.
    The chest arrived the day after the parade.  The streets were still littered with beads and streamers.  Pigeons played tug-of-war with remnants of ribbons and tinsel.  No one knew where the chest came from, it hadn’t been there during the show the day before.  The once crowded street had been vacant all night and when sunrise came the chest appeared.  They had gathered round for it’s opening, thinking it some kind of publicity stunt.  Cobbleton had been starved for tourism since the early 1800s.  No one came to visit since the mine has closed down.  It was no longer a destination as much as it had become an almost completely vacant ghost town.  The once bustling downtown had fallen into a state of decay.  Windows were boarded up and paint peeled and chipped.  Signs that once held tight above store entrances traipsed, lopsided, to the ground.  A great fire had destroyed most of main street years before.  Without the funds to repair the damage, the people had simply closed up their shops and moved their homes.
    When the chest was opened a single book lay inside.  Bound with leather and covered with dust, it was gently removed and inspected by the town’s only constable.  The cover was so badly worn that all that remained of the text were the letters, C-O-B-B.  The pages were blank and lined with pure gold.  The book was quite a spectacle and no one knew where it had come from.  It was transported to the local police station and kept in a locked box.  The chest was left in the burnt ruins of main street, where it had been found.
    Several days after it’s discovery strange things began to occur in Cobbleton.  The rains came down so severe that water pooled in the streets.  Crops were washed away and the people were advised to stay indoors.  The rains came for days, only occasionally letting up.  When the sun finally returned and the people were allowed to leave their dwellings another strange discovery was made.  The constable came across it when he re-opened the police station.  The book had not been touched, it was still sealed inside the metal box when he found it.  However, it was different.  It appeared shiny and new, as though someone had rebound it during the storm.  The letters were still worn off on the cover, but when he opened it there read, “Chapter One” in bold letters across the first page.
    The constable was certain the page had been blank before.  A town meeting was called and all that had been present during the chest’s opening gathered to view the book.  All agreed that it had been blank days before, upon it’s discovery.  It was then that the townspeople decided to further inspect the chest with which it had arrived in their small town.  A mob was formed and scurried down to old main street, where the chest still lay, unmoved.  The rain had washed all of the dust from the wood and brass, it looked almost new now.  The constable leaned in close and lifted the lid, the inside was lined with red velvet.  There seemed to be nothing else in the chest, no separate compartments.  The chest had no markings and was unusually heavy.  Even the strength of the town’s most fit men was not enough to lift the chest from the street.
    The townspeople could not figure out how the chest was delivered. No one in town was strong enough to lift, or even drag it.  Herds of townsfolk pushed and pulled for hours on end and the chest refused to budge.  As they gathered around the chest, scratching their heads in disbelief, the town deputy came running onto old main street.  He shouted that everyone needed to get back to the station.  There was something different about the book.
    Quickly the townsfolk rushed to inspect the change.  The constable was the first to arrive back at the station and he opened the book once again.  The first page now read, “Chapter One” in bold letters.  Underneath the lettering was now smaller text.  Only two sentences.
    “The rains came, day in and day out.  The roads flooded and no one could leave.”
    The line sent shivers down the constable’s spine, as peculiar rains had come for days after the book’s arrival.  But had the roads been washed out?  Nothing was either imported or exported from Cobbleton anymore, so no one would notice if the only two roads leaving the town had been washed out.  The last time anyone had come or left Cobbleton had been at least eighty years before.  Both the constable and his deputy told the townsfolk to stay put, as they would check the condition of the roads.  No one knew if the book was a publicity stunt or some type of trap, so it was advised that people go back into their homes until further notified.
    The constable and his deputy made their way to the edge of town, through main street and toward the great bridge.  The road sloped and sagged, pools of water lay in their path.  They walked until they could walk no further.  Sure enough, the road had been completely flooded.  They headed to the other end of town and found the same was true there.  Until the water went away there was no getting in or out of Cobbleton. 
    The constable and his deputy returned to the station and called another town meeting.  They informed the townsfolk of the situation and explained that they were intent on discovering the origin of the mysterious chest and it’s even more mysterious contents.  The butcher raised his hand and asked an intriguing question.  He knew that no one had been near either road in close to a century and wondered if it was possible that the roads had been washed out for quite some time.  He wondered if it was possible that someone knew this and wrote it down in the mysterious book.  The butcher was not the type of man to believe in such things as magical books or texts and believed firmly that it was the work of one of the townspeople.  The constable asked whoever was responsible to come forward, no one did.
    The next day people went back about their business.  The butcher opened his shop, the baker made his pies and the constable and deputy stood watch over the book.  The sky was overcast yet again and the people feared the rains would come back and destroy what little crops they had left.  As people carried on about their day something strange happened.  A loud humming echoed through the streets.  It started faint and distant and grew louder and closer with every passing minute.  The people all looked up and looked around.  It seemed to be coming from all directions.
    The butcher was the first to see them, hundreds of tiny black beings came tunneling through the clouds.  The people scattered as they approached.  Terrific screeching filled the silent air as the winged creatures drew nearer.  The townsfolk ran quickly into nearby buildings.  The constable and his deputy ran to the doorway of the station to see what was happening.
    The creatures were horrific, large and black.  Their eyes glowed red and their jagged toothed jaws clamped open and shut as they screeched.  The noise was deafening.  Their great wings flapped and clawed stumps extended from their misshapen bodies.  Their great heads looked like those of dogs, but they were distorted.  They seemed to change shape as they flew, their feature’s morphing.  The only thing that didn’t transform on their terrible faces were their massive jagged teeth.  They swooped through the streets, clawing at the townsfolk as they ran for cover.  One of the horrendous creatures plucked the baker with it’s mighty claws and flipped him into it’s gruesome mouth.  The sound of crushing bone and flesh followed and the baker was gone.
    Just as quickly as the creatures had arrived they began to fly away.  They lumbered back up through the clouds and the humming of their mighty flapping wings trailed off.  The people waited to return to the streets, not sure what had happened.  No one had ever seen creatures such as these.  The blacksmith poked his head out of his shop window and shouted, “Demons!” and then ducked back out of sight.  The constable nodded, still looking up at the sky.  The creatures did not seem to be of this earth.  He didn’t believe in demons, but they certainly seemed to be something of an unearthly nature.
    The deputy, who had scampered back inside during the commotion, began to shout.
“Come quick!  Come quick!  The book!”
It didn’t take long for the constable to respond.  He quickly hurried into the station to see what the deputy had found.  He saw the book lying open on the main desk in the tiny, dim lit room.  Two more lines had appeared on the first page.
“From the sky came a terrible noise, one hundred horrible creatures.  The townsfolk ran for cover as the winged demons descended upon them.” 
The constable thought at first that perhaps the deputy was responsible for writing the mysterious lines, but how could he explain the creatures.  He had seen them, everyone had.  The baker was dead and who knew how many others had fallen victim to the terrible beasts.  The constable made an announcement over the town square loudspeaker.
“Everyone, go inside your homes and do not come out.  The streets are not safe, we don’t know if the creatures will be back.”  He wanted to tell the people not to panic, but how could they not?  After seeing the terrible creatures that had come from above, the book seemed the least of their concerns.
“What are we going to do?”  The deputy was still running his hands over the book and looking at the constable, hopefully waiting for instruction.
“I don’t know what to do, I think we need to find a way out of Cobbleton.”  The constable decided to take the deputy and a few other capable townsfolk to the edge of town.  He knew the roads were washed out, but they had to try and find a route of escape.  The winged demons could return and it might be the end of all of them.  The constable tucked the book under his coat.  He didn’t know why he felt he needed to bring it with him, but he felt compelled to keep it close to his side.
    Everything was arranged later that afternoon.  It was difficult to tell the time of day as dark grey clouds still loomed above the town.  The rains had stopped but the sun was still blocked from sight.  The constable, his deputy, the blacksmith and the butcher had gathered as many weapons as were possible to carry on their journey.  The constable and deputy carried rifles, the butcher a large knife and the blacksmith a metal hammer.  The four set out to check the roads of Cobbleton. 
    They had walked for what felt like hours, although the town’s end couldn’t have been more than a mile or two away.  The sky grew darker and darker.  The constable noticed that it had been difficult to sense what time it was.  He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a clear sense of time.  As he thought harder, he found it difficult to remember anything before the day the chest was found.  He slightly remembered the parade, but nothing before it.  He recalled that his mentor, the old constable of Cobbleton, had told him when something sends a shock to your system, memory loss can be a common side effect.  So the constable didn’t think much of his foggy memory.  After all, everyone had been through so much over the last few days.  The road seemed to go on for miles and miles, their feet began to grow tired.
“How can we not have reached the end yet?” there was definite fear in the deputy’s voice.  “How long have we been walking?  It’s almost night.” 
    The constable realized that it was almost night, or so the skies above would predict.  There was no moon, but what little light had sifted through the clouds before had dwindled to almost nothing.  A thick fog had set in, making it nearly impossible to see the road ahead.  They were all gravely aware that they had been walking for a much longer period of time than the road should have permitted.
“There, up ahead!”  the blacksmith saw what appeared to be faint light shining through the dark mist.  He figured townsfolk from the neighboring village may have ventured down the road, perhaps a similar series of events had taken place in their own town.  As the crew approached they realized the light they had seen was that of a town.  There was no town at the end of the road.  In fact, none of the four had ever been outside of Cobbleton, there was never any need before.  But everyone knew that the next town was separated by a large river with a bridge, they hadn’t gotten to the water yet so it was impossible that this could be the neighboring village.  As the four men drew closer a wave of both dread and utter shock ran through them.  It was Cobbleton!  The town station was clear through the mist, as was the town square and various other buildings.
“How did we back track?  We’ve been heading the same direction, away from town.  This is impossible!”  The deputy was clearly frightened and confused.  It was then that the constable remembered the book and was suddenly drawn to it.  He felt obligated to peek at the pages and see what was there.  He stopped under a street torch and pulled the book from his inner coat pocket.  Under the light he opened to the first page.
“There could be no leaving Cobbleton, it was all that had been written.”  The line sent a shiver through the constable’s spine. 
    As he had read it aloud the butcher spoke up, “what does that mean? Is that god damned book saying there are no other places than Cobbleton?  That’s ridiculous, there’s a neighboring town not three miles from here!”  The constable glanced down at the book again, where there had been only the one new line minutes before, a second had appeared.
“It was then the constable realized he had never seen another village, he didn’t know anyone who had left Cobbleton, he didn’t even know the name of the neighboring village.”
The constable dropped the book in disbelief.  He didn’t know the name of the neighboring village.  He didn’t know anyone who had seen it or even left Cobbleton.  It had to be a coincidence.  He couldn’t remember because he was in a state of shock, he was afraid, that was it.  He looked around at the others.
“Have any of you left Cobbleton?  Do any of you know the name of the village across the bridge?”  The other three looked around in confusion.  None of them had left Cobbleton, but of course there were places outside of the town.  They didn’t need to personally have been there for them to exist.  There was no need to leave Cobbleton and that was why no one ever did.  The town had everything they needed, it wasn’t because no other place existed, it was because Cobbleton was perfect and supplied the people more than sufficiently.  The four couldn’t help but feel uneasy, however, as the book seemed to know more about them than even they did.  It was then the constable had an idea.
“We can destroy the book, it seems to have us in such a tizzy that we cannot think clearly.” The others nodded in agreement.  Once that awful book was gone, they would be able to concentrate and everything would be alright.  The butcher threw a torch to the constable and the constable set fire to the book.  He threw it on the stone laden ground below and they all watched as it went up in flames.  The blacksmith stomped out the fire before it could spread and they all seemed rather satisfied that the terrible book was now nothing more than a pile of smoking ashes.
    They returned to the town square to also rid themselves of the awful chest the book had arrived in.  They could see it sitting on the cold, dark ground ahead.  The deputy opened the chest in order to throw his torch inside, they would burn it from the inside out.  The other three stood behind him, ready to lend a hand if a hand needed to be lent.  The deputy peaked inside the chest and then spun around in horror to face the others.
“The book…” the deputy looked pale as he gasped for breath. “The book, it’s in the chest.  But how?  We destroyed it…”  The constable pushed the deputy aside to look for himself.  Sure enough, the book lay, seemingly untouched inside the mysterious chest.  He handed his torch to the blacksmith and plucked the book from where it lay.  He turned it over in his hands, he was in disbelief as it clearly seemed to be the same book they had all seen go up in flames only moments before.  The constable opened the book and saw that new lines had appeared.
“The four had tried to destroy their story, but it would be no use.  As long as they existed so would their text.  It was then that they realized what they had not before.  They were not what they thought they were, they were nothing without their story.  They had no names, they had not anything.”
    The constable recoiled in terror.  He dropped the book yet again and spun to face the others.  “What is the meaning of this?!” fear filled his voice as he yelped for answers.  “Of course we exist!  I’m here, aren’t I!?”  the constable yelled upward to no one in particular.  It was then the deputy came to his own horrific realization.  He couldn’t remember his name.  He felt that no amount of fear should cause him to forget his own name.  He knew he was the deputy of Cobbleton, he knew his companions were the constable, the blacksmith and the butcher.  But he could not remember any of their names.  Before he could vocalize his terrible realization, it was obvious from the facial expressions of the others that they had all come to the same conclusion.  No one could remember their name, or anyone else’s. 
    The constable ran to the station and announced through the town loudspeaker, “Has anyone ever left Cobbleton?  Does anyone remember their name?  Does anyone remember anything from before the chest?!”  his voiced boomed through the town square.  The people had gathered in the streets and greeted his announcement with confusion.  The confusion they felt quickly turned to panic as none of them had any answers.  No one had left Cobbleton, no one knew who they really were and no one remembered anything before the chest.
    He temporarily stopped plugging away at the type writer.  He had lost interest in his own story, as he often did.  Rain pelt against his window and he scratched his head.  He didn’t know where to take his story, his characters.  Until he could think of more, he decided to end the first chapter and start anew.  Create yet another cast of characters, in another town, with another plot.  The clanks of the type writer echoed through the cabin as he typed the final lines.
    Fear grasped the people of Cobbleton.  Of course they were real and they needed to find a way to survive this terrible nightmare.  The constable called out to the people, “We must find a route of escape!  Everyone, to the main road!”  The people ran, they all took to the street and didn’t look back.  Mother’s clutched their babies close to their chests, children held the hands of their fathers.  Husbands and wives held tightly to each other, fearing and somehow knowing that the end could be near.  Cries and yelps echoed through the street as they ran.  The constable had taken the book with him as they hurried, hoping for escape and rescue.  He looked down to the text and read the fateful last lines.
“There was no escape for the people of Cobbleton.  Their story ended here, their lives of no consequence or meaning.  Just another failed experiment from a writer incapable of finishing a story.  Back to the drawing board.”
    As the constable read the last line aloud, he felt sudden and terrible pain taking him from all points of his being.  He heard the screams of the people as they fell to the road, sobbing and twisting in agony.  Their skin burned and blistered, splitting open and falling off.  Then, after torturous pain, nothing.  The people lay still in the street, blood pooling around their still, mangled and charred bodies.
    The writer had already crumpled the pages of Cobbleton and thrown them into the ragging fireplace.  He felt there was no need to hold onto a story he could not finish.  So he began to plug away on a new tale.  Perhaps this time he would write about a killer, one that ravaged and ripped the bodies of the city’s undesirable.  He would call him Jack.  And when he could not finish this story either, Jack, just like the people of Cobbleton, would disappear into nothing.