HAVE A HEART

By Todd Guilmette

Knock.

A single thump outside the apartment door. Mark looked up and waited to see if it would repeat itself.

Knock.

Dammit, I hate late visitors, Mark thought.

Knock Knock.

Mark pushed his work aside and called out. "Who is it?"

"Package for a Mister Jake," a voice spoke.

Mark perked up a bit. A package. But from whom? "OK, hold on," Mark said. He made his way over to the door and placed his eye to the peephole. A man stood there with a package. The man was quite large and muscular, in brown overalls. The man was looking off to the side nonchalantly, chewing something.

Mark opened the door partways and felt the door rush back with more force than he used. The man had pushed open the door and was charging into the apartment, rushing at Mark directly. Mark had a short impression of the man’s face. It held a grin with teeth that were stained brown with slightly-pointed canines. The eyes were a dark brown, almost black.

Then Mark was being held by the man’s capable fingers, one to his right arm and another to his throat. He blinked and made a small whispery noise.

"Hi," the man said.

The man moved Mark into the apartment and shut the door. Mark heard the deadbolt snap into place. Then the man moved further into the living room with his hands fully on Mark’s throat. Mark grabbed the man’s hand with both hands, trying to pry them off. It was no use—the man was very strong.

Then they were in the center of the living room. The man lessened his grip on Mark, so Mark took a few full breaths. He began to struggle, so the man took no trouble at all in lifting Mark off the ground by his neck. Mark had the perception of then being lifted into the air, and then the apartment got very bright. He didn’t feel it, but his head had hit the ceiling with a fair amount of force, and had left an indentation. Something in his deep unconscious before he blacked out completely was making a note to contact the landlord about the hole in the ceiling and to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

--

Mark thought he had awakened. Yellow blurs fanned across his vision, elongated, shrunk and then blurred again. He blinked a few times, and with every blink the yellow blurs took form. The room was dark, and the little lights were the fires of many small candles.

Then something audible, soft: "Oosh Nah Amoh Kah."

For a moment, Mark thought that somehow he was dreaming. Or maybe it was from being hit on the head—his mind was not interpreting the sounds of words into intelligible meaning.

"Hi."

All of the clouds of Mark’s memory seemed to dissipate in an instant and then he remembered.

The deliveryman! Mark thought.

The man was partially in shadow, but Mark could tell that his face had been painted somehow. He wore a tall bamboo hat with some soft of animal fur and feathers coming off it from all sides. He could see most of the man’s form in the dim whistling shadows. A leather-like coat was pulled around his body, but the rest of him was naked. The man continued to speak.

"Takah Lo Et. Esh-na po lari Deet."

The man moved closer and his voice raised.

"Eesh Kab-rohd Ess…"

"AAAH!" The man yelled into Mark’s face.

Jesus, Mark thought. The guy thinks he’s some kind of Aztec priest or something!

Mark looked around and tried to get up. His arms were immobile behind his back, and he was tied to one of his kitchen chairs. Around him at intervals were groups of three candles in different colors. Directly in front of him, his oak dining room table had a multitude of larger candles with wax melting onto the top. He could see the expensive tabletop blackening in circles around the candalabras.

The man continued to recite in the strange tongue, moving back and forth in front of the table. He moved slowly and carefully, and his whole body curved and danced to some unheard rhythm. He appeared to be almost swimming in the air around him, a garish dance in the glimmering candle light.

As Mark started to stare off into the flame of one of the larger candles, he was snapped back to attention as the man’s voice changed. It was no longer chanting. It was very fast, the syllables moving at an incredible speed, but still clear and well-formed. The man moved toward Mark and slid open Mark’s shirt. Mark could see that his chest had also been painted in many brown and yellow and black colors—natural earth colors.

The man moved his hand slowly toward Mark’s chest, slightly toward the right of center. The man’s hand was like an ice probe, instantly numbing his chest. In a few seconds, Mark could barely feel his torso at all.

Then there was a tickle. Mark looked down and saw the man’s fingers incredibly slipping into his chest without so much as an instant of pain. His chest seemed to give no resistance at all to the man’s force.

Deeper into his chest he then felt a dark coolness, and his whole body stopped moving. It was his heart, Mark realised, that was being touched by the intruding fingers. As the beating organ was clutched, he could feel a strange buzzing sensation starting from his chest and then working its way outward to his hands and feet.

The buzzing finally migrated up his neck to his head, and Mark vaguely saw something that he could not accept. A beating heart, held by the deliveryman, held with care, and then dissappearing into the man’s chest.

Go ahead, take my heart. You can have it.

Mark thought that had to be part of a song somewhere.

--

Mark awoke with a jolt. His hand moved instinctively to his chest. It was intact, and there were no colors there. Just flesh color.

Daylight protruded from the large windows and focused on the floor, lighting the room with a calm warmth.

Mark sunk back onto his couch and gazed around the room. It was all normal. Just a very terrible dream, and—

A coil of rope rested on his end table, neatly piled next to his set of sandstone drink coasters. On top of it was a single bit of fur and a feather.

Mark stood as if his body had been suddenly electrocuted by his couch cushion.

No! Mark thought. It can’t be true! Can’t be!

Mark moved about, jerking his hands around and breathing wildly. His eyes focused on parts of the room, not really seeing them. His adrenaline was streaming, his muscles twitching, mouth and nose contorting, heart pumping—

And then Mark realised.

His heart wasn’t pumping at the rate that it should have been. He felt his chest—hardly beating at all—

Not beating.

No heart.

A moment of silence which seemed to stretch out for a long time.

And then he saw the paper on the oak table, on top of several black rings in the wood with some discoloration from the hot wax.

"HOW TO FIND A NEW HEART", It said.

Mark blinked for a moment, and then grinned. His teeth were stained brown with pointed canines.

He moved over to the table and picked up the paper. Directions beckoned.

Everything would be fine now, Mark thought. He had the way.

Copyright 1993, 2001 by Todd Guilmette