The Scribbler

The radio was old, broken down and put together again a thousand times, the front tarnished blue and its antenna sagging. Nonetheless it worked, which was why the owner of the tavern hadn’t replaced it - well, that and the fact that the Blue Moon inn and tavern was located in the greatest desert in all of Fabunta, and so got barely enough customers to stay in business.

The innkeeper, a short man with a full red beard and very little hair, rarely moved from his post behind the tavern bar. His name was Evan and he’d set up shop thirteen years ago, when the hugely successful merchant had suddenly up and left with his son at the acme of his wealth. For a while the whole country had been ablaze; now Evan Hargreaves was remembered only by old newspapers.

It was in the middle of November when the first customer in two weeks stumbled into the Blue Moon, tall and gray-cloaked. For the last few weeks the radio had been repeating the same message.

“Citizens around the Roon Desert, remember to take caution as the serial killer known as Theodore Lawson Jr. has been spotted in the vicinity. Theodore Lawson Jr., also dubbed ‘The Scribbler’ has murdered four people, destroyed much property including the Headquarters of the National League of Alchemists and the royal palace, and sabotaged two trains heading - ”

It was then that the traveler burst in, his tattered cloak flying behind him and his great big cane banging the door open so forcefully that both Evan and his son, Lionel, jumped. Instinctively, Evan reached for a glass. “Water or coconut juice, sir?”

“No!” The man roared, yanking off his tattered hood. He was swarthy and scarred, forehead crinkled with an abundance of wrinkles that made him look maybe fifty, sixty years old. “You have no time for this! Take the child and leave! He is coming!”

Evan swallowed. “E-excuse me, sir? Are you talking about - ”

“The Scribbler, that’s who I’m talking about! The godforsaken aberration that haunts this desert!” The man’s eyes were wild, the pupils dilated by fear. “That damned thing does not have mercy, innkeeper! They say all he knows to do is to collect stories, and to get them, he will do anything! To see all the sights in the world someone has sold his soul to the devil!”

In the next minute, several things happened at once; the radio crackled, died, then came back full volume; Lionel gave a start and tripped over a chair; then the door of the tavern, which had swung shut behind the cloaked traveler, slowly squeaked open.

What stepped into the tavern then was, in Evan’s opinion, a bit sad. It was an artist’s mannequin, perhaps six feet tall and built from honey-colored wood that had once been beautiful but was now cracked and scratched. Its twisted fingers clutched a fat black pen, and an unimaginably long roll of parchment held in the other. There was a terrible screeching and rasping every time the mannequin’s limbs twitched. One of its legs felt for the ground awkwardly, twisted forward at an unnatural angle.

The sound of the radio, muffled by static, went on and on. “The National League of Alchemists has decided that this killer mannequin is a by-product of the unauthorized experiment that took place twenty-one years ago. The incident, commonly dubbed as ‘the Judgement’, produced eleven point seven million casualties and almost a million dead.”

The mannequin’s head jerked and turned to face the traveler. The hand twitched. Once, twice, then the mannequin’s arm creaked and bent in towards the body, the shoulders slowly pivoting so that the pen tip rested gently on the parchment. For a while there was only the steady sound of writing. And the tension - it was heavy, a tangible presence demanding a seat in the pub.

Fingers trembling violently, Evan bent over slightly and retrieved his trusty rifle from under the bar counter. Carefully, he took aim. The cloaked traveler noticed it at the last moment, his howl exploding out in the silence.

“No! If he notices you, there is no escape!”

Still shuddering from the impact of the bullets, the mannequin continued recording. As the bullets rolled away, Theodore Lawson Jr. shuffled forward, taking one step then another towards Evan.

The innkeeper glanced at Lionel, met the agitated gaze of the traveler with surprisingly steady eyes. “Can you take my son to safety?”

The traveler seemed taken aback, but quickly nodded. “I wish you luck, innkeeper. He will never stop following you now.” A shudder ran through his body as he turned away, gesturing for Lionel to follow. “My name is Joshua T. Robles. If you survive, find me at the main headquarters of the Gray Dusk mercenary guild.”

The young boy looked back at his father, hesitant but knowing better than to protest. He’d always been a rational boy, Evan thought. Much like himself, much like the young man who fought himself to the top until he realized there wasn’t a lot up there, aside from the stars millions of light-years away.

“Father?”

The innkeeper smiled grimly. “Thank you, Mr. Robles.”

The Scribbler paid no attention to the two slipping out of the back door of the tavern; instead, he shuffled forward a few more inches towards Evan, only to be knocked back by another volley of bullets.

“Aberration,” muttered the dwarfish innkeeper, reloading his rifle as he watched the creature intently for any signs of hostility. Its hand was still moving mechanically, scribbling, and the rolls were coming loose, settling in curls all about the mannequin. From where he stood, Evan was able to read the words written just a few minutes ago.

“The radio was old, broken down and put together again a thousand times, the front tarnished blue and its antenna sagging,” Evan read, and glanced at the radio beside him. He looked at the mannequin’s face, and swore that the blank face crumpled for a moment, gave him a grotesque smile.

The man let out a sigh.

“I regret dabbling in alchemy,” Evan Hargreaves said. “I regret everything I did in my youth. Except of course, Alicia. And Lionel. You - you are near the end of your parchment, the parchment that was meant to record my crimes. Are you writing one last story, a story where the repentant villain cannot escape his sins?”

The Scribbler did not - could not - speak. It shuffled a little closer, and again its face twisted.

It scribbled;

one last time.

#fiction #yungseolee