The Horrors of Marlorne

The Benefactor

The whole neighborhood had flocked to Mr. Wilbers' funeral.

On that cloudy winter afternoon, the cemetery had filled with black-clad people of all ages: people and children, younglings and elderlies were all gathered en masse around the uncovered coffin of the dear local benefactor. Mr. Wilbers had dedicated his life to helping others and supporting them with all the means at his disposal, whether financial or otherwise. He had believed in his cause to the last, standing as a role model for anyone who was going down the wrong path and wanted to get out of it. Rumors were circulating about the possibility that he could be made a saint, but there was nothing to confirm them.

There was already the smell of rain in the air, hinting that it would begin to pour at any moment. At that time, drought was the latest problem in the town of Nightbane, which had been enjoying so many prolonged downpours for the past two months. The wind had turned colder, and temperatures had plummeted.

It was precisely because of the adverse weather conditions that the next day's newspapers would praise the valor of the people who had bravely shown up at the funeral despite knowing only by reputation the magnanimous figure whose name was destined to enter legend.

One of those present was a writer, an ordinary individual who rarely left home except to buy necessary goods from the market down the street. He knew almost none of those around him, much less had he ever seen Mr. Wilbers, about whom he had read in periodicals without ever having the pleasure of meeting him. To him, that coffin a dozen yards away from him could be empty, or contain an idea, nothing more; the only evidence of the famous benefactor's existence, at that moment, were the rumors murmuring about the miracles the friend of a friend had heard he had performed.

In fact, no matter how wide he spread his ears, he could not hear anyone speaking firsthand about an encounter with Wilbers. And he didn't seem to be the only one who was a little confused by the situation.

<<No widows, children or grandchildren. No friends or family members. Strange, for a big man like him,>> whispered someone in the corner. Someone else, who had heard, passed that off as their own remark, and slowly a slight murmur covered the raspy, wheezing voice of the priest who, meanwhile, was singing the praises of the dead man.

<<I am not mistaken, I swear to you: the priest is reading pieces of the newspaper articles. These words I have already read somewhere...>> a bewildered voice rose in the chorus of others, and his words also echoed from mouth to mouth throughout the crowd.

The writer was trying to pick up on the various comments being made about the situation, when at one point a monotone voice did not address him directly from behind. There was nothing special about it, really, except the way it seemed to arrange the syllables - as if they were pieces of other words taped together. He didn't even think it was possible for a person to cause such a feeling.

<<I would not worry so much about these details, if I were you. After all, even concepts die: simply, no one usually arranges a funeral for them.>>

The man turned to look at the other person. He was a distinguished gentleman of indeterminate age between forty and seventy. He wore an elegant black suit, with a long tie of the same color reaching to his belt; his hair was bright red, with a few white manes streaking his head in wavy bands. His face was hollow, with two reddish eyes peering out at the world around him from the height of his two feet. The writer wondered how he had failed to notice the man before.