Angra Mainyu
By Dan Stein

          Angra Mainyu sat in the plush chair and looked at the short, balding man who’d identified himself as Doctor Olsen. He was unimpressed with what he saw. The man was plain with an open, honest face and an easy smile. He was a man that exuded friendliness and trustworthiness. Angra Mainyu hated him instantly and wanted to kill him.

          “I don’t think we need you boys to stick around,” Olsen said to the guards that had led the shackled Angra Mainyu into the psychiatrist’s office. Past the madmen in their padded cells they had led him. Past the anguished cries of tormented insanity, the cries that had so invigorated Angra Mainyu. So much so that he knew he would kill today. It would most likely be Olsen.

          “Yes, boys,” Angra Mainyu’s gravelly, rumbling voice commanded. “Why don’t you take a break? I’m sure Doctor Olsen and I will get along famously.” He smiled predatorily at Olsen. The doctor flinched involuntarily, his easy smile dropping to a worried frown for just a fraction of an instant. Angra Mainyu was pleased.

          “Are you sure, doc?” one of the guards asked. “You have read his report? You know what he’s done, right?”

          “I’m well aware of his crimes, Jake,” Olsen said testily. “And I assure you that Mister Lathe and I will be fine. Isn’t that right, Mister Lathe? You won’t try to hurt me, will you?”

          “I won’t try,” Angra Mainyu told no lie. Olsen had addressed him by a name that was unfamiliar to him, but he didn’t really care. All that mattered now was Olsen’s blood, Olsen’s death. That would please him even more than the madmen’s screams had. Screams of pain, torment; those were Angra Mainyu’s to relish.

          “Alright,” the guard said. “But I’m going to stay right outside the door. If I hear anything out of the ordinary I’m coming in.”

          “Fair enough, Jake,” Olsen said. Angra Mainyu heard the door close behind him. Olsen sat down behind the desk, facing Angra Mainyu’s seat. “Well,” Olsen said to him. The easy smile had returned. Angra Mainyu wondered how Olsen’s mouth would look contorted into an agonized rictus. “Here we are Mister Lathe. May I call you Christopher?”

          “You may call me by my proper name. You may call me Angra Mainyu.”

          “I see,” Olsen said. He pulled a cigarette case from his shirt pocket, retrieved one and lit it. “Would you like one?”

          “No thank you,” Angra Mainyu said. The pleasures of vice were nothing new to him, but the cigarette held no appeal compared to what Angra Mainyu had planned.

          “Alright,” said Olsen. “So, tell me more about yourself, Angra Mainyu.”

          “I am all that is dark. I am pain, suffering, vice, death, hate, and evil. I am forever opposed to Ahura Mazda and Spenta Mainyu, whom I will destroy one day. I bring scorching heat in the summer, crippling frost in the winter. I made disease. I created Azi Dahaka, the dragon, who brought ruin to Earth. My mother is Zurvan Akarna. My brother is Ormazd. I am also called Ahriman. I live in darkness, where the souls of the wicked dwell after death. Is there anything else you would like to know, doctor?” Angra Mainyu explained, smiling at the doctor.

          How was he to break these chains? They must have been magical and very strong to hold him. Perhaps Ahura Mazda had blessed them. Still, there must be a way out of them. There had to be because he would take Olsen’s life. There was no question about it.

          “Angra Mainyu, can I ask you if you recognize the name I called you earlier? Christopher Lathe?”

          “That name is meaningless to me,” he said, scanning the room for some way to break the bonds or pick the locks. Nothing caught his eye.

          “Really? Well, according to our records it’s your name.” Olsen picked up a file that had been sitting on the desk in front of him and banged it against the desk to straighten it.

          “Preposterous,” said Angra Mainyu. “I’ve told you who I am.” But what was this lingering doubt in his mind? Why did that name, Christopher Lathe, suddenly seem familiar? Nevermind, he thought. I have to find a way out of these bonds! I have to kill him!

          “Angra Mainyu,” Olsen began. His smile was patronizing. It infuriated Angra Mainyu. “I’d like you to look at some pictures for me. Tell me if any of them seem familiar.” He passed the file over the desk. Angra Mainyu just stared at it. “Take it,” Olsen commanded softly. “Please.” Angra Mainyu took the folder. If nothing else it would distract Olsen while he came up with a plan.

          Angra Mainyu opened the file and looked at the first picture. It displayed a dead woman. She was naked and had been eviscerated. Her eyes had been removed, bisected, and laid in her open palms. Angra Mainyu recognized this picture very well. “I did this,” he said, pridefully.

          “Why did you do that?” Olsen asked, puffing grey smoke.

          “Because I felt like it. Because it gave me pleasure.”

          “I see.” Olsen’s voice had become grave. “Please, continue.”

          Angra Mainyu looked over several more photos of his victims. He told Olsen that he’d killed them all for his own amusement. It was the truth. Olsen’s countenance fell further after each picture. He appeared to be concentrating deeply. Angra Mainyu was pleased. Olsen’s distraction was total. He never noticed Angra Mainyu palm a paper clip that had been holding a report together. He began reshaping the paper clip with one hand, concealing it beneath the folder.

          Angra Mainyu flipped the last picture of his victims over. In his shock at the next image, he forgot about the paper clip completely, nearly dropping it. The photograph showed a little girl, around twelve. She had blondish-red hair, brown eyes, and an infectious smile. Deep within Angra Mainyu recognition blossomed. He couldn’t place exactly where he knew the little girl from, but he couldn’t stop the odd feelings of sadness that were welling up from within him. I’m not supposed to feel like this, he thought incredulously.

          “What’s wrong?” Olsen asked, still seeming distracted by Angra Mainyu’s previous statements about the killings.

          “I recognize this girl, but I don’t know from where,” Angra Mainyu said. Suddenly, his mouth was very dry and his palms began to sweat. I’m going to drop the paper clip, he thought, but was unable to bring himself to begin working with it again.

          “Her name is Michelle Lathe,” Olsen stated. “That’s the last known photograph of her. She disappeared five years ago. She’s Christopher’s daughter. She’s your daughter.”

          “No,” Angra Mainyu whispered. “No. I am Angra Mainyu!” This doctor was trying to trick him! I’ll kill you, he thought. I’ll kill you! He began fiddling madly with the paper clip. Get rid of these chains! KILL YOU!

          “No,” Olsen spoke softly. “No you aren’t.”

          “But,” Angra Mainyu began. “But, I am. I am.” But was he? He didn’t know anymore. The girl was so familiar. Michelle, that name was right. She was Michelle and she had disappeared. “Michelle,” he said out loud.

          “Yes, Christopher,” Olsen said. “Do you remember her now?”

          It was on the tip of his mind. Michelle had had a Barbie in a swimsuit. It was her favorite, but she was too old for it now. She was going to be in Junior High next year. And how awkward it had been when he’d had to take her to buy a training bra. There was a boy, Dale, whom he’d caught kissing her. She’d been so embarrassed. God, he wished her mother, Sandra, was still around. She would know what to do in these situations. She would know, but Sandra had gone missing years before. Years and years and years. And then Michelle was gone too. Gone, gone, gone. And then Angra Mainyu had come, and the pain had gone away. Gone, gone, gone. Replaced by the pain of others, but Michelle never came back.

          “What have I done?” Christopher Lathe said, dropping the paper clip and beginning to cry. “What have I done?”

          “Christopher?” Olsen asked. “Do you understand now?”

          “I killed those people. Michelle disappeared and I killed all those people, but I never found her. And I forgot. How could I forget? How could I do any of this?!”

          “You were Angra Mainyu,” Olsen said. “Somehow, in your distress you identified with this particular piece of Zoroastrian mythology. You actually thought you were this evil creature, this ‘Devil’, if you will. You killed these people without realizing what you were doing. In effect, you created a separate personality that took over. Now you understand this.”

          “What do I do now? Will it come back? Will I do it again?” Lathe was terrified. What if he lost himself to this Angra Mainyu personality again? What if he went mad and killed more people again? What if…, he thought sickeningly, what if Michelle and Sandra weren’t really missing? What if he’d killed them as Angra Mainyu? How long had this been going on? Was there any way he could know?

          “I can guarantee you won’t be doing it again, Lathe,” Olsen said, sudden malice in his voice. He stood up from his desk and began approaching him deliberately, angrily. His features twisted into a rictus of anger while his hand searched in his pocket for something.

          “What do you mean?” Lathe spoke, his voice cracking. He was really terrified now. Had he killed someone close to Olsen? Was the doctor going to take revenge on him now, now that he understood the truth? Did he really deserve any better? “Why won’t it happen again?!”

          Olsen’s eyes grew pitch black. His free hand was suddenly covered in spines and his fingernails were now claws. Olsen smiled and steam escaped from between the gaps of his serrated teeth. He spoke and his voice was rumbling and gravelly. It filled the room with the stench of sulfur. “Because,” Olsen said, “I really hate it when someone pretends to be me and fucks it up so badly.” Angra Mainyu, dropping the Olsen disguise completely, took his hand from his pocket, holding a knife carved from bone and advanced on the shackled man.