This story contains material that may offend some readers.
It is recommended for ages 18 and up. This story Copyright
1997, James Morgan Iley (a.k.a. Ruggles Fishweir) 
   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

   Paul Jungman tossed the crumpled rejection slip at the 
over-stuffed wastebasket and watched it fall to the floor 
onto the pile of failed writing attempts.
    "What do editors know?  I bet they wouldn't know a good
story if it bit them on the butt!"  he muttered.  "My best 
work, too..."
     "Frustrating, isn't it?"
     Paul had been so caught up in reading his mail that he
had forgotten to shut his apartment door.  He looked up.  
A well-dressed older gentleman was standing just outside 
the door.  "Who are you?" he asked.  "If you're selling 
something, I'm not buying..."
     Actually, I'm interested in helping writers," the man 
said with a smile.  "I'd be happy to lend a hand if you've 
got time."  Pulling a business card out of thin air, the 
man held it at arms length.  "My card," he said, completing
the gesture.
     Paul snatched the card from the old man's bony 
fingers.  He glanced at the card and then back at the 
man...
                        Ruggles Fishweir
                             MUSE
               Specializing in tales of HORROR

     "Well, I NEVER met a muse before," Paul said.  He 
didn't try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.  He motioned 
for the old man to come in.
     Ruggles Fishweir stepped into the apartment.  The 
smoke alarm began to scream as the old man took his first 
step into the room.  Paul worked quickly to put an end to 
the noise by removing the battery from the electric 
banshee.  The scream died away with a final peep.
     "I'm terribly sorry about that.  It's never happened 
before.  Now, where were we?"  Paul offered the old man a 
seat.
     "I was just about to explain to you how I help 
writers,"  Ruggles began.  "More precisely, how I'm going to help you."

     "What makes you think I want or need your help?"
     "You need my help...whether you take it or not is your
decision.  I can always find someone else who is interested
in my services."  Ruggles Fishweir stood up then, and took 
a step toward the door.  "Good day," he said.  He tipped 
his hat.
     "Excuse me. what services do you provide?"
     "We muses can't publish our own work.  It's my job to 
inspire you, the writer, to do any less is a violation of 
my very nature, and the Rules."
     "What price must I pay for this inspiration?  My 
first-born son or perhaps my soul?" Paul asked.  Somehow, 
Ruggles Fishweir was beginning to look a lot like 
RUMPLESTILTSKIN.  
     "You've been reading too many fairy tales.  
My services are free, but you must NEVER forget 
where your stories come from or there will be hell to pay! 
Do you have any blank disks?"
     Ruggles Fishweir took the disks and placed one in the 
word processor.  He placed one hand on his head and the 
other he placed lightly on the keyboard.  Ruggles began to 
concentrate, presently the machine began the familiar 
clicking and humming it always made when data was being 
copied.  After what seemed an hour, Ruggles Fishweir was 
finished.
     "That looked like hard work."
     "In the old days we had to write it out by hand. 
 Print this and read it.  I'll come back tomorrow to see 
what you think of my work."
     With that, Ruggles Fishweir was gone.
     Paul Jungman watched as the title page printed and fed
itself out of the top of his word processor... "RAGING 
WHORE MOANS by Paul Jungman."  He wondered how the Muse had
gotten his Social Security Number, but he forgot all else 
as the story unfolded before his eyes.
     The smoke alarm announced Ruggles Fishweir's presence 
as he entered the room the next day.  "I NEVER expected 
that to happen again,"  Paul apologized as he removed the 
battery once more.  "That's the best novel I've ever read."
     "So you approve of my work.  Why don't you send it in.
There's no reason why your first published work can't 
become an International Best Seller!"
     "But I don't feel right about it.  Wouldn't it be 
plagiarism or something?"
     "At first Poe and Lovecraft were hesitant, but after a
while they were glad to publish my work under their own 
names."
     "You wrote for Poe and Lovecraft?  I guess you're 
older than you look, have you always specialized in 
horror?"
     "I worked with Joe Smith once, his work is quite 
famous."
     "Joe Smith?  Never heard of him."
     "Ever hear of Joseph Smith...THE BOOK OF MORMON?"
     "Next you'll be telling me you wrote the BIBLE."
     "Nope, I can't take credit for that one,"  Ruggles 
Fishweir countered, "but I do have something to show you." 
 He grabbed a dusty BIBLE and began to leaf through the 
onion skin pages.  The gold leaf made the pages stick 
together, but presently he found his place.  "Here it is...
'For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of 
power, and love, and of a sound mind.'...Yep, God won't 
help you.  He dosen't give THE SPIRIT OF FEAR, if you want 
to write horror, you need Ruggles Fishweir!"
     "Okay, I'll send in the manuscript," Paul conceded.
     "I'll be seeing you,"  Ruggles said as he made his 
exit.

     Paul Jungman stood looking at the display with his 
head tilted to one side like a curious puppy.
     "Excuse me, are you Paul Jungman?"
     "Yes I am!"
     "I loved your book, in fact it's my favorite horror 
novel of all time," raved Dianne Metcalf as she offered her
delicate hand.  Paul shook her hand, noticing her pale 
green eyes and the wave of auburn hair that framed her 
lovely face.  Dianne had freckles and her nose wrinkled 
when she smiled.  Paul smiled back.  He was beginning to 
like being famous, and meeting Dianne was the icing on the 
cake.
     Paul spent two hours signing books.  The turn out was 
better than the staff at Barnes & Noble had expected. 
Every copy of RAGING WHORE MOANS sold and he spent the last
thirty minutes signing blank paper.  Dianne Metcalf managed
to be the last one in line.  She handed Paul a sheet of 
paper and he was about to sign it when he noticed her name 
and phone number.
     Dianne's apartment was tidy except for the clothing 
strewn about the floor...clothing that had been thrown off 
in the heat of their desire.  Paul caressed her pale 
shoulders and Dianne kissed him firmly on the mouth.
     "You're so sexy!" breathed Paul as he bent to kiss 
Dianne.  Their tongues danced as passion rose to a fevered 
pitch.  The only thing that mattered was this moment and 
the feeling of total abandon they felt.  They shuddered as 
gentle hands explored willing flesh.
     Paul's tongue landed butterfly soft and fluttery on 
the moist flower  petals of female flesh.  There was no 
stopping the waves of orgasm that began to build until 
they broke forth in moans of exquisite completion.
     "Was it good for you?" Paul asked with a smile.
     "Of course it was, silly, couldn't you tell?"  They 
laughed then and held each other close.  As Paul looked 
deeply into Dianne's eyes, he realized that he enjoyed 
having her around.
     Monday the phone rang.  "Paul, it's time to get 
started on a sequel to RAGING WHORE MOANS.  The good news 
is your next novel will get you a bigger advance.  I can 
hardly wait to read it."
     "No problem Steve, I'll get right on it,"  Paul said 
as he hung up the phone.  "A baboon could write a better 
novel than me, what am I going to do now?"  Paul parked 
himself in front of his word processor and stared at the 
barren page.  Minutes later, he called Dianne.
     "That's wonderful, I want to be the first one to read 
the new novel when you get finished."
     "Problem is, I'm suffering from writer's block and I 
can't seem to get started."
     "Come over big boy, and I'll get your motor started," 
Dianne crooned.  Five minutes later they were throwing off 
clothes and inhibitions.  "That's right make me come!"
     Next day, Paul was at home again.  The word processor 
wasn't any help.  The words refused to type themselves onto
the paper.  Before, he hadn't noticed the muse's card had 
no address or phone number on it.  Now that he needed help,
he had no idea where the muse was.  Just as he was about to
nod off, the door bell rang.
     "Ruggles Fishweir am I glad to see you!"
     "I figured it was about time to work on a sequel," 
said Ruggles as he entered the apartment, making the smoke 
alarm yell.
     "I'll take care of it."
     "You are right on time, my girlfriend and my publisher
both want me to show them a new novel."
     "Maybe I could rustle up the first chapter or so."
     "Anything to get me started."
     "This girlfriend, is she beautiful?  I have this 
weekness for beautiful women," Ruggles said with a wink. 
 "I would like to get to know her sometime."
     "What do you mean?"
     "You know how we are, share and share alike."
     "You're just a dirty old man!"
     "And you my friend are a fake, and I'll be happy to 
tell Dianne all about it!"
     "You wouldn't dare," Paul said through clenched teeth.
     "You said you wouldn't forget where your stories come 
from, and now you refuse to let me in on the action..."
With that, Paul grabbed Ruggles by the throat and began to 
squeeze as hard as he could.  The sinewy neck felt dry in 
his hands as he strained with all of his might.  Ruggles 
Fishweir just dangled there with a surprised look on his 
face, eyes bulging, tongue swelling up and turning blue.
     The muse was dead.  Paul kicked him to make sure, but 
the old man wasn't breathing.  There was no pulse either.
     "What have I done?  Now who'll write my stories for 
me!" Paul had to decide what to do next.
     As far as Paul could tell, no one saw him carry the 
body down to the basement incinerator.  The muse burned like he was made of dry grass.  
Paul did some laundry and kept an eye out for anyone who might pay an unwelcomed visit. 
For once his luck held and he went upstairs knowing that 
there wasn't much left of the muse to find.
     Paul heard sirens screaming outside as he rushed to 
the window to peek through the blinds.  The police cars 
kept going on their way to a crime scene across the tracks.
His hands were shaking when he pulled himself away from the
window.  The night promised to be a long one with little 
sleep.  (If only Dianne were here.)  The doorbell rang.
"Dianne I was just thinking about you.  Boy, am I glad 
you're here!"
    "Missed me, did you?"
    "You bet I did, I was hoping you would spend the 
night."
     All during Dinner, Paul wondered if he should tell 
Dianne about the muse.  He would when the time was right. 
 They snuggled and watched TV for a while.  As they kissed,
Paul decided that now wasn't a good time to tell Dianne 
about Ruggles Fishweir.
     Dianne pulled the tight fitting t-shirt over her head 
and her auburn hair fell in waves, nearly hiding her firm 
breasts.  Paul was quick to respond to her need for 
attention and soon they were rolling around on the couch. 
Somehow they ended up in the bedroom.  Take me NOW," Dianne
ordered, she stuck her shapely tush up and curved her spine
downward in invitation.
     Paul guided himself into her tight hiney hole.  For a 
moment he forgot all about Ruggles Fishweir.
     Afterwards, Paul excused himself and went to the 
bathroom.  When he got back he saw Dianne sitting up in 
bed, she had her tiny hands under each full breast as if 
presenting them to him as gifts.
     "Do you like what you see?" she asked.
     "I love everything I see," he answered.
     "Will you still love me when I am old and wrinkled?" 
Dianne asked and then the breasts she was holding began to 
wither and shrink until they were all but gone.  Dianne 
laughed then and the laugh went from feminine to deep and 
throaty.  Paul watched as the transformation continued. 
Dianne's face contorted and changed to the face of Ruggles 
Fishweir!
     "No, you're dead. I burned you myself!"
     "A useless shell, cast aside at the last moment," 
Ruggles explained.  "I can become an ANGEL OF LIGHT if I 
want to."
     "Where's Dianne, what have you done with her?"
     "There never was a Dianne, I made her up to fool you."
     "You're lying, the smoke alarm never went off when 
Dianne was here," Paul said as he took a step toward the 
muse.
     "Doesn't work without this!" Ruggles said as he held 
up the 9 volt battery in his bony fingers.  Paul felt sick 
and confused.
     "Now it's time to publish a new book," Ruggles said as
he showed Paul a manuscript.  "One that will bring about a 
new era of death and destruction."
     "The NECRENOMICON, I thought that was something that 
H.P. Lovecraft made up for some of his stories."
     "You will be blamed for the death of millions when 
this gets published.  Too bad it's going to be your last 
book."
     "Not if I can help it."
     "Once you've crossed me, there's no escape," Ruggles 
said with a sneer.  "It wasn't drugs, booze, or rabies that
killed Poe, I drove him insane myself!"
     "I believe you."
     Ruggles wrapped his hands around Paul's throat and 
began to squeeze.  Paul tried to break free, but the old 
man was far stronger than he looked.  Paul gasped for air 
and continued to struggle.  The room grew fuzzy and Paul 
felt like he was going to pass out.
     The door burst open.
     "That's the man that tied me up," Dianne yelled as she
led the police officers into the bedroom.  Ruggles let go 
of Paul.  Dianne ran to Paul and threw her arms around him.
"You're not hurt are you?"
     "I feel better already," said Paul as he rubbed his 
neck.  "I love you Dianne."
     "I love you too.  I love you even if you can't write."
     "Ruggles must've told you."  They were so excited to 
see each other that they had forgotten about the muse.
     "A man can't just walk through walls, there's
 gotta be an explanation..."
     "I saw it too," said the other officer. "Maybe we can 
catch him before he gets away."
     "What if Ruggles Fishweir comes back?" Dianne asked 
with a look of concern on her face.
     "We can put smoke alarms up in every room, at least 
we'll know when he shows up."
     "That just might work.  Now, when do we get married?"

                           THE END

___________________________________________________________
For Patricia with love.  Thanks G.E. Stanley.    
 Copyright 1997, James Morgan Iley (Ruggles Fishweir)   
     

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