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Nforche Gerald is a 22 year old Cameroon poet and writer especially of gothic and thriller short stories and poems. He lives in Yaound, Cameroon. He speaks English and French fluently. In 2012 at the age of 22, he won KIFs Talent award in creative writing in Cameroon.

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

Preface
Few people will agree that creative writing is a gift and not an activity one is trained to carry out. Few will agree that a writer will be at his best when he is young and unperturbed by the leachy systems of education. Few will agree that a young man like me can produce stories of great beauty and great standards. I knew my gift when I was still a child of seven when I developed a voracious interest in reading books. This reading has helped me become a good writer and has also helped me compare notes with world leading writers. I believe that one day, God looking down on his child, I will become a bestseller and share my ideas across cultures. I finished my first 180 page novel at the age of 18 and my first book length poem at the age of 19. I write poems and stories as well as try my hand at other things. It was in 2012 when I was recognized as Cameroons leading young creative writer with the KIF Talent distinction award that I understood that my way for creative writing is being paved for me. I therefore call on my brothers, the youths to keep writing or put more attention in their respective fields of creativity, for tomorrow is never like today.

Gerald Nforche

Dedicated to My mother and all the young creative writers of Cameroon and the Cowry Arts Project Nigeria.

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

The following narrative is published from the Journal of Mr. Michaels Frederick Jones by arrangements of his widow Rebecca Jones and New Publishers, West Virginia, United States of America. Mr. Jones died under mysterious circumstances breaking Monday 15 th June 1993. The FBI believes, by induction from this document and because there is nothing else to work on as the cause of his death, that this narrative written by the deceased before his death, throws light on the death.

25th July 1993

I have been happy, tho' in a dream. I have been happy- and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life, As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality, which brings To the delirious eye, more lovely things Of Paradise and Love- and all our own! Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known. Dreams - Edgar Allan Poe

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

Part I
A weird Dream

I had spent the most part of the day at Claypoles Winery

drinking with two of my best friends with whom for weeks I had created a great acquaintance, an acquaintance I wouldnt have imagined two weeks before when I just arrived in Charleston, West Virginia looking for a job. They were Mr. Shawn a real estate agent and Moses a student who also worked part-time for Ale and Sons in town. On our table were three bottles of Sherry and Pit Wine, two bottles of Paris Wine and a pot of Chteau which if measured would have given 5 liters of raw wine to more than cheer any decent man; but three men, that is myself and the two aforementioned men who thought ourselves beyond any doubt able enough sat drinking and conversing enthusiastically. Mr. Shawn, a short Englishman with a long red nose hanging on a freckled face as if by strength of glue, while on his retiring head (the

head was going bald) nested Scottish hair which was hardly ever combed, the latter falling on his forehead with an ugly indifference which made my friend at first glance a very unfriendly and ugly man. He was by my inference between 45 and 50 years old. He always carried a bitter look which seemed to make the deep wrinkles on his face feel at home; wrinkles I believe had been developed by his continuous mood of vexation and bitterness over the years. He always dressed in a cheap brown suit while on his head nested a felt hat of similar glum color. On his feet hung an old pair of brown cowboy boots which ought to have been retired some years back. He carried under his right arm his trademark blue and white umbrella, something from which he never parted be it rain or sun. Today his wrinkles looked deeper, his face ashen and dangerous while his eyes darted in their sockets so often and his mood so dire that I thought my friend had just committed murder before coming to Claypoles to cool off. To my right was the Cameroonian Moses, a student in the West Virginia University. A born talkative, he was about six feet tall with an African accent which he tried as much as possible to obliterate by talking through his bulbous nose so that he could pass as either an African Europe or an American. What he succeeded in producing was something between piggish groans and incoherent bleats for which I had spent days to rectify by frequently dissuading him from wagging off his identity. This boy of 25 carried a great love for jeans and his blue baseball cap, the latter I thought was part of his head by the frequency he wore it and the by rarity with which he took it off. While Mr. Shawn was a man who loved politics and the papers, something he loved to talk about (which always failed to impress both Moses and I), the latter would bleat about his favorite

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

basketball team anytime we met. He was updated especially of the Lakers and any other basketball team that played under the American sun. Either he spoke of this sickening basketball or he bored about the Champions League, activities for which I harbored very little interest. It was a very muggy and dull day. The previous day had rained so hard that it was written in the Papers that two children down town had drowned. Today it was damp and the rains threatened to fall while thunder kept cracking from Huntington. Little wind cascaded from the east. The day was really suggesting an indoor residence for everyone. No sun had shown its face. The day was gray and monotonous and there were very few people in the Winery. Nothing spoke above a whisper except the TV which was hanging directly above the Mantlepiece and an over-dressed and obese female anchor who would have been at home in a psychotherapy center was croaking about the weather. Today our conversation was hovering around dreams, a topic for which I never held any interest or consideration, when Moses who had for the past ten minutes not said a word to the unvoiced surprise of Shawn and I, raised a hand for silence. Frankly speaking, do you believe in dreams, Mr. Shawn? he began, it seems you have much opinion about them, deducting from the way you have been talking. he stared at both of us before taking a generous sip from his glass. I turned with raised eyebrows to Mr. Shawn who stared into space, puzzled. Do you believe a dream can shape or impact on ones life? This time Mr. Shawn cleared his voice before responding, It depends on ones feelings about dreams? There is the possibility that a belief can shape or impact on ones life. "Every night when one dreams, he subconsciously assesses what's

going on in his life, says Dr. Gayle Delaney. And if one pays attention, he can use it as a way to solve problems." He paused to regard our reactions. You can decipher your dreams, use them to your advantage, and understand why you have them in the first place. If one believes that by dreaming he can understand the future and if by this he sees in advance things that happen and act upon them, we then say it is credible enough that he should believe in dreams and even take sensitive decisions. Moses had a contrary opinion. In ma country, most dreams are held with much foreboding. Many a dream has killed many a folk. Ma granny always told me stories bout th evil of dreams, men who met their end through dreams. One Tabe, a childhood friend of mine slept and died in his sleep. He had been screamin all night long bout some children with bloodshot eyes comin after her. This pissy ventriloquism had gone on for some days before he gave in and died in his troubled slumber. Another sip. He groaned in satisfaction before pursuing. Another time, I felt this staggerin weight on me as I slept. I could neither breathe nor move and when I tried screaming I could not find ma poor voice. I tried to look at the face of my assailant but as dreams are, one cant see his assailants face. The face was turned at an angle from which I could not identify that fucking witch or wizard. I woke up in the mornin to be told I had been kicking around and convulsin in ma poor asleep. The reminiscence of that bad night was an injured right thumb. I hate dreams. I nearly died, men. I nearly died the day that fatty ass had a sleep on ma thin bones. I nearly asphyxiated. Both Mr. Shawn and I nearly burst out laughing. Moses was a very funny young thing especially when he was trying to speak like an Africa American.

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Gerald Nforche

There is a psychological Meaning of what you encountered, my boy. Be not afraid. Because one thing nearly killed you does not mean it is bad in its entirety. I will supplicate that you erase this fallacy of composition and argumentum ad ignorantiam from your head. Mr. Shawn was becoming philosophical. Everyone has a dark side as well as a right side. The evil that occurs in dreams usually represents something about oneself, ceteris paribus. It may represent destructive psychological forces such as: anger, jealousy, revenge or hatred. If you recognize these tendencies within yourself, first accept them, and then practice the opposite in waking life. For example, if you dream of hatred practice love, if you dream of revenge practice forgiveness and if you dream of jealousy practice giving. No comment escaped Moses than incoherent groans in his throat before he seized his glass of wine and gulped down in resignation. He did not want to speak on the topic again. Everyone at the table now turned their attention to me forcing me to say something. I had nothing to say. I didnt believe in any damn dreams. I dont believe in dreams, I said with indifference, and I will never do. I will neither like to fall prey to Moses fallacies of composition and division nor to Mr. Shawns criticism. One time I dreamed that I had an accident while driving in town. This caused me a lot of anxiety. I nearly stopped driving for life because of this wild dream. Till date I am as healthy as a king. I will not like to bore you gentlemen with other dreams that failed to be concretized. I will say I am a nonchalant man by nature but some of my dreams nearly made my life empty and helpless had I not been wiser.

*********

It was 10:53 PM by my watch. I staggered home whistling to myself and thanking God that the cops were not abroad. It would have been difficult if they had stopped me without my papers. I took a short cut through Flint Street, crawled though a smelly corridor which opened to one malodorous side street where a group of people whose sex I could not fathom were found gathered around a cheerful fire. I limped on with so much indifference that had the people confronted me, I would have grinned in their face. Through Balkes Street, I jogged so that the night air beat into my face and reduce that trance of alcohol wherein I found myself inebriated. Two emaciated dogs in search of late supper appeared before me snarling. Head lowered, one of them sauntered towards me, making for my legs. I gave it such a kick that it went screeching in terror while the other one which I supposed was the female and which could not stand seeing her lover so brutally assaulted tried to have my arm for warm supper. It jumped at me, growling but I gave it such a punch with my right fist, which landed squarely on its head that I was forced to think that I was not in my right mind. The beast fell to the ground, writhing with a spasm, its mouth foaming and dripping that I recoiled in distaste and began running away with something between glee (for my victory) and terror (for my suddenly brutality and robotic strength). No beast carried the strength to stalk me and I threaded my way through Smith and Shaw and came to my apartment which was just at right angles to the former. I swayed into my three-room flat in a state of stupor and inebriation from wine, whiskey and beer before falling to the floor and throwing up the occupants of my stomach.

*********

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

Still weak and dizzy I opened my eyes which hurt from one cursed and blinding light whose source I could not fathom. Was there someone bearing the source of this light with the aim of disorienting me? I was lying on the floor in a room I have never known. The floor was granite and coated with a film of dust. I staggered to my feet, my left palm over my eyes to shield off that cursed light. When my eyes had come as close as adjusting to it, I tried to take my bearings. Where was? I could not see beyond 20 feet but I tried as best as possible to investigate where fate had left me. My stomach groaned and complained, my eyes reeled in their socket and my mouth tasted of stale wine. Around me and about six feet away was just wall and wall of a color beyond fathom. Those pestilential walls were bubbling with a hiss while emitting a red gas of whose safety I could not know. I could not trust my sight anymore; what I was seeing was indescribable. If one has ever witnessed a pot of bubbling and whistling chocolate, he will understand what l mean; the wall was boiling as if there was a large furnace on the other side. My old three-room flat had neither boiling wall, not granite flooring. It was contemporary though cheaply and sparsely furnished; there is a cheap set of chairs near the south wall just below the window which overlooked Smith and Sons. There is a brown cupboard near that old refrigerator my mum gave me two years ago and my TV set sits on the mantelpiece above the fireplace before which every evening I will sit with a glass of juice and a newspaper. As I thought of these, I searched the room with those eyes I have come to distrust. This room was neither oval nor furnished like mine. This one was square-like and the empty space above where I

expected to find the roof disappeared into the darkness as visibility was limited to 10 feet. As terror seized me, I began screaming. I screamed and screamed but no voice escaped my throat? Jesus. Was I deaf or mute? I fell on my knees and clutched my earlobes and pulled, and screamed again, thinking that if the ears had not been wide enough or had been blocked not to perceive sound, they would not fail this time. I screamed again but heard nothing. I scratched the ridge of my ear with my index finger and heard vibrations with full transmission. Thank God then, I was not deaf. Then I must be mute instead. Mute? I screamed again to dissuade myself from such insane thought. Nothing perceived, nothing received, nothing transmitted. Two feet away from me was the wall, boiling and emitting steam. Now I could not hear the hissing sound I had been hearing minutes before. I instead felt alien eyes watching me, predatory eyes looking into my very soul. I felt the eyes monitoring me for some sinister purpose. I fell on my knees and started weeping and pulling at my hair in frustration. I heard my sniffs. So I was not deaf. Then what? Or had the deafness been temporary? Now, I screamed with pleasure, Who is there? Help me? but I heard nothing. So it meant I could not hear my voice above a whisper. So I resigned myself to my doom and began whispering insanely either for help or for a fast execution. I thought of a trick and tried to employ. As I whispered (during which I heard my voice) I tried to scream without breaking the whispering, in vain. Suddenly, the lights went off and I was plunged in so heavy I darkness that I could not even see my hand when I waved it in front of my face. This time I screamed in terror but what I expected mocked at

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Gerald Nforche

me. I was totally mute. I was so scared because I felt an evil around me, something stretching its fingers to touch me. This made me to be recoiling and shifting as I meditated on my fate. Then the lights came back again so fast that an unheard shriek fell from my mouth. The wall which before the blackout was a boiling mass, now stood solid in granite. I lowered my hands from my face and screamed at the top of my voice. The echo hit me so hard that I fell on the floor, my ears ringing so loudly that for once I thought I would go deaf for real. The lights went out again. I staggered towards the wall just three feet away. I had been counting that a few steps would bring me within reach of it, but when I reached out, I felt nothing. I stopped dead in my tracks to reconsider the illusion dealing with me; but when I thought that I must have misjudged the distance, I took some steps ahead, my right hand groping around. I believe I must have gone about ten meters, half of which I had not expected to cover without finding the wall when a husky electric voice stopped me cold. Welcome to the World of Dreams. It was like living a Hollywood horror. Vibrations caressed my ears as if its owner was inches behind me. Who are you, who are you? my voice vibrated. I spun round in a fruitless effort to find my assailant. Just empty darkness stared back at me. Just a matter of time, returned the voice, just a matter of time. I see you are in a haste to know me. But first let us play a game.

What game? What? I felt like a prey being conducted to the trap. My hair stood on end and I felt like urinating. Where am I? Where the hell am I? You ask too many questions. The voice sounded impatient and vexed. Look behind you. The doorway waits for you. Hardly had the words left the mouth than I wheeled round expecting to find a pack of carnivores reaching for my tender flesh. But what I saw was worse. Yards behind me was a rectangular doorway which I could swear had not been there before. But this time I knew that nothing virtuous was lurking behind those walls. I dared not take a step forward. It was like a doorway into another part of the unknown universe. What am I to do? What lies behind that door? this time my interlocutor said nothing. He had said I should go in. Was it safe? Was it? I found myself contemplating as the doorway began to glow and a dazzling light cut through it from within, bathing me with its glow. Welcome to the world of dreams, that feared voice came again. A world where dreams become real. What? Yesterday, while drinking with your friends, the voice was soothing, you challenged that world wherein dreams grow and blossom. There is just one way from here and it depends on what you do behind that doorway. Will you like to give it a try or expire where you stand? Fuck you. I began screaming, Fuck you whoever you call your filthy iniquitous self. So I am dreaming you say? Then I will wake up to find myself under warm blankets. I felt like laughing out loud. It was only a dream. I would wake up in the morning and all would have faded away. Hurrah!!!

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

Welcome to the world of dreams son, welcome to the world of dreams. Dont be surprised to be found stiff under those very blankets. The voice was undulating and then began to fade away. The doorway awaits you. The doorway waits for you? For you it waits. There is no much time. The doorway waits. It waits. Silence. There was just the glowing doorway with its dazzling light and me in that cavernous room.

There is no much timefound stiff under those very blankets. The voice kept resounding in my head as I stared at the door and weighed the options. Was I to go ahead and traverse that gloomy threshold? Was I to wander in that cavernous room and perhaps by providence come upon some way of escape? Wasnt this a dream? What if this dream turned out to be a twisted evil from which only the right choice could set me free. My blood turned cold and my eyes widened in shock when I realized that I had appeared yards from the doorway. My legs had been working on their own during my reverie. The light fell fully on me and my eyes to my surprise did not hurt in the least, but I could not make out what the room beyond contained. I took a conscious step forward. Another one. I was now right at the center of the doorway and a step would take me through. I breathed out heavily and giving all to providence stepped forward. I stood petrified for more than three minutes as I beheld something no human being will like to find himself caught up in. The room beyond was nothing but a massive enclosed graveyard, an old one with a shaft of light pouring in through an oculus from a soaring roof hundreds of yards away. That dazzling light that had bathed me

outside this graveyard was only fashioned by the doorway behind me. Stretched before into the darkness were crypts from different ages and of different sizes. Some were built like large cots underneath which lay corpses I believed and still believe as I write this story are hundreds and even thousands of years old. Some were mere stone mounds with old crosses on them. Others had their crosses either broken or lying at their feet; a disgusting sight. Enormous cobwebs draped the graves which added a frightful effect to everything and everywhere. Some hundreds of yards away, an enormous shaft of feeble sepia sunlight (which I have just mentioned above) plunged from above into the room like a waterfall. The hole in the ceiling through which the light cascaded was unbelievably large, at least 300 feet across (as I soon found out).
Image: The rendition of the welcome room (F) and the crypt (D). I took my bearings and the dimension of both rooms either by the sudden appearance of light (F) and by the shaft of sunlight from the oculus (D). The Cemetery room is very massive. My walk around gave me the details illustrated above.

The light, penetrating deep into the room and throwing ghostly shadows on the old crypts and cobwebs, revealed for the first time a horrid sight I will recount to

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Gerald Nforche

you. A dozen crypts lay open; their old and moss covered concrete wraps lying near their mouths while their crosses, entangled with moss, ferns and spiders of different colors lay broken in an array of evil. I never ventured near them to gape at what lay inside the holes for I took fright when I thought that souls were either stalking me or waiting that out of curiosity I would go forward and peep into those crypts. They would then step from behind or below, push me in and cover me up alive. That was what I kept thinking as I took in what lay around me. The room in which I stood was perhaps more than 600 feet wide, the ceiling which I could hardly make out nearly 800 feet tall. It bore a very large oculus at an unarchitectural angle (reason for which the feeble shaft of light only lighted a selected corner of the room). The room was large enough for an entire New York City block of 40-story buildings. There were actually wispy clouds of red and black shades near the ceiling among which soared a thicket of hushed bats. The sepia light (another cause for concern; this heavily impeded my sight and even helped add a horrid effect to the graveyard) beaming from above revealed a 200 feet tall tower of calcite among the crypts smothered by ferns, palms and other jungle plants, whose family I could not ascertain. Stretching for about a hundred yards were crystal beds where I found puzzlingly entombed creatures of my specie.

Permit me describe what my eyes beheld in that cursed crypt for it is hardly ever a quotidian sight. The transparent mass of crystal that stretched at right angles to a huge pillar revealed to my astonishment half a dozen men of the most exotic origin. One of these men whose eyes were of an unsettling yellow was staring right at me. The glazed

eyes had expanded before the death of their owners either from shock or some unfathomable disease; the face on which hung in niches the eyes, was white as if the man had met his death from the hands of ghosts. His beard, brown, fell to his chest while on his head rested a pale green turban of the most prodigious make. So were the other entombed bodies that met my view; men and women whose origin I could not place, whose time I could not conjecture filled that crystal mass. My heart heavy, coupled with the fear that overtook my heart, I looked away. In some places stood granite pillars, irregularly disposed, supported the soaring oval roof like those in the nave of a cathedral, here forming lateral piers, there elliptical arches, adorned with pointed moldings, losing themselves in dark bays, amid the fantastic arches of which glimpses could be caught in the shade, covered with a profusion of projections formed like so many pendants. This cavern was a picturesque mixture of all the styles of Byzantine, Roman, or Gothic architecture. Stalactites hung around the edges of the massive skylight like petrified men. Vines dangled hundreds of feet from the oculus and entangled themselves around the crosses and stalactites. Here and there stood tall steel spikes with fractured skulls hammered in them. I could swear that it was here that dwelled Lucifer. The tallest cross, which stood on top of the most distinguished crypt rose to about ten feet. The beams of wood from which the cross was built were neither old nor fresh nor were they suggestive of an age. Moss covered the base of it till about four feet where it broke off as if a hand of pestilence had stopped it dead. At the chest of this pestilential depiction (where the vertical and the horizontal beams met) a liquid which I recognized without being told oozed and

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Gerald Nforche

crawled towards the base of the planks where it fed the moss. I guess I dont have to tell the reader that this liquid is that which every vampire yearns for.

Soft tolling of bells. The sound became louder as if the bearer of the bells was approaching. I heard the tolls, soft but chilling. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere; below where I stood, from my left, right in front of me, behind. I found myself spinning around in fear lest a monster laid hands on me before I behold its wormeaten face. I had read English in the University during which period I mastered Poe, and by which mastery I could recite by heart many of the latters poems excepting some verses which always failed to come to memory. Such occurrences as tolling bells and the icy feeling that sliced through me forced me to recall one of Allan Poes best poems The Bells. I found myself in a trance as that very poem silently fell from my whitish lips:
Hear the tolling of the bells Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan.

I pursed here as my body trembled in fear. But that last parts of that poem kept running through my head which caused the latter to burn. So I had to make use of an outlet. I had to recite every verse of that poem which helped me ease the pain as I recited. What devil was

controlling me? What demon had seized control of me? Lines of the poem which I could not have recited by heart came tumbling through my lips as if the very manuscript was being scrolled down right inside my head.
And the people -ah, the people They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone They are neither man nor woman They are neither brute nor human They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells, Of the bells Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

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Gerald Nforche

Bells, bells, bells To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

As that cursed poem fell from my trembling lips, louder became the tolls from those imperceptible bells. As I pronounced each bells, the knells of those invisible bells sounded in unity and in time with each syllable, tantamount to the strokes from the pianist in rhythm with the eulogy. Soft. Very soft. It was the worst pain for the heart. A movement on that immense moss-covered cross (blasphemous to Christendom) seized my attention as the bells kept tolling with a piteous resonance. At the cranium of the aforesaid cross nested a cluster of bats which before now had not been screeching as bats always do. But upon beholding them, the evil mammals began screeching so loud that I thought my eardrums would burst. The alert had been sent off. I heard a growl which was succeeded by others louder and unsettling. At the cranium of the cross was nailed a rectangular piece of wood about 4 feet in perimeter. On every decent crucifix are the words JESUS, KING OF THE JEWS. This was what I was expecting to read. But to my horror, legible writings in red began to appear and fade away. I craned my neck and caught the first two words.

THERE ARE
The writings faded out again and soon began to reappear.

THERE ARE TWO WORLDS: FANTASY

Forgetting my fears I staggered right before the cross as if what I was about to read was about to give me a way of escape. I gaped up just in time to see that the writings had come to stay for a while. Was this

a warning? Was I being told that death was lurking around waiting for the right time to reach for me with its cold fingers? I read on: THERE ARE TWO WORLDS: FANTASY AND THE REAL. IN THE LIGHT, THEE TRODDETH IN THE REAL AND IN THY SOMNOLENCE THY SHALL IN THAT WORLD OF DREAMS ROAM IN FEAR, TILL THAT COLD HAND OF PESTILENCE REACH OUT FOR THY THROBBING HEART. I heard a scrubbing at my rear and spinning round in great trepidation something smacked me hard on the head.

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

Part II
Back Again

Doctor, will my husband be alright? came the very familiar voice of my wife. It was full of concern and sadness Your husband will be fine maam, came the voice of a man who loomed over me. Although he received a shock in his head, it is no more threatening than if he had hit his leg on a stone. My sight was blurred and there was this pain and throbbing in my head. What was happening to me? It was like I had ended ran into a sledge hammer. I felt the mans hand on my forehead, then a sigh. Its gonna be alright, Shawn, there is nothing to worry about. He smiled down at me as my focus became clearer. There was Doctor McWilliams standing over me and beaming as he wrung his hand in anxiety. What is this Mac? What is happening to me? I dont remember running into a trailer. I tried to sit up. My head was heavy and throbbing in pain. My body was so weak that I fell back on the bed in satisfaction.

Take it easy, take it easy. Your wife will explain everything to you in due time. But I hope you will remember something too. But now you are not obliged to say anything. Oh, You just have to rest now. Just some rest will do you a lot of good. He flashed that smile again. My darling wife would have fallen for it. I did not want to think about what they had been doing during my coma. My wife had taken my hand and was stroking it tenderly. I stared at her and tried to force a smile but found that the nerves in my head hurt like hell. Hi, you are going to be ok. Her cheeks were pale and the flesh around her eyes was wrinkled. All the radiant color had escaped from her face; she looked unhappy and restless. Her lips were unsettling as she was excited talking to me. I urged her on with one little nod of my head; just that you were talking in your sleep. You were talking, she paused and stole a look at the doctor who said nothing, and cursing with all the bad words a conscientious man should not know of. I hated that word conscientious. This was a sarcastic insult. So I was not conscientious. She continued, I waited for you all night honey. And when you never showed up after 11 PM I got so anxious that it sent me to bed with a bad stomach. You had left your phone at home as if you wanted to disconnect yourself from the world. I dont know for how long I slept before I was woken up by a series of babbles and curses and obscenities from somewhere in the house. It was then I understood you had not come home before I went to bed. As the curses had been from the sitting room and the voice yours, there was nothing to fear. I found you writhing on the floor and clutching at your head in the spill of your own throw-up. Your head

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Gerald Nforche

was broken and oozing, here I reached out to touch where I was hurt on the head but my wife took my hand in hers, it is nothing to worry about darling, she heaved. The incision is neither deep nor alarming. She told me that seeing that it was already 5AM she called Dr. McWilliams to my aide. Before he arrived she had cleaned me up, got rid of my vomit and aired the room. I understood her at once. Never wash ones dirty garments in public. My stomach churned in shame. Whatwhat time is it? I stammered. 9 AM. You had been drinking, Fred. Anytime she called me Fred, it meant trouble. She was getting angry. Who did this to you? Just give me a name and the cops will take care of the rest. I was silent. Everything that had happened in my dream came pouring back. The recollection was so vivid as if it had just happened to me in real life. My friend the doctor took his leave promising another visit. If there was anything sour on the way, I had to face it alone. Who the hell did this to you? she changed completely. Being nice was helping in no way. I had to tell her everything that happened in that evil nightmare I have so come to dread. My lips shook, my head throbbed and I hardly found my voice as I emptied everything to her but she refused to believe that my injury was metaphysical. She went to church frequently, prayed twice a day. I think she was second to the Pope when it came to faithfulness. So, she could not be bought with such scrap of metaphysical infliction. I came home safe and sound, honey, I begged, although I was drunk I was a bit conscious of myself. I have told you the truth, and it shall set me free. I was getting helpless because my wife did not want to believe me.

I heard muffled sobs. She was weeping. I pulled the blanket over my head.

********* When the pain in my head had subsided to a level that I could think and work, I spent the morning writing down everything that had taken place the previous day; the drinking and conversation with my friends at Claypoles, my return home and that nightmare that still caused shivers in me, were narrated and described. I have always been a good illustrator, reason for which I drew, with all the mirror details in my head and for the readers curiosity that cavernous crypt wherein I was nearly strangled. The more I thought of the incidents in my dream, the more pain my head suffered. Who had been behind that voice? Whose crypts were those? Where was it? What image did it represent? What threat did it harbor on my life and even my family? I shuddered at this thought. My writing continued till 1 PM. I was putting down my pen when the bell rang and in ran who else than Shawn, excited and sweating. What happened? What? Spill it? he was shaking my hand roughly while he took in with bulging eyes the cheerless state of my head. Like what? Who told you? Why, Your wife came weeping into my house moments ago, asking for every detail of yesterday. It was here I remembered that my wife had left the house early in the morning without me even knowing. After I had thrown the blanket over my head, I dosed off. I was becoming so nonchalant with my family. My marriage was hanging by a straw which could give way at anytime. My wife always hated my

The Narrative of M. F. Jones

Gerald Nforche

coming back very late in the night. The worst part of it was when I was drunk. She had tried to dissuade me from this drinking habit and my nocturnal activities (which were heavily filled up by the former) but I was usually indifferent. She was slowly learning to live with it, something that burnt heavily within me. She was usually sad and would always pretend to be happy especially when someone was around. It was here that I began spilling everything to Shawn. Do you think this is a threat on my life? I asked when I came to the end. My friend considered and reconsidered it. At the end, he shook his head in confusion. Yesterday you said you dont believe in dreams, right?I hesitated before nodding in shame. Should we say you brought it upon yourself? The metaphysical playing on the physical. How? Why? Come on Shawn. Dreams have no ears. This is supernatural andand... my voice shook and dropped, I am not superstitious I was about to say that my house was covered since my wife prayed thrice daily, but held my voice. So how do you explain this? Some guys came into your room as you slept, gashed your head, hallucinated you and stuff? Explain it. I was silent. I have said my part because I wonna save your ass, Fred. I am not saying that you must believe in dreams. All you have to do is acknowledge them. Acknowledge! What I have understood from all what you have been saying is that either you are being played around with to put some sense and belief in superstition into your head, a game from which you shall emerge with no harm or you are at the

mercy of grave danger. To me, you are steadily being cornered, for what purpose I am still to discern. He took a brief look into my face, wiped his sweating face with his cheap handkerchief before continuing, I wont like to come one day and find my friends neck wrung from events that are naturally inexplicable. Good day he stormed out of the house as if pursued by a bevy of spiders.

The story continuous Part III: The Call