The hectic workday squeezed the last ounce of energy I had in me. The instant I closed my eyes, I dozed off like a dead chap. My wife, Clarissa, was a nurse, and she held the night shift that day. So, I slept with my lovely little daughter, Cassie; since she was afraid to sleep alone. But, this unusual fear did not exist in her until a few days before. Perhaps, it was a horror movie she watched, I assumed. But, I never knew, in the least, that I was letting her sleep with an evil spirit.

Somewhere in the midst of the silent night, I sensed someone at the corner of my bed. I was sure my limbs had felt the presence of some other person in this room; I was beyond terrified. The adrenaline my body procured in the next few moments were too much in quantity against the tiredness I procured from a day. My eyes were wide open, and I bounced away from the stranger who seemed like a man. On the second apprehension, I recognised this visitor, and a dread pervaded my mind.

He wore baggy brown pants with a plain white shirt, the suspenders of his trousers dangling relaxed on both sides of his ribs. His black-tie dragged down, the coat missing, he looked very distinct from his depiction in history books. It was the Fuhrer of Germany, Adolf Hitler himself, who was resting peacefully on the other side of my bed. He held his head down, his eyes vacant, and his iconic strands of hair tumbled over his blue eyes. He did not look like an arrogant, superior leader, but more like a weak, defeated man.

Though I recognised this untimely intruder, the first question that escaped the chambers of my mind was, “Who are you?” He glanced at me, surprised, but then lowered his head again as if he realised something. With trembling fists, he propped himself up and proceeded to the other end of the room. He stood near the windows. He was weak; only a shadow of the man who commenced a tumultuous World War and murdered millions of Jews. He could barely stand on his legs, his arms sought for support, but no shoulder served him.

He glanced up at the stars and muttered something; it was faint, but it possessed more power than I could ever gather, “I thought the world would remember me.” His vision danced around; he no longer had a purpose, he no longer had an aim, and his demeanour hinted that he no longer even had life within that frame. He did not turn around, not once; he could not even face a mediocre someone like me. His gaze transfixed to some point far away, and he again mumbled something weak, more uncertain this time, “I am afraid I was wrong.”

Six words. A total of six words summed up against the dictator’s entire life. Was this a confession? A regret? Was it that simple? Could grief possibly wash away his sins? Could anything? This man slaughtered millions, shattered cities, families, all in the name of a miserable objective; to cleanse the world. And he is afraid he was wrong? This man was wrong. Whatever perspective, whatever mirror reflects his story; no version of it will ever deem his motives pure as he stated they were. He was wrong.

All of a sudden, he turned around as if he could hear my thoughts. I was, for a moment, petrified; but his vacant expressions pulled me back together. He leaned against the racks and picked up the bottle of whiskey that I had stored away. He was not asking for permission, and I felt too feeble to question; he had dictated over an entire nation within his palms, and even proposed to dominate over the whole world. That man does not need an elaborate ceremony to take authority of an ordinary house.

“Would you like a drink?” He asked me, having found two glasses from the cupboard. The Fuhrer of Germany, the horrid nightmare of many, even seventy-five years after his death, and he wanted to share a drink with me. But, I politely refused; My daughter was strictly against my drinking habits, and I was putting in my best efforts to comply. But the lack of a company overnight did not stop him; he poured himself a drink and enjoyed the new flavours.

When he was halfway through his glass, Cassie exhibited signs of waking up; the noises inside the room was disturbing her peaceful sleep. Adolf quickly hid the drink behind his stocky frame. When I looked at him, surprised, all I could see was an innocent smile. It was the last thing I expected from such a figure in history, but yes, no matter, however powerful, it doesn’t change the fact that he was still human. And maybe, even a caring, childish heart.

He drew himself up and came closer to the both of us, but his eyes were not at all directed towards me. He only gazed at my daughter, and his features revealed nothing but the delight of seeing a little child. However, something unexpected happened. Just before he was close enough to Cassie, she moved back in fear; she hid behind me, clung to me so tight and her little eyes were full of fear. At this sorrowful sight, the epitome shattered; the happiness in his features faded, the hands once extended for caring trembled in mid-air, and his eyes turned gushing red. But before we could see the tears of someone who had never cried, he turned away swiftly, hiding his emotions and supporting himself against the windowpanes.

After a prolonged silence, he spoke again, “Children used to adore me,” He slowly turned, his voice almost breaking. His eyes were still red, and his hair covering his left eye, “But, I am nothing less than a monster, am I?” That moment, we felt weak air currents moving across our room, Cassie held on to me even tighter. Adolf again gained his vacant, expressionless face and held his body upright, though his left hand still trembled. A few moments later, one end of our room was not visible, but instead, some other infrastructure was present on the other end. A black border covered the places that no longer belonged in this reality; Adolf slowly moved into the portal, not looking back even once. All he left was a glass half-filled.

At last, he turned. An unbalanced grin crossed his face, but it was not one of happiness. But it was more like as if he retrieved a childish fantasy long forgotten. And before the portal closed in on itself, he uttered his last two words, glancing at my daughter, ”Blue Eyes.”

*****

First of all, thanks to @Prose for this wonderful challenge. Usually, the challenges rang no bells inside me. But this time, I was happy. I was able to come up with something. I don’t even know if the dictator is still applicable to the challenge. But, here it is. And, I hope you guys like it. As always, it’s your support that keeps me going ^-^

#fiction

When I nodded off, pillows at my back, laptop propped on my knees and browsing BNHA fanart, the last thing I expected was to wake up with a stranger sitting at the foot of my bed. Dad worked nights, and the shape was much too masculine to be my mother or sister. At 12:34 AM there weren’t many possibilities that didn’t involve me being robbed, hurt, murdered or all of the above. The man was shrouded in darkness as he turned his head to look at me. I dared not scream. What if my mom or sister came running in and he hurt them too? No. This man I’d have to face alone.

Reluctantly, I reached over to my nightstand and clicked on a lamp. The cast caught the man’s features just right for me to see. I let a sigh of relief. It was only Hitler. I must’ve been dreaming.

Lucid dreams don’t typically run in my family, least of all with me. I’m usually a slave to the midnight machinations of my mind. So this was...definitely new.

“Hayyy,” I mumbled awkwardly. “Wattup, dawg?”

“How dare you call me a dog!” he barked, his accent heavy. “Is that how you address your Fuhrer?”

“Relax, dude. It’s just an expression. What, uh...what are you doing here? You realize you’re in the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl at midnight. It’s kinda’ weird. I’d kinda’ like an explanation for that, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’m as confused as you are. I’ve heard our dimension occasionally collides with yours, leaving us partially perceivable to the living. But it’s never happened to me before. This is amazing! I have finally found a means to communicate with your kind. The intersections are said to commonly last five, ten minutes. I...I have so many questions. I can’t waste time with this—young as you are, you’ll have to do!”

“This is a weird dream,” I mumbled. “Okay, Hannah, you can wake up any time now.”

“What is my legacy?” he asked, a nervousness in his eyes. “It almost pains me to know. History is never kind to those who lose. But I suppose ignorance would be twice the torture. I’ve marinaded in it for years.”

“Well. They made a few movies about you. Like, films, picture shows.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I didn’t watch it, but there’s this one American film from the ’40s, The Devil With Hitler. Cinema Snob reviewed it, pretty much play-by-play. They took a few creative liberties.”

“How creative?”

“You got shot in the butt with a missile and died.”

“Well, I’m glad they kept it dignified.”

“Pretty sure this was before your actual...yanno’. So maybe they were just hoping,” I shrugged. “Another one was called They Saved Hitler’s Brain. Didn’t watch it. Watched the Snob review. It looked...fairly terrible.”

“Did I get any good films?”

“Well, Tarantino made a good one in that it’s well made. But it still hates your guts.”

“Let me guess. Another missile?”

“Nah. You’re just machine-gunned to pulp and your bullet-ridden corpse gets blown up afterward.”

“Glad he had mercy.”

“But a lot of people die in that movie. It’s not just exclusive to you. Mercy in a Tarantino movie is like a needle in a haystack.”

“I see,” he glanced around at the sketches hung on my wall. “You are an artist?”

“Unofficially. I’m terrified to commit. Those art snobs can be vicious.”

“They know nothing!” he exploded (metaphorically, unlike in the Tarantino movie). “You could vomit on a canvas and they’d call it fine art. I applied for the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna twice and they rejected me on both counts. My art had promise. Even as a foolish child I knew that. But they...they couldn’t see. I needed a hand up, and they smacked mine away.”

“Things would’ve been a lot better if you became an artist. That’s for sure.”

“Is that what passes for art nowadays?” he looked at the laptop screen, where I was now scrolling through images for kawaii.

“Pretty much. It ain’t bad.”

“Ain’t bad? These supposed people don’t even look like people. The proportion is all off. The eyes take up half the head. Like a terrifying beast pulled from the depths of a nightmare.”

“Oh, that’s just anime. They’re not meant to look realistic. That’s the design.”

“The beast, it stares into my soul...” he shuddered.

“Huh. Maybe I’m just desensitized.”

“What are you eating with?” his eyes found the salad on my nightstand, and the curious utensil resting up top.

“Oh, this? It’s only the greatest invention ever conceived by man. It’s called a spork.” I grabbed it and brandished it enthusiastically.

“Someone combined...a spoon and a fork? Do you Americans not consider this an abomination? You’re crossbreeding utensils!”

“Nah. We think it’s cool. Some think it’s pretty useless; but you have naysayers with everything.”

“Get it out of my sight,” he growled, receding into the corner with a strange hiss.

I pulled the nightstand drawer open, paused for dramatic effect, and dropped it in.

“The spork was invented by Germany,” I muttered under my breath.

“WHAT?!”

“Just kidding.”

“What is that!”

“Oh, sorry. Clicked the wrong link. We didn’t need to see that. DeviantArt has a lot of...deviancy.”

“Degenerate swine.” He pressed further into the corner. More strange hissing.

“I wouldn’t take it that far. Though that was pretty gross. Gotta’ be careful when browsing the interwebs.” I paused to think. “Hey I got a paper coming up. You think you could help me out? Though, I suppose it would be in poor taste to cheat like that...so...nevermind.”

“Indeed. If you rely on being given the answers to everything you become soft in the mind, and turn into a malleable imbecile.” He hesitated. “But...we’re losing focus. What became of Germany?”

“Well, they lost, as you probably figured. They’re still around though. It’s no horrible dystopia over there, to my knowledge.”

“But Germany...doesn’t rule the world?”

“No.”

“Not even Europe?”

“Nope.”

“And my birthday isn’t celebrated as an international holiday?”

“It’s 4-20, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then yesss. But don’t ask what for. It ain’t you.”

“Hannah, is everything alright in there?” I heard a voice outside my door.

“Yeah, it’s all good,” I called back. The footsteps slowly disappeared.

“Is that your mother?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. The voice was just familiar. For a moment it almost reminded me of my own mother. She died when I was just a few years older than you. Never was my sadness more unbearable than the day of her passing.”

“I’m sorry. I guess that was part of the reason you banked so much on art school. My mom and I are really close. I can’t imagine missing that acceptance in my life, looking for it somewhere else just to get shot down at every corner. I wish someone had been a little nicer to you back then. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to try so hard.”

He slouched in defeat. “You are wise for someone of your age. Were you alive in my time, you would’ve set a good precedent to follow. A balance of knowledge and emotional maturity. It’s admirable—” A current of static rippled over him, and his already-transparent body began to fade. “The dimensions are starting to diverge again. I won’t be able to stay here much longer. I may have another minute at most...”

“Okay,” I said. “But there’s one thing you should probably know before you leave. Two things, really.”

“What?”

I shut my laptop, and gently planted a finger above my name, first and last. My parents had gotten it personalized for me for my birthday.

His expression changed a bit when he read it.

“That’s you?”

I nodded.

“You’re...you have to be joking.”

“And I’m autistic. Aspergers. So in your book I’d be owe for two.”

For a long time, it appeared he’d lost the ability to speak. I didn’t intend it as revenge; rather to show him the people he so vehemently hated were still just that. People.

He vanished before he could get any sound out, but his expression was quite memorable.

Nothing more to do, I reached over to my nightstand, got my salad, and continued eating with my spork.

*****

And just like that, I woke up. Totally called that one. I’m sure my therapist will love when I tell her Hitler made a cameo in my latest dream. First Epstein and now this.

#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome

Of course 2020 would give me – a liberal Ashkenazi Jew with a Ruth Bader Ginsburg tattoo – the gift of ghost Hitler sitting at the foot of my bed. It’s not like I was expecting a visit from RBG herself, because the woman deserves some damn rest, but I don’t know. I would have gladly greeted a host of other specters taken from us in just this year alone. John Lewis, Chadwick Boseman, hell…I’d take James Lipton just to hear that sexy voice of his again (we all have our kinks). And yet, here we are. A dumpster fire of a man for a dumpster fire of a year.

As I sat up against my headboard and put my glasses on, he stared at me expectantly. If he were a fully-formed human, I might’ve been unnerved by it. But in his translucent spirit state, he seemed fragile, like a piece of tulle that could tear in a light breeze and float away at any moment.

“Vut do you vant to know?” he asked me, waiting.

I took a minute to think. I wasn’t sure how much time I’d have with him, so I didn’t want to take too long to brainstorm. That said, this seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity to either A, get some invaluable insight I could share with the world or B, lay down an epic burn.

I went with option B.

“Who hurt you, sweetie?” I quipped in the same voice that Kristin Wigg uses on Rose Byrne in Bridesmaids, but G.H. (Ghost Hitler) didn’t seem to register the jab. His stoic expression was unchanged.

“Ze pain I’ve experienced in my life pales in comparison to ze pain I’ve caused so many. It is irrelevant.”

I opened my mouth, about to respond with “no shit, Sherlock,” but paused. Both because I realized it would be an insult to the Bohemian detective I love so much to give his namesake to G.H., and also because I wasn’t sure if what he’d said was true. Given the ascendency of Trump and his Nazi 2.0 followers, it actually seemed quite relevant. In order to prevent a modern-day monster that could rival his level of depravity, don’t we need to know how Hitler became Hitler?

So I followed up with “Sure, but you asked me what I want to know...and that’s the only question I’ve got.”

To this, G.H. let out a long sigh of nothing because ghosts can’t breathe, and while I quietly relished in being responsible for his exasperation, he continued.

“I have vhat you vould call ze…Daddy issues? I just vanted to paint pictures of ze petunias and get ze hugs and ze kisses. But fazah beat me and told me my passions vere vorthless. So, I left home and learned to embrace Germany - ze fazahland instead of my own fazah - and it embraced me back. From zat point on, I rejected all who rejected me and became crueler zen my fazah ever was.”

I sensed I’d just opened the door for a pity party and some revisionist history, so I pushed him further. “But what about free will? Plenty of people have shitty childhoods and they don’t all become genocidal maniacs.”

“Zis is true. But perhaps I vas a bit chemically imbalanced? You know, I had ze grand delusions, ze hypochondria, ze paranoia and probably ze Syphilis. I also had a lot of tummy troubles.”

I started to laugh. G.H. looked puzzled.

In that moment, I realized he was right. No amount of psychologizing could definitively rationalize him – once a behemoth, now just a shadow. No amount of backstory could excuse his atrocities either. Any attempt to understand him is for our own comfort – we simply don’t want pure evil to exist in this world; we need an answer for him. But the truth is that sometimes monsters are created, sometimes they’re born and other times maybe it’s a mix of both. No matter how it happens, though, the result is always the same - pain and suffering that simply cannot and should not be explained away.

As he waited for me to say more, I reached for him instead, making like I would take his hand to offer support. But just as he moved it toward mine, I quickly pulled away and pantomimed combing my hair with the swag of a 50′s Greaser.

“Too slow, motherfucker.” I said, and then purposefully gave him the finger on my RBG side. Not very creative, I know - but it felt good. I delighted in the surprise and anger I saw flash upon his face before I laid back down and got under the covers.

I aggressively fluffed my duvet and watched as he blew right out the window, like a delicate snowflake with a tiny stupid mustache.

Indecipherably small to the naked eye, the handwriting penned each night into his journal was not meant to be erratic. James would construct each and every eensy letter with masterful precision, hours at a time, lost in his fervid thoughts, making plans without the urgency of watching the clock. Eventually, when he felt a sense of satisfaction, his journal would be placed by his bedside at an exact angle; the pen tucked in snugly next to the binding, as if it too was ready to retire for the evening, but sleep would elude him until he read from the manifesto, his bible, his voice from the grave, Mein Kamph.

Purchased at an obscure bookstore years back, the immediate inclination towards the text was kismet; as if Hilter had been born again within his soul. It was his fantasy that the words were written for him, personalized like a love letter; and as he’d place the book neatly on top of his journal each night with heavy eyes, he would imagine the Fuhrer incarnate was in the room with him, pleased by his unwavering loyalty.

His ailing mother knew of his fascination but she did not overreact. She assumed it was just an extension of an ordinary young man’s interest in militia and conflict, therefore as a believer in respecting his privacy and choosing when to pick her battles, she had not contemplated confronting him. Totally clueless about the depth of his depravity, at a moment of weakness, or perhaps it was strength, motherly love led her hand astray and she decided to open up the journal and take a peek without success. Even with a magnifying glass, all she saw was a single straight line of blue ballpoint ink. How could she know her current use of a wheelchair put a target on her back? No. James was not ready to murder his own mother, but he did consider if her health continued to decline, he may have to cross that bridge. Part of the written plan.

Perhaps Hitler was his father figure, having never known his own. On an ordinary day, while James lay unencumbered within his mother’s womb, his innocent father was walking across the street when he was struck and killed by a drunk driver. Close to, but not yet of legal age, alcohol was also placed on his hit list; it was what he considered the kiss of death in a bottle and he vowed to never let it touch his lips. But alcohol was not the only evil in the world according to James and his teacher, and when the time was ripe, he would rise to the occasion and make his mark, called into action by an occultist third eye that kept him company along with his dejected heart.

Book still in hand, it was a presumptuous cough alerting him that he had dozed off while reading; a rare occasion, but all things are possible once in a blue moon. Coming from the foot of the bed, a vision in all its glory, one James had wished upon, and now realized, was realized without fear. James sat up in awe.

“Mein Fuhrer. You have come.”

He was sure the shadowy figure at the end of his bed was Hitler in spite of the dimness, although he was not sure he could actually touch him. After all, he’d already been dead for seventy-two years, so James was left to ponder his presence, assuming a rational explanation.

“Yes. I have come to encourage you, to thank you for your loyalty and your dedication to my ideology. It has been a long time since I have become aware of someone so devoted to my words.”

“But how did you know? How could you know? You are dead.”

“I am not sure everything that takes place needs to be explained. Doesn’t the Christian faith call for us to believe in God blindly? To have faith without proof?”

“I suppose. Forgive me Mein Fuhrer. I have much to learn. Please teach me. Lead me. I feel there is so much more I need to know before I can carry out your work.”

“When I was your age, I too was conflicted. I relied on the wisdom of Dietrich Eckart, but at some point with maturation, it was I that could have taught him. You will see. Read my words, continue to write; plan and you will gain confidence by and by.”

“I am so glad you are here because there is something I am wrestling with. There is a rally next month, August 11th in Charlottesville, VA held by a group called Unite the Right. I’m planning to go. I believe it is time I gather with other Nazis. There is only so much I feel I can accomplish on my own. It is expected to be a peaceful protest but there are moments when I feel such rage towards our enemies, I cannot promise that I won’t react poorly if I am confronted and this has been keeping me from publicly expressing my views. Am I making any sense? Should I go and take the risk?”

“Ah. Anger. Yes. I understand. If I had let my anger hold me back, I would never have made any progress. My rise to power would have been doomed. Do you understand? Of course you need to join forces with others. There is power in numbers. You go. You may not be able to see me there, but know I am with you, always, mein Sohn.”

And with his last words to James, Hitler was gone; visibly gone and unbeknownst to James on a future ordinary day riddled with extraordinary circumstances his Fuhrer would be forgotten by him forever more. But Hitler’s face would not be replaced by another until sometime after the murder during his day of reckoning in the midst of the high profile trial.

“Murderer! Say her name!” Her mother yelled towards James from a courtroom bench.

Pictures of the victim laced the room, her goodness readily seen through her now dead eyes. Besides her family, intense grief was felt by even those who never knew her; palpably. James absorbed her. He was fascinated, captivated by her kind eyes. He studied them the way he had once studied his Fuhrer. He had seen them, and she his, through the windshield glass, right before he rammed his car into the crowd.

“Order in the court.” The judge pounded his gavel.

And at the sound of wood against stone, something in James broke and with his head in his handcuffed hands he did just that. Feeling no desire whatsoever to say goodbye forever to his former self or the sick mind that had molded his, repentance was understood, and he said her name.

“Heather Heyer.”

#HISTORICALFICTION

James Alex Fields Jr., 22, received a life sentence plus 419 years for killing Heather Heyer and injuring dozens of others during the “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville on Aug. 12, 2017. Fields was sentenced to life in prison on 29 federal hate crime charges. Judge Richard Moore followed a state jury’s recommendation in handing down the sentence.

The dream was so ponderous and so vivid in its nature, it rendered me speechless on awakening. A cavernous dread has taken hold of me and I feel compelled to write this down, for posterity.

In my dream I was still asleep when a gloomy shadow passes over me. The air feels heavier, an atmospheric weight descending like a heavy mist on a barren land and from the darkness of the night I hear my name being whispered in a deep baritone forcing me to wake up from my slumber.

It felt so real. I was in my bed, in my room, with my dear wife sleeping soundly by my side. The window was ajar, and I could feel the soft cool of night air on my skin. A fly had snuck through the lace curtains and I

could even hear the background hum of its buzz.

Yet the dream was also absurd, as a strange young man sat on the end of bed.

His eyes were piercingly alert, his face was framed with an oddly shaped moustache. He wore a soldier’s uniform with insignia I had never seen before but the thing that struck me most was his striking persona. He was redoubtable, self-possessed, confident to the point of arrogance with a glint in his eye that unnerved me even in my dreamlike state. His back was straight, he sat rigid, his jaw firm. His whole demeanour radiated a nefarious intent and I had a strong sense that this man was real. Instinctively, I knew he was dangerous but of what and why I couldn’t say- it was, after all, only a dream.

“Doctor Charles,” He said as I roused from slumber. His voice was faint yet distinct. Though barely a whisper I could still detect a heavy Germanic accent.

“Doctor Charles Darwin?”

“That is I.” I croaked, pulling myself upright. My dear wife Emma stirred but her sleep remained heavy. “And may I ask your name?”

I was aware these circumstances were extraordinary, otherwise I would have screamed out at the intruder in my home, as it was, I embraced the abstract nature of proceedings and allowed my curiosity to take reign over fear.

“You don’t know me,” He replied, with half a smile. “But I know you. In fact, I am a great admirer of your work. I like to think we are comrades. United in belief.”

“You are a scientist?” I asked hopeful, yet nothing about this man’s character indicated a man of science.

“No. I am a leader. I have great scientists work for me.” He was very economical and precise in his speech, enunciating each word carefully. “In fact, I told my scientists that I am a follower of your work. My yearning fantasy is to speak with you- the greatest scientist of our time Charles Darwin- and my scientists in their zeal to please me, find a way. This is how we can meet. Only through dreams.”

“I see.” I say (although I don’t see at all). It’s apparent I was speaking to a madman but as I scientist I was intrigued.

“You see I belong to a different time and in my time- I continue your work. The Natural selection of mankind.”

“You have read my book- The origin of Species?”

“Oh yes. You are a freethinker as I am. I too believe in survival of the fittest, and racial hygiene. In my time, we call it eugenics and social Darwinism- we named it after you.”

“How intruiging.”

“My country has also embraced our ideologies. We are cleansing our race as we speak.”

“Cleansing?”

“Yes. The dissidents, the feeble-minded, the degenerates , the deaf, the blind, the Jews and homosexuals- all will be wiped out from our land. Exterminated. We will breed a superior race and soon the world will evolve at a rate previously unknown.”

A deep and morbid fear overtakes me.

I am speechless. I am sickened to the core. I am horrified at the mere thought and the casual fashion in which he mentioned of such atrocities; disgusted that a human being could think this way and speak to me as if I too share these perversions. My thoughts mimic the panic-stricken fly in the room: darting around in a haphazard manner, desperate to comprehend its predicament. Is it possible that someone could conceive these ideas from my theories?

“But..but my work focuses on plant life and animals,” I eventually stutter, unable to get my words out fast enough. “Humans are more evolved. We operate with an expanded law of nature. Love. Compassion. Don’t you believe that?”

The man doesn’t answer. He tightens his jaw. His eyes narrow like dark pits and peer into my own. A flick of his eyebrows and a slight pursing of the lips tells me he is disappointed with my response.

“What is your name?” I growl, surprising myself as my voice is louder now, like rolling thunder, anger bursting through my genial surface - even in my dream I am incensed that my life’s work can be twisted and misconstrued to this extent . “Tell me your name!” I shout when he ignores the question.

He stands and links hands behind his back. He is calm but his face darkens as he nears me and I detect something akin to murderous intent.

“My people call me “Mein Fuhrer”.”

---

I wake abruptly- thankfully. But the dream has left me alarmed and distressed to say the least.

A sense of foreboding follows me by day and I am reluctant to sleep again at night. I fear for the future. I fear my theories could ignite such a diabolical fire. I must expand upon my work. I must emphasize a moral sensitivity, mutual aid and the noble nature of mankind.

A determination like lightning empowers me, I will not rest. To this end, I have started new research and will compose a new book.

I shall call it “The descent of Man.”

I have always been prone to daydreaming, but, as I grew older and became more mature, I understood that it is a bad habit which turns the attention away from the present moment, not allowing you to be happy, fulfilled, therefore I began to change my mindset, of course not succeeding often unless I put in a constant effort, yet forgetting to remain persistent. And so was I was bewildered when I saw the shadow of Dickens and I started to calm my self down, making exercises meant to clear the mind, feeling more and more uneasy and terrified that the transparent shape, instead of disappearing, kept staring at me in a way which you couldn’t call creepy if there wasn’t for the unusual, dreamlike circumstances, but rather melancholic and perhaps condescending.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked seated at the edge of my bed from where he made a slight move to come closer to me, but renouncing as soon as he noticed the fret in my wide-opened eyes. “You do not have a lot of guts, do you?” he inquired, the lilt of the voice scornful, mocking, but not in an exceeding fashion. Is this a friendly ghost, after all? If I am delusional, better be about something not scary, but charming and peaceful.

“But how do you think I should feel? You are dead, I am not used to such things,” I began the conversation, still not sure what to do exactly, but settling for a joking, ironical attitude, bearing in mind, not to go over the edge.

“Well, I guess you have a point here. My visit was unannounced, to say the least.”

“If you are really here, but not a product of my imagination.”

“Still not sure of my existence?”

“Can you blame me for that?”

“You are right,” he agreed with an intonation in which he made room for a nuance of benevolence, and I realised with a sense of strange relief that he was losing his menacing and transcendent traits. I guess I prefer to feel comfortable even with a thing of uncertain origin than to suffer. I cannot do anything to have it disappear, my attempts have failed, so it would be wiser to learn how to cope with the otherworldy presence, which, at that moment, decided to stand up from my bed and, with a gait which wanted to seem perfectly terrestrial, went slowly in a corner of the room, the dirtiest and darker place in my apartment, and put out two reefers, which I was using as a last resource in helping me to stop the inner dialogue.

“I think we should get to know each other more closely, and smoking should be the best way to do it. Don’t you agree?” he said and lit the cigarettes up, one of which he passed me nonchalantly, and I took it bedazzled. “Ghosts are able to intrude in your world and communicate with a person of their choosing if the said person has a predisposition which makes her extremely serene, relaxed. Smoking weed is yours.”

“I do not get high that often,” I tried to defend myself, not fully persuaded by the explanation, but willing to accept it in order to avoid to freak out.

“That’s not the point. The quality matters more than the quantity.”

“If you say so.” We smoked for a while and, abruptly, it did not seem so horrid, nor eccentric, to be there, but familiar and warm, as if returning home from a long journey.

Eee Eee Eee. I hit my alarm clock in the head. I roll over and see- ¨JESUS HELL!”

“Vello, I vas vondering ven you vould vake up.”

“How long have you been waiting there. Actually, no. That doesn’t matter, you’re Hitler leave!”

“Oh, Hitler, Hitler, Hitler. Vhen did everyone become so sensitive to that name. You know, I prefer Adolf, but nobody cares about vhat the evil Hitler thinks. I have feelings too you know.”

“Ohhh. I’m still dreaming, that must be it.”

“You’re not dreaming. Here let me prove it.” Then Hitler hit me in the leg.

“Oh, Hitler why did you do that?”

“Pain is zimply you’re nerves being distressed, you’re body von’t do that to itself, so if felt pain, vat means I’m real, vich means your not dreaming.”

“God, you know too much about pain Hitler.”

“Adolf.”

“So why are you here?”

“I onestly do not know. The last thing I remember, it was April, 30, 1945, I was about to fake my own death, then next thing I nu, I’m in zis room.”

“Uh, alright. I guess I’m just gonna accept that as a fact now. None of what’s happening makes sense.”

“Do you vant to here a joke? I love jokes.”

“Oh, Hitler-”

“Adolf.”

“Tells jokes? Sure, tell me one”

“Vats the difference between a pizza and a jew?”

“Oh god, no. I’m gonna stop ya there.”

“Oh, pleaze vet me vinish. It’s so funny.”

“No, god, no, please lord, no. Do not finish that joke.”

“Vine... A pizza doesn’t scream-”

“Ah... and you did it anyways. Alright.”

“Oh. Here’s another. Vhy am I a vegetarian?”

“Well, I thought it ’cause you didn’t like meat, but I suppose its some other reason.”

“Its because I love turning Jews into-”

“No! No. I see where this is going. No more jokes for Adolf.”

“Awww. Voo called me Adolf. Ou like me.”

“Sure, wait, no. I’m becoming friends with Hitler-”

“Adolf.”

“Right now. You are literally the worst.”

“Vell now you’re just being rude. Even if voo don’t like me, just lie. I have veelings. Vi do you care inywayz. No one vill know you and Adolf are homies.”

“We are not homies.”

“Voo are mt closest viend right now!”

“I’m the only person you know right now! I could be hitler and, well, no that analogy doesn’t work as well anymore. Whose someone you hate right now?”

“You. Hm.”

“Yeah, I guess I just walked into that one.”

“Vell, this haz been vunderful, but time to give za people what they want.”

“Bruh, what?”

“Vell I’m basically zees people’s heroz. Zey must worship me, do ze not?”

“Oh... I see. I uh, I shoulda told you, uh. You... You didn’t win the war.”

“Huh? You must be joking.”

“No uh, you see we had two nukes.”

“Zut the hell are nukes.”

“Uh, they’re bombs, but they make very big explosions. And, well uh, America dropped two of them n Japan, Basically made two cities go extinct, and then everyone else was like ‘Not getting bombed sounds like the way to go so, uh, you win this round.’”

“Oh lord.”

“Yeah... sorry ’bout this bud.”

“Um... I think I’ll go now.”

“You sure man, I could make like a cup of coffee or somethin’”

“No, I’ve, I’ve lost my appetite. I think I’m just gonna go.”

Then as mysteriously as he came, he went. Soon after my mother walked into my room.

“Did I hear you talking to someone?”

“Yeah, it was just Hitler.”

“Sorry, What?”

I tilt my head, nausea slipping into my stomach. "People are starting to think like you again."

His eyes are inhuman. "I don't think they ever stopped."

I can't look at those eyes. My blanket is strangled between my fingers, twist and twist and twist. "Did you really believe? In all that you did?"

He is not natural. Even in death, he is a demon. "I believed I was God."

Breath escapes my lips in a tiny sigh. "They're starting to do that again, too. Believe that they're God."

Dark eyes. Ghost eyes. Dead eyes, empty even in life. "And again, they never stopped."

A flame of loathing, pinpricks on eyes. "Why? Why would you--" I can't reason with this creature. I don't want to hear its answers.

"Why was I who I was? We all make choices. Sacrifices."

A quote whispers in my mind. Chills skitter down my spine. "One death is a tragedy."

"One million is a statistic." His words continue, as low and cordial as before.

Twist and twist. This isn't real. Sweat coats my palms. "I hate you."

"Many do. Many have. It still does not matter."

"You never cared for anyone."

His eyes, I can't stand his eyes. "Perhaps not. But what use is caring? Death overwhelms love. There is nothing more prevalent than death."

Another whisper, another quote. "Death is the solution to all problems. No man..."

"No problems." He doesn't stop staring at me. "Was I remembered?"

I flinch. "So you care about that?"

"No." He doesn't stop staring.

Breath comes short. "Yes. Yes you were."

And there is fury again, a candle flame, burning bright and hot. And there is terror, for people remember, but never learn. And sorrow, for the sin of man, even for the sin of those who are not men at all. "People never learn."

"No, they do not. They are shallow creatures. They desire order, always order. Freedom is forever unnatural to the human state. Give them perfect order, and they will follow, sheep to slaughter."

Fury and terror and sorrow. "You took away God. You took away family. You took away love. You took away individuality." My voice rises with every charge. "You removed what it means to be human, and they're trying to do it again." The words drop away into a sob. "They say that socialism is a good thing, and that family is a bad thing, and that God is meaningless and silly. They say you can't speak, and you must agree, and you can't say no. Wear this mask, take this vaccine, believe what we tell you, and it will be okay."

He listens, silence floods the room.

The blanket is soaked with sweat, twisted, twisting. "It's not going to be okay."

"You will not think so."

I finally look up, stare straight into those eyes. "You're dead. Do you now believe in God?"

He doesn't answer.

Fury terror sorrow. "Do you?"

A beat. "I have been judged. But God remains a lie."

furyterrorsorrow

"Go away."

FuryTerrorSorrow.

He smiles, small, and horrible in its normality. "They are thinking again. Or rather, not thinking. My ideas never died, child. I was not the first, and I was not the last."

Again and again and again and again

FURYTERRORSORROW

"Go away!"

He was not the first, and he is not the last.

The phantom dissolves. The presence lingers.

Tears slip across my cheeks, dripping down my nose as I slump into my pillows.

Again.

What does the future hold?

Again.

And again.

And again.

2020

I’m chasing this hunchback woman who doesn’t look like she should be able to run as fast as she is right now. Her hair is flying like wisps of smoke behind her like it’s taunting me: eat my dust loser! I have a partner in this fond chase, a boy my age who can’t keep up, but for some reason, I need to catch this speady hunchback woman, so I leave him behind. His calls follow me growing ever quieter. “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”this anomalous woman shouts over her shoulder. “Though she be but little, she is fierce!” she calls mocking us with her own superiorities. I swear I’ve heard those somewhere though...

And now I’m in the Midsummer Night's Dream movie, the older one. I am one of the characters, Helena, waking from sleep, magical flower drops still fresh in my eyes. The light behind my eyelids grows brighter and brighter, but I don’t want to open them. The sun peels them open anyway, and now I am awake, in my own bed, under my own covers, with no one here but me, myself, and...

“AHHH shit!,” I scream, what some might call, dramatically but it seemed natural in this instance. A man dressed in an old-fashioned blue and white striped two piece pajama set sat on the side of my bed, staring toward my closet. At the sound of my yell, he also yelled and jumped to his feet.

“Ach du meine Güte!” he hollered, competing with me for the most ear-splitting shriek. I think I won though, just barely.

I swish my short blond waves away from my face and pinned some of them back.

“Umm, I’m not very bi-, tri-, or what would it be, quadra- lingual? I’m very much monolingual, and even the one language I’m supposed to know well, is a little faulty at times. Could you repeat that in English possibly?” I gabber. I’ve been told I like to hear the sound of my voice. I often counter that comment with something along the lines of, That’s not true! I don’t just talk to hear the sound of my voice. Although, it is sometimes why I talk, but other reasons include informing people or finding out imformation from other people... ok I see what you’re saying.

I recognize this man from somewhere, but where, and who is he? The mustache is definitely familiar. I’ll give him that. The PJ’s are confusing though.

“Oh, you’re English,” he spat, “And where did my bedroom go?” The accent was very audible now that he wasn't screaming, and he kinda sounded like my great grandmother did when she was upset or really excited. I bet whoever he is, he’s German.

“Um, well, I can’t answer that one for ya, but I have a question of my own.” I sit up. “Who are you? Like, I recognize you, but at the same time, I don’t. Also, my name is Bethy.”

He peered, or rather stared, quizically at me for a moment or two before answering. “I am Adolf Hitler. You do not know me?”

“Oh sheeeet.” I grin.

“Why do you smile, so?”

“Dude, it’s the year 2020!” I laugh, “You’re in the future.” I roll onto my side, and I continue through gasps for air and giggles, “Overall, I’m not too suprised you’re here. Hell, everything’s messed up this year. First there were wild fires in Australia, next there was the start of a huge pandemic, which by the way is still going on. If I thought you were a regular stranger right now, I’d have a mask on, but it’s so much more likely that I’d give anything to you than you giving something to me,” I ramble on.

I make sure to cough extra hard, kind of hoping for a moment that I actually had a little corona to give to him. I could go on listing negatives, but the list is too long, and I don’t know how well I could compete with the man, the one who kept WWII going. Adolf’s face grows greyer and more offputting as I ramble. Talk about a resting bitch face. I don’t tell him this though, because although this guy is in his PJ’s, in my house, and near my very own bed, he’s still very intimidating, especially when I knew his past.

I giggle some more as I remember a conversation I had with my friend on the bus. She was learning the alphabet through sign language, and I had memorized it several years previously, but I was a bit rusty. We began talking about regular things, and as we got along, the quetion was asked: Who is your crush? We were teenage girls, bored on a bus, what can I say? I started signing His name is Jack, but as neither of us were superb spellers or translators, I got through the letters H - I - S N - A - M and she frowned, shocked.

“You have a crush on Hitler?!” she whispered rather agressively. I explained what I meant to say to erase the mistake, but it stuck as a running joke between us.

Back to the present, Hitler sat down on a chair across the room.

“Autsch!” he yelped.

“Oh, my bad, sorry. I forgot about that. There’s a nail that sticks out on the side. It has actually ripped holes in some of my favorite clothes before.” Oh geez, I keep telling Hitler about my personal life. Oh well. What's the harm?

The silence that ensued was one of awkward glances and quite a few mustache twitches. My cat came in, and he eyed it cautiously.

“Blondi would have you for breakfast,” he sneered at Charli when the cat walked fearlessly up to his shins.

“Heyyy,” I scolded, getting out of bed to pick him up. The grey fluffball, purred into my ear, and his long-haired fur tickled my cheek. “Charli doesn’t like your bad attitude mister. You may be a mass murderer, but you are in my house right now, and I will not have you dissrespecting my cat like that.”

He had the look of what-did-you-just-say? I was curious now as to whether or not he could hurt me if he wanted to. Pillows are dispencible and light enough that they shouldn’t hurt him I thought. My arm extended. The baby-blue pillow made an arch across the room and hit the unexpecting guest over the head. I sprinted out of the room and peeked my head around the corner. His face, a massive thundercloud was at the door in seconds, and his hand reached through the crack. I winched and closed my eyes. No pain came. I opened them, and he was looking at me and back at his hand.

“I slapped you. Why do you not shout?” he barked.

“I-I guess that’s a limitation of you coming to the future.” My relief was immense, but I had a follow up experiment ready. As he stood there looking at me with squinted eyes, I looked back at him curiously. I slowly raised my hand and quick pinched his cheek.

“Autsch!”

“Hhmm,” I hummed as I puzzled this alltogether. “Adolf,” I then whispered,“I’m going to call you by your first name because I think we have gotten to know each other some, and I know you from my history books,” I added then proceeded to talk in a regular voice, “You may sit back down in the chair. I want to ask some questions.”

“What makes you think I will answer your questions?”

“Fine, we’ll take turns. I’m sure you have questions for me too.”

I filled my lungs with air and blew the air out noisily, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the bed. Just earlier I had hundreds of questions for this man. Now I could think of only one, not even a good one either.

“Do you like sushi?”

“Sushi?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said. Do you know what it is?”

“I’m not sure. Is it neccessary that I answer?”

I calculated the weight of the question vs the other questions I probably had and decided, “We’ll skip that one for now. We can come back to it. Your turn then I guess.”

“Which country is named after me in the future?”

“Excuse me?” I let out a choppy laugh. What kind of a question is that? I thought mine was a bad question. Fine, I guess they’re both bad.

“Is there no Hitler country?”

“Do you mean like a Hitlain or Hitlermany or a Hitlanistan or Hitlan?” A giggle escapes me at the absurdity of these names, but he answers with a straight face without knowing I’m joking.

“Certainly not Hitlanistan or Hitlan. There is no country I named Elysianischer Staat?”

“No, certainly not,” I mimicked.

He frowned at this, but I moved on easily. My only problem of the moment was thinking of a decent question to ask.

“Sooo, do you have any illnesses or allergies or issues...” I trailed off. I knew this man had issues maybe not ones he’d tell me about or even knew about himself, but he had issues or else what reason would he have for killing hundreds of thousands of people?

“My physician, Dr. Morell, says I have many issues and ilnesses. I take pills for them.”

“Follow up question - How many illnesses? I meant like what were they and how many? And...” I left the ending open again, truly curious as to this man’s personal health, mostly mental.

“He does not tell me what they are, but the pills make me invincible. ” He seemed to inflate with confidence as he spoke, and I had to wonder what drugs this so called physician gives him. “He tells me to take many every day. In the whole week, I take maybe 70.” He said it so matter a factly. So confidently. So sure.

How was this man alive? My grandmother who is 67 doesn’t even take half that many! I had to google this. My phone was slipped from my pocket, and I began to type. I could feel Hitler’s questions.

“This can be your next question, but save the thought till I’m through with this quick search, please.”

Dr. Morell and Hitler’s medicine I typed in the google search bar. Sure enough, Dr. Theodor Morell And The Untold Truth About Hitler’s Drug Habit, right near the top. I opened it and did a quick scan. Geez, it was even more than he said! “Dr. Theodor Morell turned Hitler into a full-fledged drug addict, prescribing him everything from opioids to bull prostate." Gross! "Hitler became increasingly dependent on the approximately 80 different drugs...”(Rennie, 2018) I was amazed. I was shocked. “Did you know about this?”

“I knew he made my injuries less. That is all that mattered.” I had a feeling this was not the full truth, but I chose not to question further.

“Your turn.”

“What was that rectangle of light that you controlled with your fingers?”

“Its an iPhone. Bassically just an improvement of the thing you called people with. Now it’s more like an all-knowing person stuck in a tiny screen!” I said cheerily.

I finally thought of a good question, so before I forgot, I blurted it out, “Why’d you kill so many people? What was the purpose?”

He sat there for a moment. If he was the all-knowing person stuck in my screen, I would see the circle of lines turning around and around, signaling loading. His mustache twitched, and he looked out the window. I began to question whether or not he would answer. Then he began to talk. “I kill not for pleasure,” each word spoken precisely and slowly, “I kill not out of hate. I kill for a future without blemishes. I kill for the feeling it gives me. When I have someone else’s life pinched between my fingers, I feel a power. I am driven by a madness inside of me to feed this power, so it does not eat me instead.” After each scentence, he would pause slightly, so his meticulously chosen words would be enveloped in my mind. “Have you not felt this power?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve killed before, then that would be a no.” I blinked an innocent blink, and he went on.

“Power comes when you have a choice.” He grinned at me durring a pause. “If I give you insult, and you stand there with eyes at your feet, would you feel powerful? No, there would be no power in that. If I gave you insult, and you stood and whipped your hand accross my face, leaving me speachless and with throbbing skin and muscle, would you feel powerful? Yes. You would feel more powerful than me. You would have relinquished your anger and pronounced yourself dominant. Powerful.”

I understand now. The obsession and the destruction. A pursuit for power and perfection. Men and women strive daily for power, but few warp this pursuit of power to the level Hitler did.

I look back at the chair, and he’s vanished. Was I talking to myslef the whole time? Charli leaps onto the chair as gracefully as any cat and bats at a piece of material. On the nail sticking out of the chair, there is a small scrap of half blue, half white cotton material. So I wasn’t dreaming afterall...

* * *

1929

Heinrich Hoffmann takes pictures of me. He tells me I, Eva Anna Paula, am a young and pretty girl who ought to be kept pretty in photographs. My short gold waves and blue eyes matched the ideals of Hitler, the man he worked for he’d told me. I had not seen this Adolf Hitler yet but often heard about him through the things Heinrich talked about as he took pictures. I did not feel the want, nor the need to see this man, but Heinrich spoke fondly of the man, and promised we’d meet soon enough.

Several weeks later, Heinrich entered through the door, following a statue of a man who looked in his forties. The man entered, and began inspecting the shelves with mild curiosity. The shop felt small under his gaze and finally that gaze fell on me.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

I would have known if we met before. The mustache bounced on his face. “No, sir. I have never seen you.”

He pretended to be interested once more in the shelves as Heinrich instructed me and began to take pictures. Hitler watched me with a curiosity that Heinrich later told me, he had never seen before on Hitler’s face.

As Heinrich gave me new instructions, Hitler turned and he must have found an answer to his puzzling.

“You have Bethy’s face.” A small smile spread acrossed his face, one I knew, without proof, was rare.

Also, to at least sort of cite, the one website I used in the story:

https://allthatsinteresting.com/theodor-morell

Dr. Theodor Morell And The Untold Truth About Hitler’s Drug Habit

By Daniel Rennie

Published April 2, 2018

I see ghosts.

I've always seen ghosts. Ghosts are everywhere. In the school, in the library, in my house.

When I was younger, my mom took me to a therapist.

Eventually, I learned to lie.

Lying is easy. Honesty is harder.

For all of these reasons, I wasn't totally surprised when I woke up to see Hitler on my bed.

"Hello, Avery."

"How do you know my name?" The question comes out automatically. I've never seen a ghost that could talk before. Mostly they stare on in silence.

"I've been waiting for a chance to meet you. After all, you're the only one on earth who can see me." He eyes me up and down. I can see his disapproval, but it doesn't reach me. It fizzles out in between me and his eyes. "Though I would have preferred it if you were..."

He doesn't finish. Straight? Blonde? Blue eyed? There are a million reasons for this man to hate me. But I don't see hate in his eyes.

I don't have anything to say to that.

You'd think that, since I'm in a room with a mass murderer, I'd be afraid. But I'm not. Ghosts cannot touch you. I'm surprised Hilter is even talking. Most ghosts will never even see the current world. They exist in a fantasy of their past.

"Look what has happened to your world," Hitler says. "Even without me, you are eating yourself from the inside."

"I can't argue. But why do you care if we take ourselves apart? You tried and failed. Isn't this just finishing your work?"

"Decades of death can change a man," Hitler says. I stare into his stony brown eyes, and I wonder: has he really changed at all?

"How are you able to see? Our world, I mean."

Hitler laughs. "I am stronger. Like you, I was able to see into the realm of death. So I can see into the realm of life."

I am stronger. Right.

He really hasn't changed.

"Tell me something," I say, holding my cold green gaze to his. "Why the Aryan race? Why blonde hair and blue eyes, if you could idealize dark hair and brown eyes, like yourself?"

I stare in shock and something almost like pity when I see Hitler look at himself with an expression of pure disgust.

"Why would I want that? Blue eyes and blonde hair are pure. I am... unclean."

"Maybe cleanliness goes deeper than looks," I say. "Maybe you made yourself unclean, by killing all those people."

"They deserved to die," Hitler spits. "All of them."

The placid look fades from his eyes, replaced by a manic rage.

He hasn't changed. He will never change.

He is unmovable, a statue.

"You destroy the point of being a ghost," I say, fighting to keep my voice even. I am not scared... merely... angry. Hitler was a bad man in life. When you're a ghost, you're supposed to learn. To change. To grow. And that is how you move on from this earth. "You haven't learned a thing. You never will. And for that, you should not be here."

"I could help you," Hitler sneers. "I could take away your sight. No more ghosts."

"You're lying." I no longer have to fight to stay calm. My voice is as flat as a still lake.

"But you don't know that. You want me to be telling the truth. You want to get rid of your... curse."

"My curse is mine to bear."

"You would give up your chance at normalcy?"

I think about how to respond. Maybe it's that I don't want help from a psycho. Maybe it's something about the way Hitler stared down at himself. He views himself as vermin. Just like he sees everyone else. To him, no one is worthy of my curse. To him, my curse is a gift. And he sees a chance to take away my gift.

I don't know how this could ever be a gift. Everyone thinks you're crazy. Everyone thinks I'm crazy.

And yet... I don't want to give it up.

Because it's a reminder. A reminder to let go of your present mistakes. Let go of your hate. Your vengeance. Because life as a ghost is not real. It doesn't help you atone. It hurts. It's evil. It's wrong. And everything in your body and mind screams that you shouldn't be here. I have to keep my curse. Because if I were to live my life as a normal person, I could end up exactly where Hitler is right now— stuck in the past.

And the past is a bad place to be.