Rhys-Michael Silverlocke              
                  

                                                       4800 WORDS
               Wouldn't You Rather Have Had A Frog?

  "Harry?  Penny's on the line!" called a deep voice from below,
nearly lost amid the clamor of construction.  "Well???" shouted
the voice impatiently.
  Far above, on the twentieth story of the framework, Harry was
suspended by his belt, riveting a hefty steel plate to a cross-
beam.  "Penny?" he echoed-- his wife of ten years nearly.  "Find
out what she wants; I've got my hands full just at the moment."
  Harry thought he could hear the voice below retort, "Do I look
like your secretary?" but he couldn't swear to it over all the
clanging and hammering that were a part of his daily life.  His
temperament did not permit him to begrudge someone else their
reactions, so he returned to his work.
  When he descended, some hours later, he found a note lying with
an empty beer can to weight it down.  Penny wanted some more
boxes.  He smiled; somehow, that didn't surprise him.
  His wife had been packing furiously all week, gathering all
their unused and unwanted items from the closets and cupboards in
preparation for Sunday; the Church down the street was having
their yearly White Elephant Sale.  As Harry had watched her pack
he could not suppress his amazement at the amount of trash and
useless junk two people could accumulate in a decade.
  He had one more job to do before returning home... a demolition
job.  That kind of work did not suit Harry; he preferred to build
things.  But with a wife to support, and a baby finally on the
way after too many years of trying, the bills tended to mount up
until suddenly demolition didn't seem that bad.  Still, Harry had
saved it for last, partly because he preferred to put things like
that off until the last moment, and partly to insure he could go
right home afterward and clear his mind in the peace of Penny's
warmth.

  He drove his pick-up to Old Town with the air conditioner going
full-blast.  Somehow, when he worked he never noticed the sticky
heat and the sweat; but once he stopped to rest, the blistering
effects of a day spent so close to the sun exacted their toll. 
Icy sweat followed natural channels behind his ears and down his
back as he navigated the picturesque cobbled streets looking for
his target.
  He arrived on the scene as the crews were departing for safer
distances.  He stopped the truck about half a block away and went
to find the engineer in charge on-site.  Harry's presence on the
job-site was a mere formality-- as the solitary owner of Conner's
Construction, he liked to be on the scene for such events.  He
felt it his duty, and Harry always honored his obligations.
  He eyed the edifice sadly.  Too bad somebody couldn't put up
with this ancient eyesore a little longer-- probably a lot of
history in it.
  But it was too late for such thoughts.  The charges had been
set, the streets cleared except for his crew.  The only people
foolish enough to remain in a demolition area were the press; a
local news station had positioned a camera-crew across an empty
lot to film the explosion.
  No doubt it would be on the evening news when Harry sat down
after dinner.  He made a mental note to watch some other channel. 
No one should have to see such a thing twice in a day.
  Harry went over to the man holding the electronic detonator--
Arthur.  Wordlessly, the veteran engineer passed the device to
his boss; Artie had been through this before.  Despite Harry's
inner turmoil over the loss entailed by such work, he always did
the deed personally.
  With a glance like respect at the crumbling facade, Harry
pressed the necessary controls.  In a whummph of dust and debris,
the building collapsed in on itself.
  Before the last of the rubble had even settled, the humans who
had been involved scattered; fleeing the disgrace guiltily-- at
least it felt that way to Harry.
  Harry did not leave.  Despite his desire to return home and end
this long day, he compelled himself to linger and survey the re-
sult of his handiwork.  He went over to the few stones which
remained standing at the fore-front of the once-impressive
structure-- a cornerstone with a plaque bearing the date of
construction:1804.
  Moving aside some of the wood and plaster, he thought he saw a
glint of metal within the cornerstone.
  "Makes you think of that frog, doesn't it?" a pleasant voice
startled Harry.
  He turned around quickly.
  "Jerrit.  I was with the crew from Channel 11.  You Conner?"
  Harry nodded.  "The rest of your people seem to have left
already," he remarked.  
  "I used to live in this neighborhood... hate to see it torn
down piece by piece.  Just saying goodbye," Jerrit explained.
  Harry continued to remove the remaining fragments of the
building from the concrete foundation block.  "What frog?" he
asked absently.
  Jerrit smiled.  "Never saw that cartoon?  Guy walks up to a
destroyed building and finds a box in the cornerstone.  Inside,
there's this frog-- and it sings, "Hello my baby; hello my honey;
hello my rag-time gal..."
  Harry turned to regard the singing newsman with one of his
bushy eyebrows arched in disbelief.
  Jerrit continued, unabashed, "See, this guy gets a lot of ideas
about putting the singing frog on stage, selling tickets,
becoming rich and famous.  Even rents out a hall for the frog to
perform..."
  Harry, who had returned to digging through the rubble in a
relaxed manner, asked, "So what happened?"
  "Oh," Jerrit smiled again, "so you were listening.  Well, it
seems that this frog only sang for the person who found it.  Any
time someone else came near it went back to croaking.  The guy
finally ended up in a mental institution because no one believed
the frog could sing.  Hell of a voice too... for a frog..."
  Harry shook his head.  "The things they put in children's
cartoons."
  "So, did you find something?" Jerrit countered easily, his nose
for news smelling a possible story.
  "I think so," Harry admitted.  "What kind of box was this frog
in, anyway?"
  "Metal one, I think.  Why?"
  "Kind of like this one?" Harry asked, removing a small rusted
iron box and shaking the white dust from it.
  "Pretty much," Jerrit said, drawing closer.  "Well, at least if
it's a singing frog, you'll have a witness," he joked, now keenly
interested in whatever Harry might have discovered.
  "Comforting," Harry told him.
  He examined the simple, unornamented metal box-- thinking it
the kind of thing into which someone might put receipts or bonds. 
He shook the box, but that yielded no information.  So Harry set
the box down on a large piece of fallen debris and began working
at the simple clasp.  It was unlocked, he felt sure, but it had
rusted closed-- implying it had been wet or contaminated with
something when it had been sealed into the cornerstone.
  Unable to budge the thing, Harry left it momentarily (trusting
Jerrit would not run off with the thing) and got a flathead
screwdriver and a pair of pliers from his truck.  Jerrit was
obligingly waiting next to the box, unwilling to miss a moment or
a possible exclusive.
  In a few moments, Harry Conner managed to pry out the hinges. 
The clasp remained unapproachable and intactly rusted closed. 
Harry half tore the lid from the bow with his pliers and pried it
off to penetrate its contents.  For a brief moment he smelled
something sunny and fresh-- heather or magnolias and the clean
warmth of intense heat.  But the box was empty.
  Jerrit, for some reason, didn't look too disappointed.  "Just
pipe-dreaming...  Wonder why anyone would brick-in an empty box."
  Harry had no answer.  He had personally been hoping for some
historic find, something to justify or repair the damage he had
done to the fabric of local history today.  Aloud he replied, "Oh
well.  Probably a practical joke of some kind."
  "Just like Capone's vault," Jerrit grinned.  "Nothing ventured,
nothing gained."  He turned to look at the heaped remains of the 
building and saluted, "Bye, old girl."  Without another word he
walked away, across the vacant lot towards his car.
  Harry found himself alone with the dust and broken spars, with
just the vaguest lingering scent of flowers and sunshine and an
unaccountable warmth in his bones.
  He stopped by a local grocery on his way home to search out
some clean cardboard boxes.  He only obtained two, because store
personnel insisted they had to keep them against future need.  At
one point Harry felt an inner wash of hostility towards the male
cashier he had encountered-- who had been most unhelpful, not to
say obstructionist.  For a moment, Harry seemed to hear an inner
voice urging him to shove the foolish man out of his way and just
take what he wanted.
  He put it down to a long day, excused himself and left before
things got out of control.  Only on a day like today, when his
customary cheerfulness had frayed somewhat, were such outburst
possible.  Harry Conner was not a meek person, but his nature
could not be called anything but mild.  Inwardly, he felt sure
that a few hours at home with his wife and a nice quiet dinner
would sort it all out.

  It seemed the miles home fled to get out of his way, for Harry
arrived home without the feeling of time passing.  He flung the
door open with a loud crash, and paused in dismay.  Surely he had
not pulled it that hard.  Why had he done that?
  An inner voice told him to forget about it.
  "Trouble at the mill?" called a cheery voice from the kitchen.
  Oh shut up!  Harry wondered where the thought came from.  He
modulated his tone carefully and said, "No, nothing much.  Had to
do that Old Town job today."
  Penny bustled in from the kitchen at one, "Oh Harry, I'm so
sorry.  I know how that always makes you feel.  Well, if it's any
consolation to you, I made a banana cake for dessert tonight."  
  A disturbing image flashed across Harry's mind.  He saw himself
throwing his wife down on top of her banana cake and forcing him-
self violently on her as the squishy cake oozed out on all sides
of her shaking flesh.  He shuddered and dismissed the unfamiliar
image quickly, smiling to cover his inner turmoil.
  Penny kissed him and hurried back into the kitchen to put on
some coffee; her husband looked as if he could use one.
  Left alone with his increasingly strange thoughts, Harry opened
a few buttons on his shirt and slipped off his shoes.  He seemed
to hear himself saying things in his head.  Not quite right., 
Almost... No, that's not it!  Nonsensical things.  He sat down on
the couch and clicked on the television.  He settled in to watch
a sit-com.
  During a particularly funny moment, Harry found himself snarl-
ing audibly.  He looked around the room guiltily, but his wife
remained in the kitchen preparing their dinner.  An abrupt flash
of heat threw him back against the couch and Harry felt himself
begin to sweat.  Ahhh, that's much better!  
  Harry jumped to his feet; that time the thought had been like a
voice booming through the room.  Sweat now ran down his face as
his temperature continued to rise.  Nearly, he swooned, anchoring
himself against the arm of the couch as he stood swaying.  He
noticed that a vaguely sweet odor had come into the room; it did
not smell like anything cooking in the kitchen.
  In the next room, his wife hummed a pretty tune and plates
tinkled.  She called out, "Coffee's coming!" in a happy tone.
  Come and get it!  The voice rang through Harry's mind with the
clarity of a sonic boom, deafening him and nearly rendering him
unconscious.  An infinite capacity for mayhem and evil in that
voice.  Harry could not believe it came from within his own mind.
  I have to get out of here, Harry told himself.  Then, But the
main course is just arriving!, with an evil leer.  Harry noticed
he was now drooling and clenching both his fists excitedly as the
sweat stung his eyes and matted his shirt against his chest and
back.
  To his credit, Harry struggled desperately to leave.  When he
saw himself pour the scalding coffee all over Penny he sickened
inwardly but could not manage to stop himself.  All during the
multiple rapes, as his wife screamed for mercy, the guilt and
pain filled him with anguish beyond expression.  But that did not
stop him either.
  He became a wild thing, a savage animal dragged from primordial
times.  He slavered and bit and pummeled his wife until there re-
mained little more than tatters of her corpse splayed out across
the room like an immense finger-painting.  All the while, the
sweet scent of heather expanded his consciousness and buoyed him
up, while at the same time brooking no objections to its own
necessity.
  When Penny had become no more than a smudge, the exhaustion of
his activities crept up behind him and sent Harry into a fitful
sleep.
  When he awoke, a horror confronted his eyes.  Where his
pregnant wife had been the night before was now a mere memory and
some half-eaten remains.  And so much blood!  That a body could
be so lavish of blood!
  Harry vomited the dubious contents of his stomach and added to
the mess.  In dim flashes, all of the previous night returned to
him slowly.  He had done this!  He!  Impossible!!!
  He cried and heaved and clutched his belly as if he would rip
it out with his bare hands.  Something had come over him, some-
thing dark and primitive.  An unknown force had taken hold of his
will, and murdered his beloved.  Harry came quickly to the only
conclusion possible.  He had been POSSESSED.
  What else could it have been?  What else could have driven him
to rend and tear the woman of his deepest desires so casually?
  Harry also knew what he had to do.  He must turn himself over
to the police to be punished.  But first he must seek absolution!
  The force, the entity, or whatever it had been evidently needed
to recover from its exertions last night too, because Harry could
not feel it anywhere inside his head.  The scent of flowers had
departed and the heatwave which swept him up into primal fury was
only a dim memory.
  Without putting on his shoes or bothering to fix his hair or
attire, Harry fled his wife's grisly murder and ran out of the
house.  He did not stop running when he got to the church on the
end of the block a few minutes later.  He barreled straight up
the stairs and thrust the doors wide.  He ran inside and threw
himself prostrate before the altar.
  Harry began to sweat.
  "Harry?" called a familiar voice from behind.

  Ethan Jerrit got out of his car and locked it.  He smiled for a
second; it seemed unlikely it would be stolen from the parking
lot at the state prison.  Still, old habits die hard in some. 
Over the years, Ethan Jerrit had proved himself very much a
creature of habit.
  With a smile that belied the serious nature of his visit today,
Jerrit made his way into the complex, greeted the guard, passed
through a metal detector and into the prison itself.  He would
rather have been anywhere else.
  Today would see the a human being put to death by slow elec-
trocution.  It seemed ironic to Jerrit that he had actually met
the man once.
  Why did a good family man suddenly go home and murder his wife? 
What pushed a person over the edge of such an abyss?  Why?  Ethan
Jerrit had studied human behavior for decades, but often it made
little real sense to him.
  The only thing he knew for sure was that the man he came to
visit-- the convicted multiple-murderer-- refused to speak at any
time with anyone from the press.  Until today.  Hours before his
execution would take place, he granted this solitary opportunity. 
Jerrit could not have known why he had been specifically asked
for, but hoped to find out shortly.

  Harry sat in his cell, awaiting execution.  He no longer had
control over his body in any way; he had been firmly caught in
the grip of something antique, a long-forgotten legend set loose
in modern times.
  It called itself a FURY.  It's name was a blast of intense
white heat that obliterated rational thought or strength of will. 
There were many gaps in Harry Conner's recent memory from the
thunderous explosions of the monster in his mind as it sounded
its attack.
  He recalled his crimes from the trial, more than from any real
participation in their perpetration.  He knew he had murdered his
wife, their unborn child, the local parish priest (an old friend
of the family), the police officer sent to investigate reports of
a disturbance at the church, and old Mrs. Dalrymple who did the
washing up at the church's soup kitchen.  He had also murdered
the first two convicts the police had thrust into a cell with
him.
  At odd times, when the FURY was napping, his guilt consumed him
utterly.  There were moments of lucidity (short-lived ones) where
he felt almost reasonable.  But the FURY always returned with the
heat of new summer in a blast-furnace and the lingering perfume
of distant flowers.
  Harry had heard his voice requesting the interview which
approached; he no longer knew or cared to know why the FURY did
as it chose.  Harry Conner would be glad enough to die in the
electric chair and join his wife.  He could not go on without her
and death seemed a small price to pay for all the harm he had
been driven to commit.  If only he had managed to be stronger, to
fight off the force which dominated his will.
  Now, he would be satisfied if he could only take the gibbering,
shrieking malevolence with him when he departed this world and
prevent it doing any further harm.
  Ethan Jerrit almost did not recognized Harry; the prisoner had
changed much in the months following his trial.  The once happy
eyes had become sunken pits on an ashen and stubble-spotted face
which bespoke untold misery.  Harry had also lost about thirty
pounds.
  "You'll have to talk to him from here," said the guard
escorting Jerrit.
  "Is there a chair around here somewhere?" Jerrit asked.
  The guard shrugged and stalked a few paces off.  He rested
fifteen feet away against a wall and gave no signs of further
movement.  Jerrit turned to regard the cell.
  "You wanted to see me?"
  "Hello Frog-man," the FURY said, using Harry's silkiest voice. 
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly... snided the
irrefutable voice in his mind.
  "You remember that?"  Jerrit paused.  He had been told that
Conner was in and out of sanity from moment to moment.  He did
not know quite what to expect when he arrived, but Jerrit got the
feeling that the man he confronted was quite lucid.
  "That and more..." the FURY assured him, words dripping with
Harry's suborned irony.
  "They say you're crazy..." Jerrit began again.
  "Talk, talk, talk.  You creatures say so many things.  Actions
are more important!" the Fury announced with glee.
  Jerrit regarded the man in the cell warily.  Though he remained
firmly locked away, Jerrit still felt threatened, as if some mor-
tal danger lingered just overhead awaiting its opportunity to
pounce.  Whenever he met Conner's dull eyes, it seemed as if the
man knew the effect he produced upon Jerrit.  
  One thing felt certain to Ethan Jerrit; the "insanity" to which
this prisoner had laid claim had to have been faked.  Ethan could
smell the calculating clarity of thought from behind the bars and
knew he faced an agile mind in full control.
  Why was he being shown this, after all the trouble Conner must
have taken to craft an opposite image?  Why specifically Ethan
Jerrit, and not someone else?  And why did the danger now feel so
personal, like it stalked him alone and no other?  To cover his
uneasiness, he asked, "Why did you do it, Conner?"
  "Do what?" the FURY snarled.
  "Kill all those people...  your wife.  Why???"
  "You don't really think I'm going to tell you that," the FURY
replied in Harry's voice.  "You'd never believe it in any case--
your type never does believe.  That will make this more fun."
  Inside, Harry knew the FURY was plotting something, something
terrible.  The monstrous force was like a speeding train once it
got started-- irresistibly powerful and thunderous in its dread
approach, but hardly subtle.  The FURY schemed, and Harry knew he
had to find some way to stop it or many others would also suffer
the extravagant horrors to which he'd bourn silent witness.
  "What fun?" Jerrit replied, more than puzzled.
  "I just wanted to look you over again.  You write whatever you
want about this.  Tell the creatures who read your words that I
killed because I could.  Tell them I hate them.  Tell them any-
thing you like... on one condition..." the FURY let the silence
drip ominously like a running tap.
  Harry listened intently too, for this could only be the trap
the FURY constructed.  He heard his voice telling Jerrit, "You
must be there at the execution today.  When they fry me up, you
have to be there to see it.  Promise me!"
  When Jerrit did not answer him immediately the FURY thundered,
"Promise me!!!"
  The hardened reporter shook his head, dumbfounded.  Was this
some last lonely cry, some whimper of forgotten humanity?  Was it
simply that at the last moment, Harry Conner could not face his
end alone, and wanted a familiar face-- no matter the briefness
of their acquaintance-- to see him off?  And if that was the
case, why the pervasive air of smugness coming from the cell?
  If he had been a wiser, less compassionate man, Ethan Jerrit
would have fled the prison and never given Harry Conner a second
thought.  But Jerrit could not find it in him to refuse this last
appeal.  He found himself saying, "All right.  I will be there."
  "Good!" announced the FURY with dreadful certainty.  "You can
go now.  Write your petty story and be back this evening for the
clambake, Frog-man..."
  Shaking his head numbly, Ethan Jerrit retreated the way he had
come.  

  At six-fifty p.m., the warden, the switchman, two guards, a
priest and Ethan Jerrit stood behind the glass wall of the obser-
vation cubicle.  A heavily armed escort had first cuffed, then
manacled and chained the prisoner before daring to bring him out
of his cell and down the long corridor which led to the execution
chamber.  Harry Conner was strapped in firmly to the chair, still
bound by leg- and wrist-irons-- the prison guards had learned
better than to take any chances with this soft-speaking but
utterly dangerous man.
  In a few minutes, everything was set.  The equipment had been
tested, the priest had tried to offer Final Absolution-- only to
be jeered at viciously.  Harry Conner was asked if he desired to
make some last statement.
  Harry heard himself cackle evilly, and his eyes focused upon
the newscaster, Ethan Jerrit, as he fidgeted uncomfortably be-
hind the glass of the observation room.  The FURY, unconcerned,
bored, or distracted by this time, allowed its host the use of
his mouth to say one final thing.  Harry said, "I would have
preferred the singing frog, you know..." and then closed his eyes
and began to gather his will.
  In a private part of Harry's mind, the shreds of his human
awareness struggled to piece together what the FURY planned.  It
was clear that, even given the elemental nature of the lurking
horror in his mind, the FURY was not immune to the electrical
current which would shortly flow through its host-body.
  Instinctively, Harry sensed the FURY was somewhat afraid of
that, for it was an electrical field of a sort itself, and would
likely be disrupted or destroyed when the switch was thrown.  In
the months of his imprisonment, Harry had searched the tenuous
interface between his mind and its and grew to understand that
the FURY could not separate itself from his consciousness until
he was at the verge of death.
  It occurred to him that the FURY had no intention of allowing
itself to be snuffed out like a candle flame.  Two centuries of
imprisonment had taught it impatience, and it was eager to be
free and continue its bloodshed and consumption.  But Harry had
no intention of allowing that to occur.
  It came to him, a mere minute before the switch would be thrown
and he would cease to exist.  The FURY had a plan, a monstrously
simple one.  In the clarity of his final moments, the closeness
of their minds provided the obverse to the domination of the
FURY; it could not hide its base desires from Harry any longer. 
The FURY wanted Jerrit-- had wanted him since the box opened.
  The power of subjugating a non-believer was unlike any other
thrill for such a being, and Harry had been far too familiar with
possession to suit the malevolent creature.  Though it fed on his
struggle to recapture his identity and will, the feast was
nothing compared to the banquet Jerrit's mind offered!
  The FURY intended to wait until the last possible moment, just
as the bonds of life began to loosen for Harry Conner, and then
it would make a celeritous jump into Jerrit's body.
  Harry had no idea how such a thing could be done, but could
almost taste the conviction in the thoughts emanating from the
FURY.  The evil force within him believed it could be accom-
plished, and so Harry had no choice but to believe that as well.
  But he did not intend to allow it.  Jerrit was hardly a close
friend, but there had been something about him when they met; the
disarming smile and good humor had stuck with Harry throughout
his ordeal.  Jerrit had been there at the beginning, and now
would be there at the end thanks to the intervention of the FURY. 
But Harry Conner refused to permit the man to suffer for it.
  In the quiet place within his mind where he had resided for the
last few months, Harry had been focusing his resolve.  All of his
remaining thoughts were given over to his own destruction and the
eradication of the beast within him.  The FURY had wrongly taken
this to be acquiescence to its authority and decided its host was
weak and without strength to interfere.
  The sound of the warden coughing brought Harry back to present
awareness.  The time had come!  The stroke of seven resided but a
tick away from the present moment.
  And there it was, the shocking explosion of light and the livid
coruscation of raw power coursing through his tortured flesh. 
the FURY was away... almost.
  It struggled furiously towards its goal.  From the moment the
contact plate connected, the preternatural strength of the FURY
labored mightily to escape its fleshy confines.  It seemed as if
a nimbus or corona surrounded the man in the chair.
  A flicker of energy lanced out towards the observation room,
and those at the glass drew back hurriedly.  For half a second,
Ethan Jerrit had the impression of a strange odor emanating from
behind the glass.  It was not the smell of roasting flesh, but
something floral and somehow familiar.  Just as abruptly it was
gone.
  In the chair, while the unexpected strength and resilience of
the FURY somehow upheld him, Harry Conner gritted his teeth and
pulled all the elements of himself together into one mighty
silent shout, "NO!!!"
  With the simple power of his paltry human will, his conviction
of rightness, and the grief and guilt he felt over the passing of
his wife, Harry somehow found the strength to deny the FURY its
final prize.
  Like a building which had been expertly wired with explosives,
Harry sank in upon himself, a glowing figure in the static-light. 
Ethan Jerrit watched grimly as the life faded from his body and
it gave a final jerk against the restraints.  Harry Conner died.
  Ethan Jerrit turned away in disgust.  Well, he had his story. 
Things making some sense was too much to hope for.
  One of the guards said, "I wonder what that stuff about frogs
was supposed to mean?"
  Jerrit gave him a blank look and told him, "I don't know."  He
did not wear his customary smile, but he could feel that the dan-
ger he had sensed no longer lingered nearby.  For now, that would
suffice.
  His smile would return on another day.