Ink
Dragović cursed softly as he approached his storefront. The front windows were shattered, with shards of glass glinting in the morning light as they lay scattered across the sidewalk. He unlocked the front door, carefully draped his suit jacket over the counter, and brought out a trash can. He went back in for a broom and a dustpan. The day was already unbearably hot. Sweat stains began to form around his armpits as he cleaned up the glass. He was a small, slender man, and his suit, though worn, was clean. His tie was perfectly knotted in a Windsor knot.
“Will you look at this…such a shame. I told you there was a bad element in this neighborhood. If you had signed up for protection like everyone else did, this wouldn’t have happened,” a voice said.
Dragović paused in his sweeping and shot a glare at the tall, stocky figure leaning against the nearby wall, giving him a mocking smile. Dmitry wore an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt, jeans, and boots. His arms were heavily tattooed, with full sleeves covering both of them. An elaborately inked skeleton peeked out from under the open shirt. Dragović gripped the broom handle tightly, causing his knuckles to turn white, and his chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to maintain control.
“I pay money, and doesn’t happen again?” Dragović finally asked in his heavily accented English.
“Yeah, as long as you keep up your weekly dues.” Dmitry nodded.
“I have for you tonight. Come back at 8.” Dragović dismissively turned his back on him and went back to sweeping up the glass.
“8 it is,” Dmitry replied, walking away with a fading smile as he kicked at the pile of glass, scattering it back across the sidewalk. There was something about the old man’s attitude—an air of insolence—that irritated him. Dmitry almost hoped the old man wouldn’t be able to keep up with the payments.
At 8 PM, it was still sweltering. An inversion layer had blanketed the city all week, trapping in the heat and stench of eight million people. The news reports stated that there was no end in sight. Dmitry and his second-in-command, Anton, paused at the corner to smoke. Dmitry made it a point to never arrive anywhere on time. The front windows of Dragović’s store had been boarded up. The last rays of the setting sun worked their way through the jumble of tenements, illuminating the sign above the door: The Esoteric Arts.
“Eso…” Anton stumbled over the word.
“Esoteric.”
“What’s that mean?” Anton asked.
“It means he’s found a way to grift all the Gypsies and superstitious babushkas in the area. You need a love potion? He’s the man to see. Need a charm to protect you from the evil eye? He’s got it covered. It’s complete bullshit, but the peasants lap it up. Come on, let’s get our money.” Dmitry flicked his cigarette into the street. Anton followed suit.
It wasn’t much cooler inside the store. Dragović sat behind the counter, a hefty, leather-bound tome open in front of him. He glanced up briefly as they entered, but then returned to writing in a small notebook while studying the book. Dmitry finally realized what disturbed him the most about the old man: he never seemed afraid of Dmitry, while everyone else always did…and should.
“The money,” Dmitry finally snapped.
Dragović placed a bookmark in the book, closed it, and slid it to one side. He then pushed an envelope across the counter, watching as Dmitry folded it and tucked it into his back pocket.
“No count?” Dragović asked, giving him an enigmatic smile.
“Shorting me would be a stupid thing to do. Are you stupid, Dragović?”
“No, not stupid.”
“My friend will come by on Mondays,” Dmitry said, pointing at Anton. “Have the money ready for him each week.” When Dragović nodded yes, they left the store.
Dmitry removed his boots as soon as he got home and poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel’s over ice before collapsing onto the couch. He felt exhausted and irritable, and his mood worsened further because the air conditioning was unable to cope with the heat. His apartment was hot and stifling. He rubbed the glass of Jack against his forehead before pulling out Dragović’s envelope to count it.
The money was all there, and he started to put it back in the envelope when something caught his eye. He held up one bill and stared at the back of it. Symbols were written along the edge of the bill in reddish-brown ink. He checked, and all of the other bills had the same strange writing. “What the fuck,” he muttered as he scraped at some of the writing with his thumbnail. It looked like it had been written in blood.
Dmitry chuckled at the thought of the old man scribbling runes on the bills in an attempt to put a hex on him. He leaned back on the couch and thought about how he could instill a bit of fear in Dragović’s eyes when he went back there tomorrow. As he sat there, he began to feel an itch and absentmindedly scratched it. When the itching spread and intensified, he went into the bathroom, got undressed, and stepped into a cold shower.
He stood under the cold water, letting it cascade over him. It felt refreshing after spending the day in the heat. Eventually, he grabbed a bar of soap and began to lather up. Suddenly, a sharp pain made him cry out. He looked at his right hand and saw that it was torn and bleeding. He turned off the shower and went to the medicine cabinet to get a bandage. As he bandaged the wound, he examined it closely. It almost looked like a bite mark.
Dmitry began to close the door of the medicine cabinet, but paused when he caught a glimpse of his tattoo in the reflection. The tattoo was on his right side and depicted the upper torso of a skeleton. Something about it seemed different, though he couldn’t place what it was. He stared at it for a few minutes before grabbing a towel to dry off. Suddenly, he began to itch again, his skin feeling as though bugs were crawling over it. A glimpse of movement made him look down at his tattoo. For a brief second, it almost seemed to ripple. Dmitry stood in front of the mirror and cautiously pressed his fingers against the tattoo. He felt only his own flesh. The tattoo was just ink. He went into the bedroom and put on a pair of gym shorts. He frowned as he examined the tattoo again in the mirror on the closet door. It did look different. It almost seemed to be leering at him, and its arms appeared higher, as if they were reaching for something.
When he returned to the living room, he placed a chair in front of the couch. With trembling hands, he took down the mirror that was hanging by the front door and set it on the chair. Dmitry sat down, finished his Jack, and stared at the reflection of his tattoo. The skeleton stared back, motionless. After a while, he felt a sense of foolishness. He lowered his head, ran his hands through his long hair, and wondered if he should Google the symptoms of heat stroke. Abruptly, he cried out in pain and clutched at his chest. There were long lacerations on his chest like claw marks. They were bleeding profusely.
As he stared into the mirror in horror, the skeleton began to move. Long, bony arms reached up toward his throat. Dmitry ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the butcher block on the counter. He slashed at his chest as he felt the hands tighten around his throat. Just as he began to lose consciousness, he heard a rattling sound. It almost resembled laughter.
About the Author
Writing in the third person always makes the author feel like he’s writing his obituary, but here goes: a lover of alt-rock, Akira Kurosawa movies, and craft beer, the author lives in Northern California with his wife and two kids. His beautiful wife could definitely do better, but, luckily for him, she hasn’t caught on to that fact yet. Rage Against the Machine, the Black Keys, and the Warlocks are in heavy rotation on Spotify for writing inspiration.