Master and His Dog

By Peter J. Summers

Words spoken by Kenneth were usually ignored. His conversation was less than appealing, even
to such friends as he was able to keep. History was his main topic, with a little of the occult
wedged in to create greater interest. That, however, was utterly unsuccessful. Such being the
circumstance, one would wonder how a friendship could remain established. It was purely a case
of indifference. In explanation, a mere introduction is in order: Sam, the eldest at twenty-four,
was the so-called leader, the center of this tiny circle. He liked to believe himself a loner, but
considered himself too brilliant to go unnoticed by others. So, whomsoever wished, assuring that
they were plentiful with their praises, were allowed the privilege of his company. And he being
the head of this small group, one to whom all looked for plans and encouragement in their own,
this would prove the reason behind the loving couple, Nathan and Claire's, involvement with
him. Kenneth's presence was irrelevant. None noticed nor cared.
It was quite some time, maybe three years, before a sentence of his was granted interest. Yet
the hearing of it merely suggested `blah, blah, blah, treasure.'
Ears pricked up, with a simultaneous, What?
Kenneth started back in astonishment, almost falling off his stool, then, righting himself,
grinned a superior smile: The Russian Revolution was, in my opinion, a rather practical solution
to...
For ten more minutes did they let him ramble on before Sam interrupted: So you're saying
that the political families buried their fortunes and forgot where they put it?
Uh, no.
Then what the hell was this about treasure?
Oh, Kenneth said sadly, I thought you wanted me to repeat the entire half-hour.
The others could only laugh at his stupidity.
So where is it? Claire asked when the chuckles finally subsided. I do hope a peaceful little
town. I've never been to Russia. Will it be too cold? I wouldn't like to misshapen my figure with
some bulging raincoat.
No, no, Kenneth explained, his spirits returning, since it still included him. There is a crypt
at Langely Cemetery in which the treasure is supposedly hidden.
Hey, that's walking distance!
And so it was. They reached it within forty-five minutes.
Claire shivered slightly as they passed through the open gates.
You cold, darlin'? Nathan asked, wrapping himself more tightly around her.
No. This graveyard just gives me the creeps. Can't we come back in the morning?
Don't be an idiot, Sam hissed through clenched teeth. Do you want us to be seen?
Okay, you stay here, Nathan said, planting a kiss upon her cheek. You should be safe
enough. Sit over on that tombstone. But if you see any passerby, I suggest you hide.
The three remaining companions continued on their journey, moving cautiously around graves
in case any might cave in, also watching their backs for the caretaker.
There it is! Kenneth exclaimed excitedly, his cheeks flushed in pride. His knowledge might
finally secure him a high place in his friends' esteem.
Sam and Nathan looked to that which he pointed. It was a large, moss-ridden structure, with an

inscription carved into the stone above the crypt's doorway. It read: `The Master and his doG.'
He must have loved that dog, Sam laughed, to have been buried with it.
Well, it is somewhat interesting to learn...
That treasure awaits us? Yes, I know.
It has nothing to do with the treasure.
I guessed as much. So shut up.
The door was slightly ajar, so they had enough space to get a little leverage. With a great
effort, and a couple of cigarette breaks, they were finally able to wrench it open enough to
squeeze through. Beyond, there was a stone staircase, down which they went without hesitation,
soon arriving at a small square room, two cement-encased coffins to the back wall. A cement
block, it seemed, acted as joint between them. On either side were various articles, including
linen, chests and tools.
Let's get to it, Sam said, heading first to the largest chest. The others occupied themselves
with the smaller.
What was that? Kenneth shortly exclaimed.
Your paranoia.
But his hearing was not mistaken. Someone was descending the stone staircase, slowly.
Caution was being taken to the extreme. A five second interval came between each step.
They stopped rummaging amongst the contents spilled upon the floor and trained their eyes
upon the doorway. Astonishment disabled them. But only momentarily: Quick as a flash, they
armed themselves, Sam with a pick, Nathan with a shovel, and Kenneth with the protection of
his friends.
Before they could hide, however, so as not to have to actually use these instruments, a figure
appeared in the opening. It was the caretaker, a shotgun ready and cocked.
The suddenness of his appearance brought about an instinct of survival rather than any use of
the mind. Sam automatically jumped into action. Brain splattered as the pick found its home
within the caretaker's skull.
Stop, you damned fool! Nathan shrieked, a little too late to be of any assistance to the poor
man. The shovel he lifted and swung with all his might in blind horror.
Swish. Thump.
But wait a moment. Was it just his imagination, or did the shovel never connect? Yet, as the
fog lifted from before Nathan's eyes, he could see Sam's body lying upon the ground, no doubt
unconscious since he did not move a muscle.
As though from far off, he heard incomprehensible, garbled noises coming from Kenneth. He
looked at him, demanded, What?
Kenneth didn't raise his eyes from what he was seeing, but repeated, You killed him.
Nathan spat, He ain't dead. I just knocked 'im out.
But Kenneth wasn't listening, wasn't even talking to him. He echoed his own words over and
over again: You killed him. His attention wasn't even centered on Sam's unmoving body. He
stared at the two cement-encased coffins of the Master and his doG.
Nathan followed his friend's gaze, and fell upon something which made him sick to the pit of
his stomach. He wrenched his eyes away, threw up over the floor, tried to get rid of the horrid
image from his mind. For, between the coffins, upon the slab which joined them, sat Sam's
severed head. His blood seeped simultaneously into both.
Above Nathan's gagging, a scraping could be heard, as though stone grated upon stone. As
much as he tried to force himself against it, he could not help but look. A hand gripped the lid of

one coffin from the inside. It was heaved aside with seemingly little effort. Neither could budge a
foot. But when it came crashing to the floor all paralysis thankfully deserted them. They
scrambled in a fever of terror up the steps and out into the open.
Nathan stumbled a few yards away, and Kenneth stopped to help him to his feet. Then their
sight rested upon a black clad figure in the doorway to the crypt. It was the Master.
Don't make a sound, Nathan was warned. He may be blind, but his ears are worthy of any
eye.
Blind! How can you tell?
Do you see eyes in that stripped skull? Is it that you do not perceive his empty sockets?
Nathan stared at this hideous figure with mouth agape.
You see, Kenneth offered in explanation, just like the Knight Templars in Return of the
Blind Dead, the townspeople of this community gouged out the eyes of their nemesis.
I hear your breath! the Master cried. It shall soon stop, I assure you.
But we freed you from your eternal prison, Kenneth yelled, in the hope that this might be a
credit held in their favor.
Though this may be so, the Master replied, moving forward a few steps at the sound of the
voice, you both will perish. Evil knows not the face of its friend.
Especially this guy, eh? Nathan quipped in a moment of comedic nerve.
A growl reverberated loudly from inside the crypt.
Nathan trembled violently. Here comes his dog, he said in a pitch high enough to gain
applause from the most critical of operatic audiences.
There sounded a slight scratching, and something moved in the shadows of the entrance. Then
it appeared. It was utterly unrecognizable at first, could even be said to look nothing like a dog,
since what must have been its head would be better described as a large pointed fingernail. It
took up the entire space of the doorway, and after the whole digit could not even succeed in
getting through, it withdrew and was replaced by an eye, one larger than the exit, only a
rectangular block of shining red to be seen.
Look at the size of that mongrel! Nathan whispered in barely comprehensible words. The
damned thing won't even have to chew.
It isn't what you think. Legend has it that he of whom inscribed such words above the door of
the crypt was dyslexic. It is supposed to read: `The Master and his God.'
Nathan made to reply, but a rumble from within the crypt halted his words.
All sign of the god had vanished. A greenish mist had replaced it, slowly seeping out from the
stone housing. It rose into the sky and drifted over their heads. They watched until seeing it no
more.
Was that it? Nathan said. Has it let us be? Are we safe? And having received a nod of
confirmation from Kenneth, added, I don't understand.
Why would he waste his time with us when there are virgins to be had?
Nathan instantly directed an eye to the cemetery entrance, exclaiming, Claire!
Oh, you don't have to worry about her, good-humoredly answered Kenneth. You know as
well as I that she ain't no virgin.
The glare shot back at him would have been enough to scare off the Master if sight he had. If
she's not the purest wench in town, I'd like to know who's been fuckin' her, because it certainly
hasn't been me.
Well, any name that comes to mind should be about halfway there.
Nathan's face filled with rage. He clenched a fist and struck. Then, leaving Kenneth where he

lay, hurried off to find his girlfriend.

Ah, there she is, just where they left her, smoking a cigarette.
But Claire had never smoked in her life!
Oh, God, it wasn't coming from her, it was going into her!
He ran at her, meaning to knock her down and the god out, but stopped as his eyes met her's.
He stared at her for a moment, then, distress and fear overpowering him, shouted, attempting to
sound fierce but failing miserably, Why her, you sonofabitch?
A beautiful woman is assured a stepping stone to the top, she answered in a gruff, unfamiliar
voice, softening into femininity as the words flowed. With this face, with this body, I will rule
the universe, and all that beyond, before, and within. Yet intellect is essential for this
achievement. Such as she of whom I inhabit would fail if not for my mind, which must be
considered as the greatest to have ever existed. I believe even compared with your god.
A sword of great length suddenly and mysteriously appeared in Claire's hand.
Oh, hell.
Yes, Nathan. And I shall see you there when I lord over it. The blade was lifted and slashed
across in zig-zags, making the mark of Zorro, yet deeper. So much so, in fact, that Nathan laid
upon the ground in four pieces.
* * *
Nathan's unexpected strike had rendered Kenneth momentarily unconscious. He not only awoke
to a splitting headache, but his companion seemed to have changed image. Then his eyes lit in
remembrance of the situation. It was not his friend who stared sightlessly into his eyes, three
inches from him.
Scrambling backwards, Kenneth collided with a tombstone. His back struck hard, with such
force as to break the moss-grown stone in half. The pain almost knocked him out again, but he
had worse problems to deal with. The Master reached down with a bony hand, grasped his
victim's scrawny neck, and lifted him effortlessly from the ground. Your death shall be my
pleasure, he laughed maniacally.
But one thing was in his victim's favor: Kenneth had enough foresight to grab ahold of that
piece of broken stonework as he was dragged from the ground. Lifting it high above his head, he
brought it down with such force as to cave in the Master's forehead.
Being dropped from such a height as from which the Master had held him sprained his ankle.
But that was nothing compared with the pain of death, nor what Kenneth next had in store for his
nemesis: With the piece of debris still clasped tightly in his hand, he pitched with all his might, a
crunch sounding as it smashed the Master's decaying right cheek, dislodging his jaw. A similar
missile quickly followed, and another, and another, until the force of a much larger sent this
being to the ground, writhing in, maybe not agony, but despair and rage.
Even without a head, the Master tried to regain his footing, but Kenneth saw to the end of his
efforts, hefting an unbroken tombstone from within the earth and commenced to pound the frail
form into dust. The cloth of his robe blew away in the soft breeze.
Kenneth dropped the stone tablet and breathed a sigh of exaltation. His self-congratulation was
only short-lived, however, when he remembered Claire. His ankle he fought to ignore as he
jogged the length of the cemetery to its outer gates. On spotting her he grinned madly, insane
with joy. Then he saw the sword she carried, which she soon planted into the earth.
Her back towards him, Kenneth snuck up as quietly as he could, failing miserably upon

stumbling over Nathan's grisly remains.

Claire turned instantly to face him, red eyes shining brightly. But the jigsaw pieces of Nathan
already told Kenneth everything he needed to know: You have possessed her body?
I have.
And without the shell you cannot live! Kenneth yelled as if sounding a warcry, tearing the
sword from its place within the ground, and slicing the scalp from Claire's head.
But he was wrong. He knew he was wrong even as he'd lifted the blade. And now there was no
way to save her. If he had only used his brain instead of letting instinct block his intellect, he
might have been able to excavate the god without harming Claire's body. Now, killing her, there
was no chance.
Not only brain but mist exploded from Claire's opened head. It hovered for a moment before
Kenneth, then lowered so it touched the ground. It then began to take shape, becoming a solid
form.
Viewing the god in its completeness, Kenneth could not stifle a gasp of horror and disgust.
What he gazed upon was anything but what he had expected, something so monstrously ugly a
mother could not even possibly love. Its body was short, deformed and twisted, hunchbacked and
spotted with horrid lumps. The face no better, consisting of warts, squinting crimson eyes and
tusks protruding savagely from its lower gum, causing a hideous underbite. The fingers on
poorly constructed hands were entwined together, as though this creature constantly crossed its
fingers. Considering the god's horrendous look, it needed all the luck it could get.
You are pitiful, Kenneth said, swallowing further obscene observations as he tried to recall
the spell his book had spoken of which could send the Master and his God back to their graves if
they were ever accidentally released.
Only a fraction would come to mind. He recited it over and over in his head until eventually
the rest pounced to the surface. Grinning widely to an astonished god, Kenneth began to speak
the words, first slowly, unsure, then louder, with a clear voice, calling to the heavens, his arms
spread to the sky.
Nothing happened.
Not immediately anyway. Shortly a noise was heard in the distance, murmurs it seemed, then
growing in volume. Tiny dots of light lit the road far beyond the cemetery gates, also gaining
recognition the closer they came. Torches, hundreds of them, held high by as many people - men,
women and children, each with a farm tool in their other hand. It was a lynch mob! The same
that had first trapped these two villains in their eternal prison.
Where is the Master? the frightened fiend inquired with slurred, almost incomprehensible
speech.
Dead, as you shall be, Kenneth replied. I have created dust with his bones.
Unexpectedly, the god roared with laughter, roaring with glee. But why? He even continued as
the mob crashed through the gates and forced him to his knees as chains encircled him, pulled
tight, and locked securely around him.
He was to find out, however, as the god was lifted above a mass of men and women, who
carried his immobile but still laughing body down the slope: The remaining members of the mob
encircled him, the leader, a heavily bearded, rather rotund man forcing himself to the front. He
spat in Kenneth's face, and, before he could utter a word, bellowed, Out with his eyes!
He was pinned to the ground by four men, while another took a stick and jabbed it into his left
socket and twisted, causing the inflicted to roar in agonized pain. The right was similarly
disposed of, and Kenneth's half-conscious body was heaved over a broad shoulder and carried

along the path of the others, while children stuck sharp instruments into his flesh.
Just as he was brought down the staircase into the tomb, those who had accompanied the god
completed their task of moving the stone lid in place over the coffin. A priest commenced
reciting prayers that would lock the fiend within.
The same fate was destined for Kenneth. He was lifted into the next coffin. It would have been
a simple task if he had not struggled. As it was the villagers were forced to systematically pound
nails into his forehead, neck, hands, and stomach. Without eyes he couldn't observe, but his other
senses gave him knowledge of the concrete lid finally sliding into place above him. Only a
murmur was heard of the priest and his prayers before complete hysteria began to tear into his
mind.
Outside, the villagers clapped each other on the back, offering congratulations. The leader
raised an arm in triumph, leading the chorus of cheers. Now, he shouted, to the tavern, my
friends, and celebrate we shall, for a job well done.
Copyright 2007 Peter Summers