"You can’t go in there."

Herbert pushed past the secretary, storming into Lennartz’s office. Inside, the doctor was meeting with a patient. Interrupted by the commotion, the pair turned as Herbert barged in.

"I tried to stop him, doctor-"

"We need to talk," Herbert gruffly stated, cutting her off.

Lennartz gestured towards his patient. "I’m in a session."

Herbert focused ominously on the patient, right arm tremoring, the patient squirming under his intense scrutiny. "Leave," Herbert coarsely commanded. The patient fumbled to his feet, scurrying from the room.

"We’ll reschedule," Lennartz called after him. To Herbert, "That was not very polite."

"Doctor?" Lennartz waived his secretary from the room. She tossed Herbert a hideous scowl before exiting, closing the door behind her.

Lennartz inspected his disheveled guest with thinly veiled disdain. "Someone’s suffered a breakdown." His eyes met Herbert’s. "You couldn’t make an appointment? From the looks of you, you could use my services."

"There is very little you can offer me."

"But I can offer you something," Lennartz pointed out. "You came here after all. It has to do with Deom, doesn’t it?"

"I want answers. And don’t give me doctor-patient privilege."

"I knew I would see you again." Lennartz tilted his head, tapping his temple. "He has a way with people."

"He has his way with people," Herbert countered.

“Indeed.” Lennartz chuckled. “But I have already told you everything I can."

"Bull shit." Herbert rounded the desk, seizing Lennartz by the collar and jerking him to his feet.

"Are you mad?" Lennartz blurted, wide-eyed.

"You’re the expert. Now, you’re going to spill every last detail or I’m going to use wall-to-wall persuasion to loosen that pucker of yours."

"What-"

Herbert’s grip tightened. With little warning, he brutally shoved Lennartz back into the wall knocking several awards from their allotted places to thud on the carpet. Before the doctor could recover, Herbert swung him over the desk scattering papers. Lennartz hit the floor hard, rolling several feet. As Herbert stalked towards him, cracking his knuckles, the doctor put a hand up.

"Alright. Alright!"

"Start talking."

"You haven’t even told me what you want to know."

"I want the truth about Deom. Not some profile. And not just what’s in your notes. I want the man. You spent years with him. In all that time, did you experience anything…strange?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Supernatural."

"What?" Herbert crossed the room and kicked the doctor in the gut making the man double up.

"Have you seen ghosts?" Herbert demanded.

"I saw…things," Lennartz choked out.

"I knew it," Herbert spat through clenched teeth.

“So you’ve seen things too.” Lennartz gasped, sucking in air as he cautiously glanced up at Herbert. "Not surprising. Why do you think I became his doctor? But what I saw…" He shook his head. "It was nothing but delusions brought on by the boy, by the tensions in that household. It’s almost palpable. Like electricity in the air. Spend too much time there…No one can keep their sanity.

“And the boy,” Lennartz continued, looking inward and remembering. “There is something mesmerizing about him. I would say innate. He gets into your head despite your best efforts. So subtle. In a way, it’s…it’s the only intimacy he is capable of. And he takes pleasure in watching you come apart.

“That is most evident in the murders he committed and the atrocities that evolved from them. They were never about killing. They were about creating instability. Chaos. As chained as he is to order he thrills to anarchy. It’s virtually psychosexual. What?” Lennartz asked when he saw the expression on Herbert’s face. “You think him messianic? The bastard is pathological, nothing more than the voice to a fractured soul.

“He is the product of paternal abuse, an unresolved oedipal complex, and an intense sense of self-loathing coupled with a cruel sociopathology that renders him incapable of empathy. For all intents and purposes, we do not truly exist to him. We are objects.”

“Like the variables in his theories.”

“Precisely. He relishes the discord he creates. The fear. And that is because it is our psyches that possess him."

"Then why move to larger scale assaults if he enjoys this intimacy with his victims?"

"Because civilization is nothing more than a macro scale psyche. To him, everything interlocks. It is all levels of perception. Ironically, he is incapable of seeing parts. All he sees is the whole. That is why he only acts after contemplation. He weighs the ripples of his actions. And I think he wants the ripples to cease to quell his own guilt.”

Herbert’s left eye ticked, nostrils flaring, hands curling into white-knuckled fists. “You know.”

"About his mother? What he did to her? Of course I know. I also know about his brother. That was the reason his father sought me out.”

“And you didn’t go to authorities?”

“That’s not what I do! I don’t judge. No, my job was to stop the boy’s breakdown. To salvage what I could from his crippled soul. But he was unsalvageable.

“I watched him evolve into this monster…this man apart. The strategist of our downfall. Hysteria is second nature to him. Inculcated in that cauldron he suffered."

Lennartz pulled himself up, backing away from Herbert. "What you think you are seeing…it’s not real. It is the power of suggestion. He probes your mind. Finds your flaws. Draws them out of you. He puts on this façade of innocence and helplessness to pull you in, tells you what you want to hear, and then he manipulates you. Breaks you down. Makes you susceptible to his will. And gradually he consumes you.

"Even as a child, he was a cruel personality. But I attribute that to his parents."

"So there was abuse."

"What do you think?" Lennartz cast back as he fell into the seat behind his desk. "Yes, there was abuse in the home. And his father did little to conceal it. The man routinely beat and mentally terrorized the boy. Old-school Prussian rearing. And his mother…"

"And his mother?" Herbert pressed, leaning across the desk.

Lennartz averted his eyes. "There was sexual abuse."

Herbert’s vision narrowed. "Why didn’t you do anything about it?"

“You know who his father was. He could have ruined me. And the boy would have stayed in their care. I’m no martyr for helpless causes. Besides, Luke is a fascinating subject,” Lennartz reasoned. “What he can do. To lose access to him. His very psyche is unique.”

"So you used him. You’re no better than he is."

"Don’t judge me," Lennartz cut back defensively. "I did my best to help the boy."

"What you did was nothing!" Herbert hammered the desk. "And we have all suffered for it. All the lives he has taken. Those are on your head."

“I’m not to blame for his actions. Free will ring a bell?” Lennartz caustically retorted. “Don’t think to make me culpable. There was nothing I could do. His father instilled a great deal of self-loathing in the boy. And his mother perverted him. Their maltreatment was so ingrained it was impossible to work through, especially since I could not remove him from their influence. To try would have seen my termination."

"Did you even try?"

"I did. Surprised? I built up a rapport with Deom over the years. But the stresses…the horrors he showed me. It was easier to reduce our relationship to a professional one, to see him merely as a subject."

"You felt guilty."

"I did it to survive and to make my task easier. It was no longer enough to try to save him. It became imperative to save us from him."

"You failed."

"I failed," Lennartz gravely echoed. "And the result…A personality fractured into avatars of guilt, anger, and confusion. All those voices, all those figures he claims to see; they are parts of him. His way of dealing with his mental torment. To suffer. To confront. To dominate. And this drive of his to make us whole, as he always said…he only seeks to make himself whole. To return to that lost state of innocence.

"But he is no innocent. Whether by blood or by man, he is irredeemable. By the time I had met him, his deviance was obvious though only years later did I understand. When I realized Edmund was the catalyst.

"It was after his brother’s death that the self-mutilation started. The strange visions. The…figures. The boy represented what he wasn’t. Something whole and loved, if one were to listen to how he described his brother in relation to his parents. His father’s wanted heir. His mother’s blessed child. And him forgotten. Cast out. It takes little to deduce that he sacrificed him. Sacrificed him for the twisted love and attention of his parents. The only love he ever knew. And trust me he is capable of far worse than infanticide. And I took that inner rage and foolishly urged him to express it. I released his demons.

"He does not value life, but that is because he is incapable of grasping reality like you or I. In many ways, he is at the mercy of himself. Selves would perhaps be more apt. Social deficits. Emotional instability. Subconscious drives. Like his father always said, he was incomplete. That boy possessed no soul. No self. His core is empty. He is little more than a devilish id who seeks out our own flaws to reinforce his own. To confirm we are all imperfect just like him.

"But this delusion of his, of this mutilated God and lost ghosts, I don’t think he truly believes in it. He is simply relating his state of being in the only way he knows how. It’s all symbology. Structured. Darkly poetic. And even if he did believe it, who could blame him? Wouldn’t you withdraw into fantasy if only to escape hell? To find hope in hopelessness. So reality faded and delusion overcame him.

"By his will he has stripped the world of substance, turned us all into variables. It is the only way he can suffer reality. Make sense of it. It is in his nature, stunted as he is. He cannot see beyond himself. He is blind. Yet, he sees us. Sees in us what he wants to see, a reflection of himself. And we, we are his proxy; his way of striking out at the demons of his own life. At his failures. In his eyes, we are his failures just as he was in the eyes of his own father. The sins of the father are visited upon us." Lennartz frowned bitterly.

"There is nothing supernatural to what he is," the doctor continued. "Only tragic and terrifying. What genius has wrought. But every gift is a curse, right? If there is a God, he creates solely in irony. And now you know why I did not speak up at his trial for surely I could only dub him insane. To grant that man a chance at freedom. Even I have scruples."

"So you claim."

Lennartz flinched at the insult. "Every victim Deom kills serves as a surrogate for himself. Yet every murder fails to purge his faults. The taint persists. The guilt grows. With each life he takes, he further internalizes, withdraws deeper into the darkness, becoming more and more inhuman.

“You have to understand,” Lennartz virtually pleaded. “Deom is a groundbreaking case study, a predator of the human psyche. But he is still a cliché, a banal stereotype. He instills fear to compensate for his own. He dominates to counter powerlessness. And this need to be recognized for his crimes. It was to ruin his father’s name. Not only that, but to also make himself greater than his father. To stand triumphant upon his father’s ruin. There is nothing unnatural here, only psychopathic."

"No." Herbert violently shuddered. "There is more to him than mental illness. What he has revealed to me…I’ve seen things."

“Delusions, perhaps something deep-seated in you.” Lennartz eyed Herbert warily. “Luke is unstable, in some ways infectious. And you, I see the same wildness in your eyes.”

"You don’t think there is more to him than a diagnosis?" The question was almost plaintive. "I have witnessed phenomena-"

"Psychosomatic. Clearly you have been under stress. That has made you susceptible."

“This is more than stress!” Herbert fought to keep himself under control, biting his lip, holding himself tightly. “Why can’t you admit that?” he finally asked.

"Now you’re starting to sound like Turing."

“Turing?” Herbert’s tenuous calm was replaced with confusion. “What does he have to do with this?”

Lennartz silently thought over his slip then relented. "Go talk to him if you want answers. The answers you are searching for anyway. I’ll tell him you are coming and what you are seeking. I’m sure he is more than willing to enlighten you."

***

Warden Joubert ventured down the dim corridor to Death Row flanked by officers Marcus, Dames, Clyde, and Bud. He clucked his tongue at the ruinous vagaries surrounding him in the gloom. Craters and debris. Failing lights that flashed and flickered indiscriminately to briefly illuminate walls cleft and crumbling. The air itself was heavy, oppressive, and polluted by a fetid vapor that rose from the depths and invaded the nose rendering one ill. So foul was the stench that Joubert was forced to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and cover his nose and mouth so as to not retch. After the reports he thought it prudent to inspect the site himself. But seeing the rot first hand; it was worse than he had expected. If it was like this down in the bowels of the place, what did it mean for the foundation? “Things just keep getting worse all the time.”

Dames agreed. "I don’t think it’s safe to be down here. There’s fear of a cave in."

Joubert’s free hand brushed the slick wall, tracing the fissures in the stone. "Do we even have an explanation for this?"

"Underground streams. Possible fault line." Dames let his flashlight travel the length of the hall. "The only thing any of the inspectors can agree on is that it’s unstable. The prison itself may be in danger of collapse."

"It’s unnatural," Bud murmured.

Clyde grabbed his partner by the arm and hissed in his ear, "You cut that shit."

"We should move him, sir," Dames counseled the warden as they continued on.

"No. That troglodyte stays down here until there is no other option. I have enough problems up there without Deom sparking the tinder. That fucking cancer. Now, you say he attacked a guard?"

"Carpenter, sir."

"What was he doing down here?"

"Unknown, sir-"

"Trying to steal some of Deom’s notebooks," Marcus stated.

"That’s bull shit!" Clyde shouted, restrained by Bud.

"No. I heard him say he wanted to make some easy money. Tried to get a few of us to go along with him. There was no fucking way I was going near Deom no matter how much money was at stake."

"How did this even happen?" Joubert demanded of Dames, anger piqued. "Don’t you have better control over your guards?"

"He disappeared during his shift, sir. Some of his fellow guards covered for him." Dames flashed an accusatory glance toward Clyde. "When he didn’t show up for shift change, we went looking. Marcus found him. Down here."

Joubert focused on Marcus. "What did you find?"

"I found…I found him in Deom’s cell. Bloody. Beaten. Moaning. And Deom…he just sat there staring at him."

"Covered in Carpenter’s blood," Clyde clarified with a sneer. "Guilty as fuck. But don’t worry, sir. We took care of it," he assured the warden with a wink.

Joubert got nose to nose with Clyde. "You don’t do anything without my word. Especially concerning Deom, do you understand me? Do you?"

Clyde shamefully looked away. "Yes sir."

The warden continued down the corridor, followed by his guards. "What sort of state is Deom in now?" he asked over his shoulder, an edge to his voice.

"Erratic," Marcus answered. "He’s been real stirred up these last several days. As I’ve told you, he refuses to eat. I don’t even think he sleeps. Just paces around, babbling to himself. The words don’t make any sense. And I’ve heard him weeping. And screaming."

"Crazy bastard," Bud added.

"If we try to get near his cell he gets violent. We haven’t been able to empty his waste bucket for three days. I blame Clyde for the change."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because of the beating he dealt Deom…and the notebooks he took."

Clyde was unrepentant. "He had to be disciplined."

"More like you stole Carpenter’s idea to turn a quick buck," Marcus retorted. "Can’t even be a creative thief."

"Fuck you. The man attacked a fellow guard. We can’t have these bastards thinking we’re weak. We have to teach them a lesson."

"Then where are the notebooks?" Marcus challenged. "Can you produce them?" Clyde hesitated to answer. "Can you?"

"I don’t have to answer to you."

"No, you have to answer to me," Joubert stated, spinning to confront the guard. "I want those notebooks produced by tomorrow or I’ll have you ’disciplined.’ Are we clear?"

Clyde chewed on his lip. "Yes sir."

"Now," Joubert pointed at the gate, "Open it." Marcus came forward, keys in hand.

Bud wrinkled his nose. "I didn’t think it could smell any worse."

"Come," Joubert ordered as the gate opened, entering the row.

As Joubert rounded the corner and Deom’s cell came into view, the scene that confronted him almost overcame his senses. "Jesus Christ." He gagged while Bud turned to vomit and the others heaved. There was shit everywhere. Weird fecal designs of archaic verse, jagged wedge-like streaks, and other strange characters sullied the rock. Naked on his bed, smeared in waste, sat Luke, head bowed and turned away from them. Bruises were apparent on the back of his neck.

"At least we know where the smell is coming from," Clyde choked out.

Joubert approached Luke’s cell, emboldened by a rage borne from stress exacerbated by such contempt for his property. "I’ve been told you’ve refused to eat. That you assaulted one of my guards. And this." He stabbed at the walls of the cell with his finger. "What have you to say for yourself?" Deom remained silent. Such disrespect rendered Joubert apoplectic. "What am I not good enough talk to? Or maybe you think me beneath you. Let me tell you something. Up there, in the real world, people may be afraid of you, but not me. To me you’re nothing but a number.

"Society doesn’t want you, so I get you. You are mine to do with as I please. I feed you. I shelter you. I fucking protect you. And this is how you repay me. This! You want to refuse my good will? Fine. But these little rebellions of yours are over. I am not going to brook anymore of your bullshit. So you’re going to get up, turn around and face the wall." Deom did not move. "I said get the fuck up!"

"It’s no good, sir," Marcus told the warden. "He won’t respond to anyone."

"Alright." Joubert turned to the guards. "Open it."

"Sir?" Marcus was horrified at the thought of unlocking Deom’s cell.

"Open the goddamn cell!" Marcus froze. Joubert seized the guard by the throat. "Do I need to find the key?"

"Why…why are we opening it?" Marcus sputtered.

"Because I told you to."

Dames stepped forward and snatched the ring of keys from his subordinate, quietly telling him to back away.

"You’re not going to die on my watch," Joubert coldly warned Deom. "You will not escape this life that easily."

Marcus could only watch as Dames slid the key into the lock. The clack echoed through the row as he turned and retracted the bolt. It was only then that Luke’s head cocked to the side to view his guests revealing a swollen, inhuman visage.

Dames pulled the cell door aside and waved Bud and Clyde in. Pulling their clubs free, they entered and demanded Luke rise. With startling quickness, Luke was off the bed. He head-butted Bud in the face, the man’s nose exploding in a gush of blood. Falling back in shock, Deom twisted and leapt on Clyde, shoving him against the rock wall and biting deeply into his neck. Clyde could barely gurgle a scream as his larynx was torn out in a crimson spray of gore.

"Get your goldbricking ass in there!" Joubert shouted at Dames. Dames started into the cell, swinging his club at Deom only for Luke to duck the arcing blow. He snatched the guard by the balls and wrestled him to the floor. Mounted atop Dames’ back, Luke rammed the man’s face again and again into the floor, the wet slaps gut wrenching.

"Son of a bitch." Joubert stole Marcus’ club and advanced on Luke from behind, catching him hard in the lower back. Deom went rigid.

"So," Joubert rasped between repeated shots, "Why is it you always have to make me worry?" Luke weathered the blows, refusing to go down. "You’re not eating. Always making a ruckus. Then there are these finger paintings of yours." Joubert tapped the chipped rock with the tip of his baton before sending another shivering blow into the side of Deom’s head. "Disobeying my commands. You don’t understand. I am God and you have earned my wrath!"

The warden bashed Luke’s hand causing Deom to jerk it back instinctively. He retreated to a corner gripping his trembling, broken fist in agony. The warden bent at the hip to whisper in Luke’s ear, "Are you trying to cause me problems, you little fuck? You will learn your place or I shall put you in it."

Marcus flinched as another blow cracked across the back of Luke’s head sending him into a series of convulsions on the floor.

Breathing heavily, Joubert tossed the club aside and wiped the sweat from his brow. "You’re alone down here. No one’s coming to save you. You live according to my whims, so I suggest you bend or be broken by them. I have enough problems without you adding to them. Don’t screw with me. I can be a vengeful fuck." The warden emotionlessly surveyed his guards. Nodding toward Bud, "Get him to the infirmary." Gesturing toward Clyde, now lifeless on the stone floor, "Get him to the morgue. And you," he said to Dames, the guard’s face bruised and bleeding, "Get back to work."

"What about Deom?"

Joubert casually readjusted his tie. "Fuck ’em." The warden turned and abandoned them.

Marcus helped Bud up, the pair then aiding Dames in carrying Clyde’s body. Locking the cell door behind them, the guards started back toward the corridor.

Luke heard the gate slam as he lay there on the cold granite, the tremors finally still. He was a wretched thing, lying broken and bloodied in his own waste. And yet he laughed, laughed heartily, breath whistling through chipped teeth and split lips.

The lights of the row sparked. Giggles chittered hideously in the dark, building into bleating squeals and collapsing finally into demonic cackling. The unsavory, fleeting glow was filled with their ill humor. Dozens. Hundreds. Who knew how many invisibly watched enjoying this wretched entertainment of man coming apart.

***

"The whole history of science has been the gradual realization that events do not happen in an arbitrary manner, but that they reflect a certain underlying order, which may or may not be divinely inspired.

"But does that mean there is but one answer for the whole?" Dr. Turing asked his students from the rostrum. "Even if there is only one possible unified theory, it is just a set of rules and equations. And there is more to the universe than simple numbers. What is it that breathes fire into the equations and makes a thriving universe for them to describe?

"It must be more than numbers and rules, laws and theory. One cannot argue with a mathematical theorem. Nor can one find answers solely therein. No, there is more to all this than mere theory."

Turing paused in his lecture, noticing Herbert sitting towards the back of the hall.

"But what if we were able to discover that theory, professor?" a student asked. "What then?"

"If we do discover a complete theory," Turing answered, eyes still fixed on Herbert, "It should be in time understandable in broad principle by everyone. Then we shall all, philosophers, scientists, even the simplest soul be able to take part in the discussion of why we and the universe exist. It is the single greatest question of time itself. One that has spawned myriad gods…and demons."

The bell rang sending a ripple through the student body. Turing dismissed the class, gathering up his notes as the hall emptied.

"Lennartz told me you were coming," Turing said after the last student had left, gathering his notes.

Herbert leaned forward in his chair, his crossed arms resting on the railing. "You always knew I would return."

“Yes. Everything works in cycles. That is something Luke taught me. And here you are.” Turing glanced up from his papers and focused on his guest. “You weren’t ready then. But now you’ve seen, as I have, what dwells within the empty spaces. Now, you are ready.

"Beneath the flesh, below consciousness, behind reality. Where the final answer lays. The scientific community called his work heresy. If they had only seen the parts I have. What the laws allow."

"So you don’t believe what Deom has shown you to be delusion?"

"Can two men share madness? Or can truth be infectious? No, no man’s demons can transcend him. Not unless there be a germ of truth at their core. There is a substance to the visions I have suffered. That we have suffered. The lingering cold. The whispers in dreams. They seek to speak to us, these lost souls. For what nefarious reason I cannot say. All I know is that these beings of absence are not harbingers of enlightenment. While others would explain them away to find peace, I accept that such things are."

"Why?" Herbert pressed with fervor.

"Because they are us. The anti-us. And despite our noblest intentions, we are destined to join them. To revolve. To devolve.

"I’m not religious. Yet, to confine one’s attention to terrestrial matters alone would be to limit the human spirit. I believe the universe is governed by the laws of science. But what Luke exposed me to…a revelation. The darker side of physics. Of science. The grand antithesis.

"My colleagues strive to explain reality. But Deom altered the question and sought to explain our existence within it. And it was the right thing to do because I have come to increasingly believe that we did not emerge from the universe but that the universe emerged from us."

"Like a dream."

Turing looked to the ceiling, seeing beyond the plaster to the starless sky. "This phenomenon…every explanation I could offer has been discounted, and thus the scientist in me must accept that what I have suffered is real."

"That we are haunted? That we are damned?"

Turing’s attention fell to Herbert. "Was salvation ever truly an option for us? Our bodies are but a mortal anchor and when the line is severed we are sent adrift into the great unknown. But man was never meant to peer into the infinite, nor should something as fleeting as we suffer an eternity. In that lies only madness. But yet here we are begging the question ’is Life a blessed accident or a baleful abomination?’

"Even now I question whether Luke was a prophet or doomsayer. What he stirs in you."

Herbert cocked his head in understanding. "You mourn him."

Turing wearily nodded, age weighing heavily upon him. "People call him evil, and that’s what pains me most."

"Why?"

"Because the boy cared. He truly cared for his fellow man. In his own way. But that is the root of truest evil. To commit the darkest deeds in good faith. To lose sight of the path. Such a brilliant mind. What he could have been.

"And that is why I told you his work was incomplete because he could never reconcile himself with death. With an end. Thus the equation, his grand equation stands unsolvable save for the man who created it. And he has no wish whatsoever to discover that final answer."

“Maybe he finally does,” Herbert replied, remembering the notebook Deom gave him. He surveyed the wall behind Turing where Luke’s equation had once shone, now barren. "Lennartz has said he was born evil."

Turing sighed, a wistful sound in the cavernous hall. "Lennartz is a man constrained by archetypes and case studies. A pathological categorical. He leaves no room for the unique and Deom was special. When I first met him, I found a boy lost. Blinded and frustrated by an unfocused gaze. So I turned his eyes skyward. To the void. To the unknown. And he lost himself in it. Physics was his religion and it took him where I could not follow. But I don’t blame him for I know they drove him to it."

"Who? His parents?"

"No. The dead. In that house. That cursed house."

"His family’s estate?"

"Evil dwells there. And I believe it is that evil that spawned and twisted him. That corrupted that entire family."

Herbert’s eyes narrowed. "How do you know this?"

"Because I have been there. I have studied it. Would you care to see for yourself?"

Next Chapter: Tenebrism