Missives from the Front
Nick and I spent the long weekend with the Wilmington folks, watching lots of movies and trying new restaurants. We even managed to squeeze in between all the other tourists for an afternoon at the beach, though we made the trip out to Topsail island to avoid as much traffic as possible. I've had a pretty nasty head cold since last Thursday, but a wave up the sinuses does wonders.
Katherine was supposed to come with us, but disappeared (supposedly to work on resumes and cover letters). There was a lot of speculation as to where, exactly, she'd gone...and now I have an answer. I give you, the last transmission of Katherine T. Murphy:
Dearest Nicky,
I enter this last log in this journal in hopes that somehow, it will find you after I am gone. I am the only one left now; all the others have fled, leaving behind scattered items: flower vases, a broken mop and cookie sheets. Foolhardily, I tried once more to battle what I had so many times before failed to even contain. Yet, armed with Pine Sole, wet-swiffer mops, and an entire can of Raid, I once again challenged fate in the kitchen.
Even now I cannot find the words to describe the horrors I encountered. Hour after hour, I plowed forward, steadily growing exhausted with each passing minute. And then, amidst my weary struggle, It appeared. Oh, how It started me when I but shifted the microwave away from the wall, launching Itself to the right, nearer to my person than I ever wanted something like It to be. I leaped back-and to my utter shame-gave girlist of screeches before doing a sort of squirmy dance one does when you can feel Its feelers all over your body just from the sight of It before you.
It was mere seconds before I fiercely clamped down on the panic and, garnering my courage, lifted the nearest heavy object to swiftly attack. Oh, but the myths are true, and you cannot crush It to death. When my forceful blows only excited the Creature, I grew enraged. My hands snatched up the Raid spray can and I advanced, stretching the can out as far as I could before me, as if the aluminum-encased poison was the arrival of the Michael’s flaming sword! I held down the lever, spraying my vengeance over It, over the floor, the cabinets, the stove, and when I had finished, a shiny, wet layer of poison coated everything. But still It moved.
My breath held in anticipation, I waited for Its movements to slow, for the slow creep of the poison to seep into the hard casing of its body and finally destroy my hated enemy. I waited in vain, feeling the bitter sting of poison upon the sharp intake of my next breath. I once again retreated, and once again was overcome by waves of shamed panic. And there, under the stove, beyond my reach, It mocked me, wading through the impotent poison as if it was beneath Its very notice. I crouched low, and an involuntary cry erupted from my mouth, “God damn you, damn it, little Fucker. Just laugh, Rasputin-bastard-I’m going to kill you, you evil little fucker.”
My words were mere bravo, for Rasputin* had already fled.
It was several hours later, a lifetime really, that I returned. This time armed with the aforementioned supplies, but also carrying bait traps-Large. I confess to you now, dear friend, that I brought them as a precaution, a method to hold It at bay rather than an honest attempt at destroying it. I had made a decision to forget the unfortunate encounter from that morning and to focus at the task at hand. I resumed my work, and had all but forgotten the danger, until I noticed a dark figure in my periphery.
And there, poised less than a inch away from the bait trap, Rasputin sat, mockery apparent in every compact line of Its body. Indeed, I saw with horror that Rasputin was indeed larger than the entrance to the Large Bait trap. Again, I could feel the soft tickling all over me. I knew without a doubt that Rasputin’s continued existence would drive me to madness, and so it was with a consuming need to avoid that fate that I recklessly charged forward and once more engaged It in battle.
The details seem fuzzy now, but at some point I succeeded to push Rasputin into the sink drain, and without a thought, switched the garbage disposal on. A cacophony of metal grinding on metal rose from the sink, and the garbage disposal was switched off just as quickly as it had gone on.
I know It is not dead. And now, I have destroyed its food source and disinfected every surface in a twenty food radius. Rasputin will be coming for me now, I know It will, and I can only hope you receive this journal so that you know…it is important that someone knows…
Katherine T. Murphy
*Originally, I decided on the name Robespierre, but when I started yelling, “Rasputin” came out instead. I refuse to credit that crazy Freud with anything, even slips, but there you have it.
Godspeed, Murphy. Godspeed.
Katherine was supposed to come with us, but disappeared (supposedly to work on resumes and cover letters). There was a lot of speculation as to where, exactly, she'd gone...and now I have an answer. I give you, the last transmission of Katherine T. Murphy:
Dearest Nicky,
I enter this last log in this journal in hopes that somehow, it will find you after I am gone. I am the only one left now; all the others have fled, leaving behind scattered items: flower vases, a broken mop and cookie sheets. Foolhardily, I tried once more to battle what I had so many times before failed to even contain. Yet, armed with Pine Sole, wet-swiffer mops, and an entire can of Raid, I once again challenged fate in the kitchen.
Even now I cannot find the words to describe the horrors I encountered. Hour after hour, I plowed forward, steadily growing exhausted with each passing minute. And then, amidst my weary struggle, It appeared. Oh, how It started me when I but shifted the microwave away from the wall, launching Itself to the right, nearer to my person than I ever wanted something like It to be. I leaped back-and to my utter shame-gave girlist of screeches before doing a sort of squirmy dance one does when you can feel Its feelers all over your body just from the sight of It before you.
It was mere seconds before I fiercely clamped down on the panic and, garnering my courage, lifted the nearest heavy object to swiftly attack. Oh, but the myths are true, and you cannot crush It to death. When my forceful blows only excited the Creature, I grew enraged. My hands snatched up the Raid spray can and I advanced, stretching the can out as far as I could before me, as if the aluminum-encased poison was the arrival of the Michael’s flaming sword! I held down the lever, spraying my vengeance over It, over the floor, the cabinets, the stove, and when I had finished, a shiny, wet layer of poison coated everything. But still It moved.
My breath held in anticipation, I waited for Its movements to slow, for the slow creep of the poison to seep into the hard casing of its body and finally destroy my hated enemy. I waited in vain, feeling the bitter sting of poison upon the sharp intake of my next breath. I once again retreated, and once again was overcome by waves of shamed panic. And there, under the stove, beyond my reach, It mocked me, wading through the impotent poison as if it was beneath Its very notice. I crouched low, and an involuntary cry erupted from my mouth, “God damn you, damn it, little Fucker. Just laugh, Rasputin-bastard-I’m going to kill you, you evil little fucker.”
My words were mere bravo, for Rasputin* had already fled.
It was several hours later, a lifetime really, that I returned. This time armed with the aforementioned supplies, but also carrying bait traps-Large. I confess to you now, dear friend, that I brought them as a precaution, a method to hold It at bay rather than an honest attempt at destroying it. I had made a decision to forget the unfortunate encounter from that morning and to focus at the task at hand. I resumed my work, and had all but forgotten the danger, until I noticed a dark figure in my periphery.
And there, poised less than a inch away from the bait trap, Rasputin sat, mockery apparent in every compact line of Its body. Indeed, I saw with horror that Rasputin was indeed larger than the entrance to the Large Bait trap. Again, I could feel the soft tickling all over me. I knew without a doubt that Rasputin’s continued existence would drive me to madness, and so it was with a consuming need to avoid that fate that I recklessly charged forward and once more engaged It in battle.
The details seem fuzzy now, but at some point I succeeded to push Rasputin into the sink drain, and without a thought, switched the garbage disposal on. A cacophony of metal grinding on metal rose from the sink, and the garbage disposal was switched off just as quickly as it had gone on.
I know It is not dead. And now, I have destroyed its food source and disinfected every surface in a twenty food radius. Rasputin will be coming for me now, I know It will, and I can only hope you receive this journal so that you know…it is important that someone knows…
Katherine T. Murphy
*Originally, I decided on the name Robespierre, but when I started yelling, “Rasputin” came out instead. I refuse to credit that crazy Freud with anything, even slips, but there you have it.
Godspeed, Murphy. Godspeed.