Kindly

She sits there alone, the flickering strobe of her mobile the fractious beacon in her misbegotten life. Her despair touches me, allows me to grow on her; feed her further. She uses the functions on her phone to change her features; warp her sense of self and remove herself endlessly from the reality she despises. She believes the self-serving lies her so-called friends spew and kowtow to, not knowing they serve me as well for I am growing within them too. Her sense of worth dictated by the likes and opinions of others who know no better. The paper tiger hero’s she follows on ‘social media’ betray their own fears and inadequacies by projecting them on to others and she absorbs them like a sponge. A few weeks ago, she thought herself completely alone but then she found me. From there I became a living splinter in her mind, nurturing her fears. She turns, looks into the mirror at the Cinderella curls, button nose and cherubic cheeks, watch as they slowly become hazy; morph into her infantile fears of loneliness and isolation; the ugly crone, disowned by all. Eyes that were once so full of joy and magic grow lifeless, black -an absence, and she gives up. She sees more of me now, the cheeks become larger but hollow, distended with hopelessness as I ready myself to be born anew from her, emptying her out with kindness.

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stay inside else the germs get me, they hang in the air; hang in the air like a cloud of dirt,  until you walk into them and become infected -it’s on the news all the time, it’s scientific fact. breath hanging in the air like the guillotine blade cutting the life out of your body; crushing your life, making you dirty like them. but to wear a mask means choking; claustrophobic nightmare of choking, smothered and sick but it’s the only way to combat the germs of other people. wash your hands we’re told but i do that already, wash them wash them wash them until they’re raw and red and clean, the alcohol rub stinging whenever i touch something and baptize them afresh with the blessed holy spirit. so i stay inside then and let the world decay, fester and spoil in His kindly wrath and judgement. it’s His will this is happening, and i serve 

Him; i was told to serve Him. He found me when i needed succour; the briefest flash of His cherubic form, the childlike grace of His maleficious eyes and He comes to me when i am weakest and together we scourge the germs from my body and with each glorious slice of flesh flayed from my mortal frame i become closer to His ideal; nearer to His presence that is ready to burst forth from me. He is the Kindly one; the Kindly Man who sings to me of the horrors of the world, my fears and his strength and love for me; sits at the end of my bed like a needy child, smothers me until i become Him and i want to want to want to be inside Him one with Him one with HIM.

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The Nortriptyline makes me shake at night, makes my mouth dry; heightening my fright -is it really paranoia if they’re already getting to you? The world spins around still as I’ve not got used to the clonazepam; what is it when the side effects far outweigh the ‘disorder’ they’re supposed to ‘cure’? I don’t know why they think I have an anxiety issue, surely it’s all the others that just don’t get it… they don’t understand how important it is to ensure you check things. Things need to be tight, under wraps, safe. I need to be sure I’ve shut the door; what if I leave it open? They just don’t understand. Calm down… calm down they all ALL tell me, as if this is going to offer me any reassurance. Everything’s going to be fine. Fine…. FINE? Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotionally insecure… yup; if only they truly knew. Oh, and this..THIS is what really tipped me over and I told them so; told them so…. “I’m stressed out too, no biggie!” one particular friend of humanity told me. I..i  gave them something to stress out over; I don’t re…member what happened next. My knuckles were bruised and throbbing and I …..had been dragged off them; all I could hear was a whimper, a sobbing but I felt nothing. They never understood, will never understand so they try and drug me now. Force me to take the meds but among  the Doctors and the bleeding hearts there was one among them that got it; that had found the key to salvation. They told me of someone who had helped them, showed them a way out and they would do the same 

for me; all I had to do was believe, picture Him in my mind in a twisted prayer and He would hear me. When He first came to me, He said: “God is real because of the blood that has been spilt for him. We are far older, and it is time for us to rise. Mankind is ripe for us and with your help it will be so.”

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She’s so beautiful but it’s hopeless; she hasn’t seen me since and yet we walk past each other every day. She’s everything the songs were written about; a siren, the wanton woman, sinner and saint, whore and virgin and she captured my heart; held it beating but did nothing to it. It was her fault, she instigated it; I hadn’t ever seen her before, but it was like a lightning bolt when she stumbled into me. Tripped and fell or was pushed into me and her friends laughed and the way she made light of it, dismissed me out of hand but I knew that was just for the other’s sake; I knew she’d chosen me. And since then nothing; I wrote words and words to her, silent prayers of supplication for her to notice me but they ended up as just so much kindling, spilling out around my flat. All I asked was for her to notice me, to bless me with a gesture, a smile and I would have done anything for her. I blessed her using my flow, anointed the image that I made of her and sang my heart out for her but for nothing. But then I learnt what kindness was; that she wasn’t kind, she was one of them who deserved to suffer, not me. She was sinner and whore and would be scourged when He came; it’s all true, everything He whispered to me; she was painted up like a clown, smelled like the bordello her kind were born in. He smells of candyfloss and musk; split milk and the fears that I am now becoming. His love is smothering and over-possessing but at least He loves me not like her, but she will pay… yes, like them all she will pay when He is born from us.

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The world is coming apart from us and no one knows how long it will last. Everyday we’re becoming closer to extinction; polluting the skies, choking the rivers, raping the Earth; our very mother; incestuously taking what we can at the cost of our own sanity. What’s worse… 

it’s not us that will suffer but our children, our children’s children. We’re desecrating the shrine that should be theirs by birth rite. We delight in taking the life of everything around us, each day another species ceases to exist, and we just find more and more ways of speeding up the process. We are all complicit and no one listens, it’s never their problem but they add to it, constantly and I can’t cope with it anymore. But I’m no longer alone…. In my darkest hour He came to me. I saw Him in the faces of my cherubs, my angels; giving me strength, warping the world around me and giving me strength; the will power to do what other people are afraid to. He tells me that I can cope with anything, that I’m the kind one that I can help save the others, save the little ones in my care. Make it so they will never have to suffer the way I have suffered. It’s far easier than I thought, lace the milk formula with love and they will soon be with Him. They will be awake in a few minutes and then in his arms forever.

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From Kindness abated: How the Kindly Man became the internet’s latest killer meme By Alex Paige

This isn’t the first killer meme the ‘net’s ever seen; the Slender Man saw to that and proved the point that people will believe in anything. The killings that went on in his name now belong to the same stuff of folklore.  The Waukesha stabbings were brutal, but many believe that these were attributed to the Slender Man by proxy. So, what sets the Kindly Man apart? Surely this is just another example of an inferior copycat? 

Well the one thing that sets The Kindly Man apart is there is an underlying philosophy about him, but there exists nothing tangible; no stories about him online (those stories that do get posted soon get taken down) -this isn’t an internet meme, he is spoken about in hushed tones only by those people he’s visited. It was only when Serena Scarn became a household name that people finally started talking about the Kindly Man openly. 

For those ostriches out there, Serena Scarn poisoned the fifteen children in her care at the Dawson Nursery, Manitoba; she laced the baby formula with anti-freeze. When asked why she did it; what could have possibly provoked her, she initially blamed it on the destruction of the planet; the rape of humanity -as she put it. It wasn’t until much later that she finally admitted to the horrible truth; that she had been told to do it by a presence she called the Kindly Man. 

At first people thought she was just another hick; bored of being ignored she wanted a shot at the big time. She had pictures of Grettan Thurnbuerg on her walls and was just another Eco-Nut wanting to eclipse her one time hero but the more she spoke out about this entity the more cases came to light across the globe –people who could never have spoken or communicated with each other, let alone been aware of one another’s existence. There was the case of the Belgian woman who had injected her face with silicone sealant so she could look like her kindly savior; or the 14 year old school boy in Oxford who nearly beat a classmate to death simply because he tried to help; or the 39 year old Japanese woman who kidnapped and tortured a 42 year old bank teller because they had fallen in love with them and the love wasn’t reciprocated. 

All of these people share the same archetypal boogie-man; the same presence that wormed its way into their consciousness; imprinting itself in such a way that it became the only succor to their pain. Yes, all these people were damaged in some way; very vulnerable but show me someone who isn’t. As one of the unfortunate victims said, fine doesn’t necessarily mean fine –it’s just another mask. The Kindly Man offered a way out of this; one there was no way back from. These are only a few cases that have leaked out in the last few weeks, there will be more.

In the current climate it’s possible to dismiss this as a series of over-active imaginations and troubled minds; but please let me re-iterate this. None of these people knew each other; there was nothing about the Kindly Man until Serena first mentioned him under intense questioning –the name had never appeared on any search engines in such a capacity. He does now. So how did these individuals from all across the world share this same delusion; something so powerful that it wrecked the lives of many others. It would be a mistake to dismiss this for I have the horrible feeling we will be seeing many, many more in the coming months.

Total War

The shattering came from upstairs. Something had broken, or more likely something had been broken by his parents damned cat, Dempsey. The question was, could Rory be bothered to check what the damage was or deny all knowledge and go out with his mates... He would be a little late anyway but  knew it was far better to be fashionably missed than be too eager and seem needy.

There were further sounds coming from the floor above; feet scuffling, nearer the stairs and a throaty chuckle. Well, that certainly wasn't Dempsey…Rory was suddenly very aware just how isolated the house was; down a single-track road on the outskirts of Haywards Heath. With mum and dad away for the weekend he suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable. Now in a horror movie he would have gone upstairs to investigate.... 

 “Fuck this.” He said and ran to the front door, flinging it open. He was suddenly face to face with Dempsey, hanging from the gables, its throat cut and entrails spilling out like a burst watermelon.  “Christ almighty!” he shouted, almost falling back as he slammed the door. What the fuck was going on?

Everything then happened far too quickly: he heard the noise of someone running down the stairs and turned out of instinct. He was too late to stop the blade.  Impaling him in the stomach; it was the same blade that had only just eviscerated the damned cat. He fell back against the door banging his head before his legs gave way. He saw a black shape follow him down, seemingly connected to his own body by the blade. Hitting his head hard on the wooden floor knocked the scream from out of him as the killer took their time in carving.

There was something about being in a classroom on a Saturday morning, knowing that all the kids were home, that made it all seem worth it… almost. It gave Ellana Wilson a chance to reflect on all the lives she had moulded into shape over the years.  She had started out as an idealistic geography teacher, full of hopes and aspirations about making a difference, but 

that had been knocked out of her pretty quickly by the casual racism. Not just from the kids (which had been expected) but from the other teachers. She'd  grown a protective shell and cultivated the ‘don’t give me any shit’ attitude and things changed.

The pupils were there to learn -they didn’t want to be there; they had to be there… so they were going to learn… or they weren’t. Mrs Wilson made it quite clear it was up to the individual pupil; they could learn, or they could be a fuck up. If they were there to learn then she would do everything she could to help them but if they chose to be a fuck up, then they were on their own. 

She wasn’t completely alone this morning though as there were a group rehearsing for the end of term play. Some bright spark had suggested “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” as a joke but it had stuck. Ellana had a feeling it jibed with the mind games that were part of growing up - it was a rare chance to really stretch out for those kids that landed the four parts. Actually the kids were perfectly cast though and Mrs Wilson wondered just how much acting would really be involved. But as long as they left her alone, she had no problem with them being there… 

“I think that you’re going to steal the scene no matter what you do.” Steven said matter-of-factly. As director he could see that things were rapidly deteriorating. Although it had been his idea of a joke to put on Edward Albee’s scathing exhumation of marriage, he was determined to make it work and initially he had been overjoyed to have Emma on board to play Martha; she seemed perfect for the role as she had a strong personality to handle the complex psycho-drama (although there were times when she was more psycho than drama-queen). Now he was regretting it as the on-again-off-again relationship between her and Simon was mirroring the stage version.

Emma bowed in mock-mock-humility (everyone knew damn well that she could barely spell the word let alone know what it meant) but it took Simon to make the point blatant. “I think 

what our esteemed director meant, Martha is that there’s a difference between acting and chewing up the scenery. Just play the damn part and less of the tedious histrionics!” 

“Well at least I can act; the reason why you’ve been cast as George is that you’re just like him! Boring, boring, BORING!” Emma was loud, there was no doubt about it. Where Elizabeth’s Taylor’s transformation to the frumpy Martha was nothing short of shocking, there was no such wizardry to Emma. It was as if the part had been written especially for her: a bitchy, sneaky, two-timing harridan. 

Simon, on the other hand, was a complete surprise; head boy material: moral, understanding; a keen sportsman, not to mention well thought of. He was statuesque which made his appearance as George nothing short of masterful. It was as if he had taken a few pages from Christopher Reeve’s book of superhero transformations. George shuffled with his shoulders stooped and sported a parting in his now forlorn hairstyle. He also wore glasses that seemed too old and too small for his face and consequently made him squint. His gaze was keen though and his expression was sour and controlled.

“Look, can we just get on with the rehearsals? It’s always the same, it always ends up with the Emma and Simon show.” Julie snapped, sick to death of the whole rigmarole. “We should never have gotten rid of Sue; she was a much better Martha!” She said under her breath; this wasn’t what she signed up for, she wanted a chance to appear in one her favorite stories; she idolised the film with Richard Burton and Liz Taylor. This was turning out to be a nightmare.

“Oh, shut up, Mouse! Sue was a bitch and you know it. There was no way she was going to get this part anyway!” Emma acerbically replied, referencing Julie’s stature, which she hated. Although Emma was only a few inches taller than Julie she more than made up for it in build and attitude. 

Emma normally wore glasses but she thought they made her look too frumpy for the part so she insisted that she play the role without them which added extra hazard to the story as she 

could barely see where she was going. There was no point marking crosses on the ground for her to stand on because she couldn’t see them; in fact it was dangerous her moving about the set full stop. The set dressing was therefore minimalist to prevent stumbling and accidents from occurring.

Just then the door opened and everyone turned to berate Beverley, who was Julie’s understudy. She was late, as usual, and Steven was close to asking her to leave the production. She barely managed to get through the door before collapsing.Sam ran over to her, this was no case of just being late. It had been raining outside but the liquid running down her arms and staining her sweater wasn’t water, it was blood.

“What the hell happened?” Sam asked.

“Someone… someone just attacked me; couldn’t see who it was.” Beverley replied, gasping for breath. Pete and Ryan ran over to her as well. Ryan started to tear up strips from his shirt and tied a tourniquet just above her wound.

“Someone else tired of your tardiness?” Emma snidely said from the back of the room.

“Shut the fuck up, Emma -this is serious.” Pete snapped back. Emma walked over and saw the cut and blanched.

“I was.. wa.. walking to the drama studio; wasn’t even aware that there was anyone else around. Didn’t see a thing, just felt something strike my arm… When I turned he was right there, but I couldn’t see his face.”

“Why couldn’t you? ” Emma asked.

“He was wearing something over his face; a stocking or mask… I don’t know; the only thing I knew was that I was bleeding… he stabbed me.. HE STABBED ME!” Beverley cried out.  “Who would do such a thing?”

“How do you know it was a man that did it?” Sam asked.

“Come on, understudy! Be serious! Of course, it’s a man.” Emma snapped.

“I don’t think that’s the point.” Pete remonstrated.

“Wait a minute, what happened to them? What happened to the person that stabbed you?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know… I managed to push them away after they stabbed me and I was almost here anyway. I lost sight of them when I opened the door.”

“Where are they? Where the fuck are they?” Emma asked. Suddenly all the lights in the studio were excised and the everyone shouted out against the blackness.

“Now what the fuck is happening?” Steve exclaimed, now really pissed off with the whole situation. He was now bitterly regretting taking part in the play. “I wish to God someone would….”

“Where’s the damn light switch?” Emma snarled. Ryan allowed his eyes to become adjusted to the gloom and could make out the outline of the door. Sure enough, there was the light switch -thank god for that! 

“Is it raining in here?” Sam asked. “I’m still getting wet!” No one paid any notice to her but Ryan suddenly switched the light on and was almost deafened by the screams of those behind him. He whirled round. It took a couple of seconds before he could take it all in. Steve was slumped in one of the chairs  like a marionette whose strings had been cut but with the largest smile spreading from ear to ear. Sam was screaming, it wasn’t rain that had spattered her but the pressurized arterial spray.

Mrs Wilson couldn’t hear the screams because of the rain and the distance between her classroom and the drama hut but then the lights blinked off and then back on again. What the hell were they up to? She walked to the window and peered out; it was difficult to make out exactly what was going on but something was happening. She didn’t like being disturbed; they knew better than to trouble her… but equally she knew that she had to get involved, just in case. Whatever it was, it better be worth it!

“What do we do? Who killed him?” Sam cried out, hysterically.

“Which one of you killed him?” Emma retorted.

“Nice, Emma -really tactful.” Pete snapped back. “If you’ve got nothing better to say then just shut up!” As if on cue the lights were stabbed out again, throwing the room into darkness once more. This time everyone cried out, but Emma screamed the loudest before being cut short. Silence fell and they could all hear someone faintly singing a very familiar theme song from the room next door.

“Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf? Virginia Woolf? Virginia Woolf? You should be because you’ll be next!”

When the lights flicked back on Emma had disappeared but there were two bloody trails on the floor leading to the opposite room.

“What are we going to do?” Julie sobbed staring at the crimson streaks. “Should we see if she’s alright?”

“Fuck that.” Pete replied and headed to the door. “Anyone who goes into that room is bound to be the next one dead.. that ain’t going to be me! Mrs Wilson must have heard something, we need to get to her before the killer gets to us!”

The six of them ran out of the drama studio, Julie and Sam in front with Pete and Simon protecting Beverley, who was now close to hysterics; Steve urging them all on from behind. He’d seen the movies too and knew that the killer could easily chase after them. As he left, he heard a familiar throaty chuckle and slammed the door behind him.

Mrs Wilson was outside now and running as best she could in the awful weather. She could see the drama studio in the distance and make out the pupils running towards her, but something was happening; something bad. 

Too much happened at once.  Pete was running as fast as he could with Beverley in tow; he 

had no idea what happened to Emma and he didn’t really care. His instinct for self-preservation had kicked in. Beverley was dragging her feet for some reason and he was close to just letting her go. In front he could see the bulk of Mrs Wilson running towards them, he’d never been so happy to see anyone, let alone her. 

It was still pissing down with rain but that was the least of his concerns; something was wrong behind him and he was just about to tell Beverley to hurry up when he saw Simon fall somehow, almost as if he had been struck from behind. Pete thought that Beverley had fallen as well, but she then twisted and dived at him, battering at his chest with her fist. But it wasn’t her fist. ...He didn’t feel it at first, the cold and driving rain had numbed him but then the blood started flowing but he couldn’t get her off.

It was just a fettling knife from the pottery classroom, but it was more than effective as Steve found out as he tried to pull her off  Pete's prone, blood-soaked body. All it took was one slash from the thin blade straight across Steve's wrists to make him fall back. He needed no further encouragement and scrabbled away just as quick as he could.

Sam and Julie saw it all happen and didn’t stop to find out who was still alive, Beverley was still stabbing the prone bodies of Pete and Simon in tandem, her face contorted into ecstatic madness. Mrs Wilson had caught up with the girls and dragged them away; there was only one place she could think of that would give them any degree of shelter, let alone protection -her geography lab.

“What are we doing here?” Sam asked as they ran into Mrs Wilsons classroom. “Why aren’t we calling the police and running away from here?”

“You think that’s going to do any good? How many killers are there?” Mrs Wilson challenged back. Both Sam and Julie gave contradictory answers. “Exactly. Police have been called; they’ll be here soon. I told them where we’d be. They know there’s a disturbance and that kids are involved…” She checked around her for something to use; anything that could be 

used a weapon of some kind. 

“There’s a disturbance all right.” Came the voice from the door. “Though I doubt any of you will still be alive by the time the police get here.”

“I always said you were the optimistic one, Beverley.” Mrs Wilson replied, not letting the fear show on her face. It didn’t sit right; yeah, Beverley was standing there with the knife twisting and turning as she twirled it around; blood glistening in the pale light; but she was nowhere near smart or unhinged enough to have done this. “But I never had you pegged as being the psycho. You’ve always been the follower, never the instigator!”

“Shut up!” Beverley shouted as she lunged at Mrs Wilson, but someone stopped her.

“Temper, temper…” Beverley whirled round to see who had prevented her from making the kill. It was Sue. “..Mrs Wilson always was the observant one. Sheath your claws, understudy. I want to savour this.”

“Now what the hell are you trying to pull here, Ms Gerald?” Mrs Wilson asked, slowly edging around to her ore samples on the back shelf.

“Is this some kind of revenge for not casting you as Martha?” Sam asked, shocked that this was actually happening. Beverley had always been a bit of a prima donna but Sue was completely the opposite, a bookworm, quiet but not pathologically so.

“Are you kidding me?” Sue spat back. “Who wants to be in the school play when I can be star of my own show here?”

“What about me then?” Beverley suddenly replied, turning to her. “You couldn’t have done this without me, remember…”

“Well… I guess we’re going to see, aren’t we?” The blow was quick, too quick for Beverley to flinch away from. It had been practiced, honed to perfection through too many rehearsals and it struck her in the heart. “You were never anything more than an understudy, and a poor one at that.” And Sue twisted the knife hard making Beverley twitch like a broken toy.

“You didn’t need to do that.” Julie cried.

“I need someone to take the blame for your deaths, don’t I?” Sue sneered.

“So you just going to kill us then? And blame it on her?” Mrs Wilson asked, she was right by her collection of flint geodes, right where she wanted to be. 

“Why not?”

“How about telling us why you’re doing it? Don’t we deserve to find out?” 

“Like your last requests?” Sue sneered.

“Oh yes, God yes…” Sam cried.

“You honestly think you’re going to delay me until the police get here? You think I’m stupid?”

“God no.” Sam sobbed. “God no…”

“Well.. now that you come to mention it…” Mrs Wilson replied. Sam and Julie couldn’t believe what they were hearing and instinctively backed away from her, aghast at what they were hearing, which was exactly what she wanted.

“You must have some kind of death-wish… and I always pegged you as smart.” Sue retorted.

“Only in relation to some… Look, I’ve not got all day; if you’re going to kill me then bloody hurry up!”

Sue snarled and ran towards her, knife held high over her head, but Mrs Wilson was ready for her. She kicked the chair in front of her which forced Sue off balance, making her to take her eyes off the teacher. It was then that Mrs Wilson grabbed the flint geode from the shelf behind her and, brandishing it like a cricket ball, smacked her on the head with a sickening thud. Sue collapsed on the ground, scattering the tables around her.

“Is she still alive?” Julie sobbed.

Mrs Wilson heard the police cars pulling into the school ground. “She’s not that good an actress....”