The Plagiarist
by John Vieczorek

Winston stared at the numbers as they spun around on the gas pump. His mind no longer rooted in this world, he once again became lost in a fantasy as he wandered in a far away place.

"Hey you idiot," the customer said. "I wanted ten bucks worth of gas not twelve, spike it!"

The harsh words brought Winston back to the present.

"Oh . . . sorry man, I was thinking"

"Not about your job." The angry man said.

This seemed to be the story of Winston's life, he didn't live in the present. No matter what he did his mind was always somewhere else absorbed in a dream world.

Winston fancied himself as a lady's man, but lacked the charm required. He fancied himself as a philosopher, but he was not deep enough. He fancied himself as an author, but he could not capture his imagination in words.

Although he tried to write every night after work, whatever he wrote he'd already read before. The words of famous authors would sink into his head where they would remain locked forever, like a reverberating circuit. His writing always ended up as a rendition of another author's plot. Try as he may Winston's writing lay hopelessly anchored in the words of others.

His lifelong ambition to be a famous author had eluded him. Winston could recite the articles of the Constitution word for word; or recall the lyrics of every song the Beatles ever did. But he couldn't capture on paper an original idea of his own.

So his life continued like this for a long time, pumping gas, and writing trash. Then in the blink of an eye everything changed. For years he'd been playing the same lottery numbers. One day like an over inflated balloon his karma exploded and the numbers popped.

He was working the evening shift at the gas station; when he glanced at the TV as the beautiful Jamaican girl announced the lottery numbers. At first, it didn't register in his mind that he'd won. He walked outside to wait on a customer when it dawned on him he was rich.

As he filled the customers tank, he pulled the lottery ticket from his wallet, and recited the winning numbers he just heard; a perfect match. Without a moment's hesitation he walked away from the pump leaving the nozzle installed in the vehicle. The gas began to spill all over the pavement. The obese lady with the barking Chihuahua in her lap sitting at the wheel of the SUV, began to scream. Winston simply ambled over to his truck and drove away.

* * *

After winning the lottery his life became a glorious smorgasbord of delights. Winston felt as if he'd died and gone to heaven. He now had the automobiles, expensive antiques, security, and newfound sense of pride that accompanies wealth. He had nearly everything he'd ever dreamed of. Yet one craving still burned inside him, one desire money couldn't buy continued to haunt him. The desire to be a recognized author of prestige tormented him, like a venomous insult that would not disappear.

Winston purchased a fine old Victorian residence on the outskirts of town. An elegant architecturally stunning mansion formerly owned by an eccentric Dr. Steven Shields. The legend surrounding the property suggested the former owner was a Satanist. Rumor told of ritualistic sacrifice and perverse orgies performed within the confines of the castle. One day Dr. Shields was found hanging by the neck in the cellar, apparently a suicide.

Winston adored the property; the idea that the mansion had been used for nefarious purposes didn't scare him. Being a staunch materialist he didn't believe in heaven, hell, or a spirit world, anyway. His view of life was simple, take what you can, human existence is little more than a struggle; brief and meaningless.

Eventually the thrill of winning the huge fortune began to fade, and once again Winston began to write. His desire to create a novel of renown became an obsession, but all he ever received were rejection slips. He hired an agent but without good material, the word broker just bled him.

One day Winston became bored and decided to explore the attic in the old house. As he wandered thorough the large upper chamber he noticed a solid metal chest in the corner of the garret. The chest was reinforced with heavy rivets and covered with dust and cobwebs. When he opened the trunk he found a black altar cloth on which rested a large silver crucifix. When he removed the cloth he discovered a number of manuscripts neatly stored in folders. An envelope sealed with wax lay on top of the many folders. Winston opened the envelope and on a piece of yellowed parchment was scrawled a message.

These are the tales of the house of Ahaziah. Whoever consults this oracle is both blessed and cursed. For within these chronicles exists great powers. - Dr. Steven Shields.

* * *

The message puzzled Winston. He grabbed the folders and took them downstairs to examine them. Sitting at a large oak table in the library, he spread out the documents, opened one, and began reading it in the light of the huge leaded glass window. The first page read.

Samantha's Awakening - 1876 - Dr. Steven Shields.

The record described in detail how the doctor and his followers ritualistically tortured and sexually gratified themselves with a young lady named Samantha in the year 1876. The ceremony concluded with the savage removal of her living heart. The tale read as a dark and deep horror story. The account mesmerized Winston and he couldn't put it down. The doctor was a gifted poet and eloquent writer and the story was enchanting and powerful.

Winston stayed up all night into the next evening transcribing and typing the record. Within a week, he gave the story to his agent, who in turn submitted it to a publisher. The novel was so compelling the editor seized on it immediately. Within a short time, the book was in print and became a huge success in the dark horror market.

Winston followed the novel about Samantha with three more tales from the dark side entitled Emily, Elizabeth, and Camille. In a little over two years, he'd become a household name. Soon the fame Winston so desired became a reality; he was the new king of dark markets, the Master of the Macabre, the Duke of Doom.

His fans adored him; and his agent would deliver to him volumes of mail from them. Some of his fan mail contained pictures of beautiful semi-clad or nude women. Sometimes locks of their pubic hair accompanied the photos. Winston reveled in every minute of the celebrity status that he'd craved for so long.

Although the writings of doctor Shields vastly augmented his fortune, it had never been the money Winston cared about. It was the thrill of being celebrity that enamored him. When dining out he now was granted the finest table in the restaurants. Adoring fans would approach him in awe and petition him for his autograph. Female admirers would tempt him with seductive gestures and enticing glances; as male colleagues attempted to conceal their jealous sneers. Reviewers now praised him referring to him as a genius and a contemporary Poe.

Winston loved every minute of being a big shot; and seized on the attention to portray himself as a tortured eccentric, further adding oxygen to the fire of his popularity. Yet in the back of his mind, he knew the ruse could not go on forever.

In just over three years, he'd plagiarized all but one document from the trunk. The fatal day of reckoning would soon be at hand. He could not bear the thought that his reign as the king of horror might end. For he'd become habituated to the constant kudos and dignities bestowed upon him. He needed the ego gratification like a junkie needs a fix.

The fateful day arrived. Winston sat in his library feeling apprehensive and depressed. A half empty bottle of Napoleon brandy stood next to him on the table. With a trembling hand, he emptied the contents of the folder. Out tumbled an envelope sealed with wax and embossed with the signet of Dr. Shields; a skull cresting three doves. Winston opened the envelope and read the contents of the message within.

Oh ye of wicked imaginings read my words and behold the wisdom of my teachings. These writings are but a taste of that which is far more glorious and magnificent. The finest tales of the house of Ahaziah are concealed within the rafters of this structure. In the attic three planks from the north wall and seven planks from the east wall exists a compartment. Within is contained a large iron closet which secures the entire chronicles of Dr Steven Shields. Pull the silver chain attached to the safe and the authentic deeds of the cult of Saboath will be revealed for your pleasures. May you enjoy your new found powers. For in these tales exists the birth and the death of the gods. - Dr. Steven Shields

Unable to contain his joy, Winston became ecstatic feeling his future as a literary phenomena was assured. He poured one final goblet of brandy, holding the libation up to the window he composed a toast.

"Here's to you Dr. Shields. . . benevolent benefactor of my charm and eloquence. If there is a hell may you rot there for eternity."

After delivering the pledge Winston downed the contents of the snifter, ascended the stairs, and staggered into the attic; all the while laughing maniacally.

It was not hard to discover the whereabouts of the safe. Winston counted the thick oak planks as instructed. One of the planks contained a finger hole. He lifted the board and in so doing exposed the compartment within the rafters. Lying on his stomach he shined a light into the tiny cubicle. Before him he could see the silver chain and the large iron chest which was secured in the space below him. The chain was just out of reach, Winston stretched his arm until he felt as if his shoulder were becoming dislocated. Unable to reach the chain he forced his shoulders into the snug opening; at last success. Seizing the silver chain he pulled it with all his might.

Winston heard a clang like the ring of a broadsword singing in battle. It would be the last sound he ever heard. From the side of the opening the razor sharp blade of a powerful guillotine swung forth with tremendous velocity.

When the authorities finally discovered Winston, his head had been severed at the shoulders; sliced off like a pig in a slaughter house.

Soon the further chronicles of doctor Shields were discovered and the truth about Winston's creative genius was revealed. In time his name became synonymous with plagiarism. The former fans that once adored him, now traveled long distances to spit or piss on his grave.

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