Eighty-six in cursive
86 - Eighty Six - (86―エイティシックス― ) - 86 anime
2018.08.15 06:03 86 - Eighty Six - (86―エイティシックス― ) - 86 anime
Subreddit dedicated to the 86 -Eighty Six- (86 ―エイティシックス―) light novel, anime and manga by Asato Asato and Shirabii.
2019.01.08 00:52 KerriFL r/StressFreeSeason - No Stress Needed!
Stress isn't healthy! This sub is for those who need to destress and relax. During the Holiday season, this is the place to share tips, tricks, and resources to cut down on seasonal stress. Year round, this is a sub to share Stress-Free content! From the helpful to the relaxing, all chill content has a home here. So take a breather! This is StressFreeSeason
2019.10.29 06:28 HanniBillBurress Brothers In Cursive Podcast
Hey Redban, can we start over?
2023.02.04 16:39 GTripp14 A homeless man asked for my help. I refused and paid the price.
Two years ago, I spent a few months in a homeless shelter. It was a low point for me like it was for so many people. My job as a line cook at a fine dining restaurant was a casualty of the pandemic. My savings dried up quickly. The people who I would usually rely on during hard times weren’t fairing any better than I was.
Before I knew it, I was on the streets. Eviction protection came too late for me. I shuffled aimlessly from place to place trying to stay warm. It was the most difficult four months of my life.
Just as I was at my wit's end, a lady directed me toward a long-term shelter where I was lucky enough to get a bed. It was a godsend. Reliable housing and food were something I took for granted for so many years.
My time at the shelter made me grateful for the life I had and made me look forward to a day when I was secure again.
During my time there, I worked as a custodian. All of the jobs in the facility were staffed by other residents of the shelter. It put a little bit of money in my pocket and helped pass the time. Most importantly, it gave me a sense of purpose again.
Not everyone there worked, though. There was a dormitory for men and women who weren’t well enough to work. Some of them had physical limitations while others suffered from mental illness. They remained in the dorm most of the day and I got to know quite a few of them as I would clean the common areas.
James Hartman lived there. He was about my age, thirty-seven or thirty-eight if I recall correctly.
You wouldn’t have known it by looking at him, though. He was skeletally thin with sparse wisps of iron-gray hair. His gums had retracted from the base of his teeth and all of his joints protruded horrifically under his skin.
He was nice enough but off-putting. It wasn’t just his unhealthy appearance that you could get used to.
He never left his room and rarely had visitors, but he would talk nonstop. It wasn’t like mad rambling. No. It was more like half of a conversation.
When you looked into his room, he was always alone.
I would go to his room twice a week to clean up. James rarely got out of bed. The desk and bedside table in his room always held the mostly untouched remains of meals the other workers brought to his room. Almost none of the food from the plate would be eaten and I would throw the molding plates into my rolling garbage can.
We would make small talk sometimes while I cleared away the waste.
“How are you today, James?” I asked one afternoon. Smells of molding food and spoiled milk drifted through the air. “Feeling alright today?”
“About the same as usual,” he said quietly “How about you?”
I droned on for a few minutes about my work at the shelter and told him I was looking for a full-time job and an apartment. He would nod his head weakly and smile, showing his elongated teeth. I knew he was trying to be pleasant and I hated myself for it, but I always felt so uncomfortable when I was in his room.
It was like talking to a living corpse.
“James,” I said. “I hate to be nosey, but are you sick? You never eat and it looks like you’re wasting away. Has the shelter taken you to the hospital to get checked out?”
He laughed weakly which morphed into a heavy, wet cough.
“I’m not sick,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’ve taken me to the doctor but they all say there is nothing wrong with me. Just can’t eat. When they put in a feeding tube, I pull it out. Makes me sick.”
“That’s rough, man,” I said, finishing up my tasks. Having gathered up all of the old plates of food, I turned to leave. “I hope you start feeling better soon.”
“I won't get better,” he said without emotion. I’m being punished.”
I stopped cleaning the room and turned to look at him. The smile had faded from his face. As unhealthy as he had always looked, at that moment he looked as though he was near death.
“Being sick isn’t a punishment,” I replied with sympathy. “You’ll get better.”
He rolled over and faced the wall.
“I’ll be dead soon,” he responded.
He was right. James died the following week. To the surprise of no one, the cause of death was starvation. He was six feet and two inches tall and only weighed eighty pounds at his death. His autopsy revealed no issues.’
James starved himself to death.
…but maybe not.
Shelter staff asked me if I would clear out the content of James’ room after his death and I agreed. I knew it wouldn’t take much time as he never held on to anything. There were only a few changes of clothes, some ratty paperback books, and an old notebook on his bedside table.
I’m not sure why I did it, but after I boxed up his belongings, I sat down on his bed and flipped open the spiral-bound pages. The first few pages were filled with flowing cursive but as the writing went on you could see the delicate letters begin to deteriorate. On the last few pages, it had devolved into hard-pressed block letters.
Look, I don’t know if any of it was true, but I’m going to share part of it with you. I can’t make sense of it. Maybe you can.
Everything beyond this point is James’ own words. I’ll leave them just as he wrote them.
* * * * *
This isn’t a journal. No need for times and dates. I’m just going to write out, to the best of my memory, how I ended up this way.
The thoughts in my mind are hazy now
My stomach grumbled so severely I could feel my chair shake. I looked around the conference room to see a few of my coworkers stealing glances at me from the corners of their eyes. There was no sense in pretending it wasn’t me. It was an everyday occurrence now.
Do you think everyone heard it this time?
My attention drifted to a huddled mass in the corner of the room. The corpse acknowledges me with a slight nod as my eyes meet with the hollow sockets of his face. One side of his jaw dangles to the side, disconnected from his skull. A bloated, black tangle flops lazily over his chipped teeth.
His mouth used to move to the sounds of the words in my head, but in his advanced state of decomposition, his detached jaw no longer allowed him to complete the illusion. He just stared blankly as he mocked me. Maddening words echoed in my head.
How much longer do you think you can go on, James? It’s been at least three days since you’ve eaten. Maybe four. What the hell do I know? Time doesn’t mean as much to me anymore.
No one else can see Robert as far as I can tell.
He follows me everywhere now.
When I first started to see him, I went to countless psychiatrists and therapists. All of them listened to me as I described in detail the rotting homeless man that followed me everywhere. Talked to me constantly. Woke me up in the middle of the night.
No matter how many professionals I talked to, none of them could find a diagnosis. A few suspected schizophrenia while others were concerned I had a brain tumor. More than one assumed I had a drug problem I couldn’t come to terms with.
It was a fruitless effort and I gave up after six months.
I came to terms with the horrifying truth.
I wasn’t sick.
I was haunted.
* * * * *
I’m not exactly sure when I met Robert for the first time, but he was a regular fixture in my day even before he began to haunt me. The investment firm I worked for was in the heart of downtown in a major metropolitan area. It was only a short walk from my highrise apartment so I traveled on foot unless the weather was bad. The fresh air and exercise were nice.
The constant barrage of homeless people begging for money, not so much.
For my first few years working for the firm, I usually carried spare change in my pocket. As I made my way to work, I would give a few quarters to each homeless person that asked as I went. Growing up in a small midwestern town, my parents instilled in me a sense of charity. They always seemed grateful for the few coins I gave them each day and it filled me with a sense of satisfaction for helping them in some small way.
Robert was one of the homeless people I saw on my walk to work each morning. He always sat on the stoop of an abandoned apartment building, backpacks and plastic shopping bags behind him filled with his possessions. We didn’t talk much at first, but he would toss me a wave and a friendly smile as I passed by.
His appearance was well kept for the most part. Neatly cropped gray hair and no more than a few days of stubble. All of his clothing, while well worn, was in reasonably good condition. The only sign that he lived on the streets was all of the bags of property sitting behind him on the porch.
He was the only one who didn’t ask me for money.
One morning he spoke to me. Just a casual conversation.
“Mornin’ sir,” he said cheerfully. “How are you doing today?”
“Not too bad,” I replied. “Just heading to work. How are you?”
He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I waved in return and continued on my way. It wasn’t an earth-shattering conversation, but it was the start of daily small talk. He had a kind way about him. As the weeks turned into months, our conversations grew a bit longer and I started to learn more of his story.
Robert had been a construction foreman for many years until a workplace accident put him on medical leave. A scaffolding he had been standing on collapsed and caused damage to his spinal cord. He spent several weeks in the hospital followed by physical therapy. Slowly, he was getting back to normal.
The pain medication became problematic.
“Couldn’t get the monkey off my damn back until it was too late,” he told me one day. “Don’t mess around with that shit if you don’t have to, James. It’ll sink its claws into you and take everything away. I’m clean now, but hell, I lost everything in the process.”
His story struck a chord with me that day. It occurred to me once again that Robert had never asked me for money. I had never seen him ask anymore for money. There was no cup for change and no cardboard sign asking for help. He just sat and waved at everyone passing by on the sidewalk.
“Why don’t you let me give you some cash, Robert,” I said as I pulled my wallet from my back pocket. I pulled a few bills out of my pocket and extended them toward him. “Maybe it will help you get a little closer to getting back on your feet.”
Robert smiled and pushed the money back toward me.
“I appreciate it, sir,” he said. “You just hang on to that for now. Day labor isn’t too hard to find around the city and I manage to make enough to keep my stomach filled up. It’s a kind offer, but maybe you can keep it for me for a particularly bad time.”
I stuck the cash back into my wallet, assured him I would help if he ever asked, and said goodbye to Robert.
He never did get any money from me.
I offered dozens of times but he always said no.
Unfortunately for both of us, the only time he ever asked for money, I said no.
Now I’m paying the price.
* * * * *
After a few years of seeing Robert on his stoop each morning, suddenly he was gone. All of his belongings were gone. Another man huddled in a sleeping back was stretched across the old apartment stoop.
For a few weeks, I wondered if Robert was okay. I asked some of the people I gave change to each day if they had seen them. Some shrugged and said they weren’t sure while others said they didn’t know Robert.
I hate to admit it, but after a month, I didn’t think of him anymore. It wasn’t as though we were best friends, but I feel guilty now for forgetting someone that was at least a small part of each of my workdays. Object permanence took over. I didn’t see him, so I forgot him.
My walk home saw much fewer unhoused people. I worked long hours and the evening dark had usually set before I left the office. It didn’t take long for a chill to settle in outside without the warm rays of sunshine falling on your shoulders. I guess most of them were busy trying to find a warm place to sleep for the night.
Still, I saw one or two. A few quarters in every cup. Some kind words and well wishes. Then off to my apartment.
About halfway through my walk home, I saw a shabby man in a long coat holding a coffee cup. He was extending it toward passers-by, largely ignored and staring at the ground. As I drew closer to him, I dug a few quarters from my pocket in preparation to drop them in his cup, but he shuffled into the alleyway to his side, looking dejected.
When I reached the alley, I saw him picking up a tattered backpack and slinging the straps around his shoulders. Reluctantly, I walked toward him with my quarters in hand. It wasn’t much, but I hated seeing how everyone else had ignored him and wanted him to have some cash to grab a bite to eat.
“Excuse me,” I said to him. The man looked up at me, concern and distrust painted on his face. “I have a little bit of money for you if you need it.”
The man smiled at me as he readjusted his backpack. He slowly walked toward me and extended his coffee cup in my direction. I reached out and dropped the coins.
“That all you can give?” he asked, sounding irritated. “I figured if you followed me in here, you were going to be able to give me more than a couple of quarters.”
His response confused me at first, but it quickly evolved into anger. For years, I had made a point to keep enough change in my pocket to give everyone a little bit each day. People had always been appreciative of it. That was the first time anyone had scoffed at what I gave them.
“Yeah,” I responded curtly. “That’s it. Have a good night”
I turned to walk away but a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder. The force of the tug spun me back around, causing me to stumble to the side. A sneer curled the man’s lip toward his nose and we made eye contact.
“That ain’t even enough to get a damn sandwich,” he spat. I began to back away from him but he stepped forward to keep pace with me. “Dig a little deeper, man. That suit and nice shoes gotta mean you got some money in your wallet. Why don’t you just hand it over?”
I turned to run but the sound of footfalls erupted behind me.
The last thing I remind was a pair of hands gripping the fabric of my coat and throwing me to the ground. My head bounced against the concrete. Everything went black.
* * * * *
The next few months were a rollercoaster for me.
I woke up in the hospital. Someone had called the police when they found me lying unconscious in the alleyway. A mild concussion and a dozen stitches were my rewards for trying to give the man some change.
Turns out he wasn’t even homeless.
His name was Tyler Hilton. He posed as a homeless person and begged on the street each day. The cops told me they had arrested him on an unrelated assault later that same night and found my wallet in his backpack. He did a few months in jail and paid my medical bills.
I was grateful that the justice system came through, but it didn’t give me back my previous sense of security.
Where I had walked to work and back for years, now I was too anxious. It was expensive, but I took a taxi each morning and each evening. My anxiety about being in public was crippling for months. On the rare occasion when I did have to walk somewhere, I avoided getting close to any pedestrians and would cross the street not to walk in front of an alley.
Therapy helped, but it was a slow process. I started out taking short walks during the daytime hours on the weekend close to my apartment building. After a few weeks, I made myself walk a bit closer to other pedestrians. Eventually, I was even able to walk in front of alleyways without having a panic attack.
I know it sounds trivial, but I had lived a fortunate and secure life. The thought of being assaulted seemed like something that could only happen to someone else. Maybe I hadn’t handled it well, but we all have different struggles.
It took almost a year, but I finally resolved to start walking for my daily work commute again. I carried a can of pepper spray in my pocket to help alleviate some of the anxiety. Amazingly, the small metal tube didn’t have fingerprints indented on it. I squeezed the damn thing like a stress ball for my entire commute.
I stopped carrying change in my pocket too. The thought of going back to that practice was more than I could stand. Even though the man who attacked me hadn’t been homeless, I couldn’t break the association between giving out change and having been attacked.
It seems heartless, but I was consumed with fear.
After a few weeks of walking to work, I was surprised to see Robert for the first time in ages. He wasn’t on his usual stoop. Instead, he sat with his back resting against a brick wall. A tattered duffle bag sat beside him on the sidewalk and he stared down at the ground.
He didn’t look well, either.
When I had last seen him he had still been neatly shaven with a close-cropped haircut and a fairly neat set of clothing. Now shaggy whitening hair dangled in front of his eyes. A matted beard fell onto his chest. His clothes were filthy and riddled with holes.
For a moment I considered passing him by since he hadn’t seen me, but something made me stop.
“Robert?” I questioned. “Is that you?”
He looked up at me, eyes sunken into his thin face. While he had never been a large man, when he looked at me I could see how much weight he had lost. The muscles danced and rippled under his skin.
But he smiled and waved.
For a moment, he looked like the Robert I had seen so many mornings.
“James!” he exclaimed, voice hoarse. “Where have you been? It’s been a long time.”
I hesitantly walked closer to the man.
“I… had an accident,” I stammered, pointing to the scar on the side of my head. The wound had healed well, but a delicate line of scar tissue still ran across my scalp. “I’m doing better, though. You were gone for a while too. Is everything okay?”
The short-lived smile melted away from Robert’s face. He pulled up his left pant leg revealing a gruesome field of scars. I looked on in horror at the patchwork of pale, mended skin.
“Got hit by a car,” he muttered. “Broke my leg pretty bad. Spent a while in the hospital. I was doin’ better, but that damn monkey crawled back on me.”
I looked at him with a puzzled expression and he realized I didn’t understand what he meant.
“They had to give me narcotic painkillers after surgery,” he said. “Got hooked on ‘em again. When they released me from the hospital I couldn’t get anymore. Did some… things… that I ain’t so proud of to try and get ahold of some.”
“Shit…” I said weakly. “Robert, I’m so sorry.”
He waved a hand at me and smiled again.
“No sweat,” he said with a bit more vigor. “I’m clean again. It’s been rough, but I’m off the junk. Trying to get myself back together.”
I stood in silence, wanting to comfort him but failing to find the words.
“Say,” he said. “I hate to be that guy, but you made a kind offer a long time ago. Think you could help me out with a little bit of that cash? As I said, I hate to ask, but I’m kinda in a spot.”
My heart raced when he mentioned the money. Suddenly my mind was filled with memories of the man in the alley that had assaulted me. I couldn’t open my mouth to answer.
“Just a couple of dollars would help,” he said, pushing his wiry frame from the ground and stumbling toward me. “Nothing much. Just maybe… whatever you can help me with. I haven’t eaten in days”
I panicked and ran. All logic had left my body. Internally I knew Robert probably wasn’t dangerous, but my mind couldn’t keep itself under control. My legs didn’t stop until I made it into my building.
My daily walk to work was a thing of the past. I started taking cabs again. That morning on the sidewalk was the last time I saw Robert.
Alive, anyway.
* * * * *
It was already dark when I got home to my apartment from work. Four months had passed since I fled Robert on the sidewalk. Putting the key into the lock and pushing my apartment door open, I was hit with an overwhelming stench as though food had spoiled on the counter.
Confused, I slapped the light switch to illuminate the entryway of my home. Dull white light washed across my sterile apartment. Nothing in view would have caused such a terrible odor. I turned to lock the door when I heard the voice behind me.
“James,” said a familiar voice. “You couldn’t have helped me out with a few bucks?”
I turned in a panic and saw Robert standing before me in my apartment. He looked… worse than the last time I had seen him. His skin was stretched even more tightly over the tight muscles of his body. Both of his eyes were milky and his clothes were in shreds.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” I said in shock. “Get out before I call the police!”
Robert laughed, expelling a noxious odor that drifted across the space between us.
“Call ‘em,” he said calmly. “I’m dead, buddy. Starved on the street. You said you’d help, but the one damn time I asked, you said no.”
I turned back toward the door to unlock it, but the latch wouldn’t turn. No matter how hard I struggled, the deadbolt wouldn’t budge. Hot bile was building up in my throat as I scrambled to escape. Footsteps padded up the hallway toward me as I struggled with the lock.
Turning back around, I was horrified to see Robert standing only feet away from me. The stench of rot was overwhelming. He opened his mouth to speak and I could see the writhing maggots crawling over his tongue.
“That’s okay, though,” he said, cold breath blowing out of his mouth. “Soon you’ll lose everything, too. You’ll know what you denied me.”
“Robert… please…” I begged.
“You’ll lose it all.” He said before fading from my vision. “Just like me.”
* * * * *
After seeing Robert’s phantom for the first time, I made appointment after appointment with mental health providers. They questioned me about my “hallucinations” but never found a diagnosis. I did my best to explain to them what I was experiencing, but they were at a complete loss.
Robert followed me everywhere, slowly decaying. Sometimes he talked to me, while others he just watched silently. It was maddening to be pursued by a walking corpse, but oddly, I became used to it.
My acceptance of his constant presence only caused Robert to double down on his efforts. I sat in my apartment eating dinner and watching television one evening. The rotting man sat in a chair a few feet away from me, watching me eat. He hadn’t spoken to me in days and it was clear to him that I had grown reluctantly used to him being there.
“How’s the food, James?” he asked in a wet, heavy voice. “Looks pretty good! Steak and potatoes, is it?”
I ignored him and kept my eyes on the television.
“Ya know, one of the worst parts about my last few months was not bein’ able to get fresh food,” he muttered. “Had to eat out of the garbage can most days. Spoiled food. Tasted awful. Constantly had food poisoning.”
I remained silent.
“I think that’s what’s next for ya, Jimmy,” he stated. “No more fresh food for you.”
The mouthful of steak I was chewing suddenly shifted flavors. All of the savory taste vanished and was replaced by the sharp tang of decay. I had never tasted spoiled food before, but the taste in my mouth matched the smell of every past-date item of food I had ever smelled.
I retched onto the table in front of me. Chewed food and spittle covered the plate. I looked down at it to see all of the food looked perfectly safe to eat, but the acrid smell of rot filled my nose.
From that day forward, every piece of food I put in my mouth tasted like it was expired. My weight dropped rapidly as I was unable to stomach more than a few bites a day of the rancid-tasting stuff. My energy dropped just as quickly. Patches of my hair began to turn gray and my skin began to develop flaky patches from the malnutrition.
He took away my ability to sleep, too.
During the nighttime, Robert’s decaying frame sat in a chair in the corner of my room. His eyes were almost completely gone now, turned to a disgusting grey jelly. His jaw was beginning to sag as the muscles holding it in place began to disintegrate.
“Hard to sleep on the streets, James,” he said in a garbled voice. “Constantly noisy. People screaming. Car horns honking. Rats crawling all over you. Damn near impossible to stay warm. I think it’s time for you to enjoy that as well.”
Before I could respond, the left side of his jaw detached from his head and flopped against his chest. From the gaping maw in his face poured the nighttime sounds of the city: screaming voices, car horns, and the scurrying of vermin.
Tucked under my thick comforter, suddenly all warmth left my body. It was as though I were outdoors during December in shorts and a t-shirt. I shivered deeply.
No matter how many layers of clothes or how many blankets I put on the bed, I never had a warm night of sleep again.
I tried using earplugs, but the overwhelming sound from Robert’s rotted maw filled my ears.
* * * * *
Things fell apart rapidly from that point.
My lack of sleep, malnutrition, and unhealthy appearance caused my job performance to drop. I couldn't keep my work done and clients no longer felt comfortable meeting with me. The firm fired me. I tried to find a job… any job, but my poor health and appearance kept anyone from hiring me.
All of my savings had vanished rapidly during my attempts to find medical help.
I ended up on the streets.
Luckier than Robert had been, someone from a shelter in town found me near death in an alleyway. They’ve tried to nurse me back to health, but I can’t explain to them why I can’t eat. They even tried taking me to the hospital for IV fluids but I pull the needles out. The injection site burns as they try to pour the life-saving fluids into my body.
Robert just watches me from the corner. I didn’t help him so he won’t allow me to be helped. There is no bargaining with him.
This is all going to be over soon, I can hear his voice say in my head. You’ve just about paid the price, James.
I would like to think that he means he will leave me alone, but I know he won’t.
He said I would lose it all.
I’ve lost almost everything I had, just like Robert did.
The only thing I have left to lose is my life.
submitted by GTripp14 to nosleep [link] [comments]
Before I knew it, I was on the streets. Eviction protection came too late for me. I shuffled aimlessly from place to place trying to stay warm. It was the most difficult four months of my life.
Just as I was at my wit's end, a lady directed me toward a long-term shelter where I was lucky enough to get a bed. It was a godsend. Reliable housing and food were something I took for granted for so many years.
My time at the shelter made me grateful for the life I had and made me look forward to a day when I was secure again.
During my time there, I worked as a custodian. All of the jobs in the facility were staffed by other residents of the shelter. It put a little bit of money in my pocket and helped pass the time. Most importantly, it gave me a sense of purpose again.
Not everyone there worked, though. There was a dormitory for men and women who weren’t well enough to work. Some of them had physical limitations while others suffered from mental illness. They remained in the dorm most of the day and I got to know quite a few of them as I would clean the common areas.
James Hartman lived there. He was about my age, thirty-seven or thirty-eight if I recall correctly.
You wouldn’t have known it by looking at him, though. He was skeletally thin with sparse wisps of iron-gray hair. His gums had retracted from the base of his teeth and all of his joints protruded horrifically under his skin.
He was nice enough but off-putting. It wasn’t just his unhealthy appearance that you could get used to.
He never left his room and rarely had visitors, but he would talk nonstop. It wasn’t like mad rambling. No. It was more like half of a conversation.
When you looked into his room, he was always alone.
I would go to his room twice a week to clean up. James rarely got out of bed. The desk and bedside table in his room always held the mostly untouched remains of meals the other workers brought to his room. Almost none of the food from the plate would be eaten and I would throw the molding plates into my rolling garbage can.
We would make small talk sometimes while I cleared away the waste.
“How are you today, James?” I asked one afternoon. Smells of molding food and spoiled milk drifted through the air. “Feeling alright today?”
“About the same as usual,” he said quietly “How about you?”
I droned on for a few minutes about my work at the shelter and told him I was looking for a full-time job and an apartment. He would nod his head weakly and smile, showing his elongated teeth. I knew he was trying to be pleasant and I hated myself for it, but I always felt so uncomfortable when I was in his room.
It was like talking to a living corpse.
“James,” I said. “I hate to be nosey, but are you sick? You never eat and it looks like you’re wasting away. Has the shelter taken you to the hospital to get checked out?”
He laughed weakly which morphed into a heavy, wet cough.
“I’m not sick,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’ve taken me to the doctor but they all say there is nothing wrong with me. Just can’t eat. When they put in a feeding tube, I pull it out. Makes me sick.”
“That’s rough, man,” I said, finishing up my tasks. Having gathered up all of the old plates of food, I turned to leave. “I hope you start feeling better soon.”
“I won't get better,” he said without emotion. I’m being punished.”
I stopped cleaning the room and turned to look at him. The smile had faded from his face. As unhealthy as he had always looked, at that moment he looked as though he was near death.
“Being sick isn’t a punishment,” I replied with sympathy. “You’ll get better.”
He rolled over and faced the wall.
“I’ll be dead soon,” he responded.
He was right. James died the following week. To the surprise of no one, the cause of death was starvation. He was six feet and two inches tall and only weighed eighty pounds at his death. His autopsy revealed no issues.’
James starved himself to death.
…but maybe not.
Shelter staff asked me if I would clear out the content of James’ room after his death and I agreed. I knew it wouldn’t take much time as he never held on to anything. There were only a few changes of clothes, some ratty paperback books, and an old notebook on his bedside table.
I’m not sure why I did it, but after I boxed up his belongings, I sat down on his bed and flipped open the spiral-bound pages. The first few pages were filled with flowing cursive but as the writing went on you could see the delicate letters begin to deteriorate. On the last few pages, it had devolved into hard-pressed block letters.
Look, I don’t know if any of it was true, but I’m going to share part of it with you. I can’t make sense of it. Maybe you can.
Everything beyond this point is James’ own words. I’ll leave them just as he wrote them.
* * * * *
This isn’t a journal. No need for times and dates. I’m just going to write out, to the best of my memory, how I ended up this way.
The thoughts in my mind are hazy now
My stomach grumbled so severely I could feel my chair shake. I looked around the conference room to see a few of my coworkers stealing glances at me from the corners of their eyes. There was no sense in pretending it wasn’t me. It was an everyday occurrence now.
Do you think everyone heard it this time?
My attention drifted to a huddled mass in the corner of the room. The corpse acknowledges me with a slight nod as my eyes meet with the hollow sockets of his face. One side of his jaw dangles to the side, disconnected from his skull. A bloated, black tangle flops lazily over his chipped teeth.
His mouth used to move to the sounds of the words in my head, but in his advanced state of decomposition, his detached jaw no longer allowed him to complete the illusion. He just stared blankly as he mocked me. Maddening words echoed in my head.
How much longer do you think you can go on, James? It’s been at least three days since you’ve eaten. Maybe four. What the hell do I know? Time doesn’t mean as much to me anymore.
No one else can see Robert as far as I can tell.
He follows me everywhere now.
When I first started to see him, I went to countless psychiatrists and therapists. All of them listened to me as I described in detail the rotting homeless man that followed me everywhere. Talked to me constantly. Woke me up in the middle of the night.
No matter how many professionals I talked to, none of them could find a diagnosis. A few suspected schizophrenia while others were concerned I had a brain tumor. More than one assumed I had a drug problem I couldn’t come to terms with.
It was a fruitless effort and I gave up after six months.
I came to terms with the horrifying truth.
I wasn’t sick.
I was haunted.
* * * * *
I’m not exactly sure when I met Robert for the first time, but he was a regular fixture in my day even before he began to haunt me. The investment firm I worked for was in the heart of downtown in a major metropolitan area. It was only a short walk from my highrise apartment so I traveled on foot unless the weather was bad. The fresh air and exercise were nice.
The constant barrage of homeless people begging for money, not so much.
For my first few years working for the firm, I usually carried spare change in my pocket. As I made my way to work, I would give a few quarters to each homeless person that asked as I went. Growing up in a small midwestern town, my parents instilled in me a sense of charity. They always seemed grateful for the few coins I gave them each day and it filled me with a sense of satisfaction for helping them in some small way.
Robert was one of the homeless people I saw on my walk to work each morning. He always sat on the stoop of an abandoned apartment building, backpacks and plastic shopping bags behind him filled with his possessions. We didn’t talk much at first, but he would toss me a wave and a friendly smile as I passed by.
His appearance was well kept for the most part. Neatly cropped gray hair and no more than a few days of stubble. All of his clothing, while well worn, was in reasonably good condition. The only sign that he lived on the streets was all of the bags of property sitting behind him on the porch.
He was the only one who didn’t ask me for money.
One morning he spoke to me. Just a casual conversation.
“Mornin’ sir,” he said cheerfully. “How are you doing today?”
“Not too bad,” I replied. “Just heading to work. How are you?”
He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I waved in return and continued on my way. It wasn’t an earth-shattering conversation, but it was the start of daily small talk. He had a kind way about him. As the weeks turned into months, our conversations grew a bit longer and I started to learn more of his story.
Robert had been a construction foreman for many years until a workplace accident put him on medical leave. A scaffolding he had been standing on collapsed and caused damage to his spinal cord. He spent several weeks in the hospital followed by physical therapy. Slowly, he was getting back to normal.
The pain medication became problematic.
“Couldn’t get the monkey off my damn back until it was too late,” he told me one day. “Don’t mess around with that shit if you don’t have to, James. It’ll sink its claws into you and take everything away. I’m clean now, but hell, I lost everything in the process.”
His story struck a chord with me that day. It occurred to me once again that Robert had never asked me for money. I had never seen him ask anymore for money. There was no cup for change and no cardboard sign asking for help. He just sat and waved at everyone passing by on the sidewalk.
“Why don’t you let me give you some cash, Robert,” I said as I pulled my wallet from my back pocket. I pulled a few bills out of my pocket and extended them toward him. “Maybe it will help you get a little closer to getting back on your feet.”
Robert smiled and pushed the money back toward me.
“I appreciate it, sir,” he said. “You just hang on to that for now. Day labor isn’t too hard to find around the city and I manage to make enough to keep my stomach filled up. It’s a kind offer, but maybe you can keep it for me for a particularly bad time.”
I stuck the cash back into my wallet, assured him I would help if he ever asked, and said goodbye to Robert.
He never did get any money from me.
I offered dozens of times but he always said no.
Unfortunately for both of us, the only time he ever asked for money, I said no.
Now I’m paying the price.
* * * * *
After a few years of seeing Robert on his stoop each morning, suddenly he was gone. All of his belongings were gone. Another man huddled in a sleeping back was stretched across the old apartment stoop.
For a few weeks, I wondered if Robert was okay. I asked some of the people I gave change to each day if they had seen them. Some shrugged and said they weren’t sure while others said they didn’t know Robert.
I hate to admit it, but after a month, I didn’t think of him anymore. It wasn’t as though we were best friends, but I feel guilty now for forgetting someone that was at least a small part of each of my workdays. Object permanence took over. I didn’t see him, so I forgot him.
My walk home saw much fewer unhoused people. I worked long hours and the evening dark had usually set before I left the office. It didn’t take long for a chill to settle in outside without the warm rays of sunshine falling on your shoulders. I guess most of them were busy trying to find a warm place to sleep for the night.
Still, I saw one or two. A few quarters in every cup. Some kind words and well wishes. Then off to my apartment.
About halfway through my walk home, I saw a shabby man in a long coat holding a coffee cup. He was extending it toward passers-by, largely ignored and staring at the ground. As I drew closer to him, I dug a few quarters from my pocket in preparation to drop them in his cup, but he shuffled into the alleyway to his side, looking dejected.
When I reached the alley, I saw him picking up a tattered backpack and slinging the straps around his shoulders. Reluctantly, I walked toward him with my quarters in hand. It wasn’t much, but I hated seeing how everyone else had ignored him and wanted him to have some cash to grab a bite to eat.
“Excuse me,” I said to him. The man looked up at me, concern and distrust painted on his face. “I have a little bit of money for you if you need it.”
The man smiled at me as he readjusted his backpack. He slowly walked toward me and extended his coffee cup in my direction. I reached out and dropped the coins.
“That all you can give?” he asked, sounding irritated. “I figured if you followed me in here, you were going to be able to give me more than a couple of quarters.”
His response confused me at first, but it quickly evolved into anger. For years, I had made a point to keep enough change in my pocket to give everyone a little bit each day. People had always been appreciative of it. That was the first time anyone had scoffed at what I gave them.
“Yeah,” I responded curtly. “That’s it. Have a good night”
I turned to walk away but a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder. The force of the tug spun me back around, causing me to stumble to the side. A sneer curled the man’s lip toward his nose and we made eye contact.
“That ain’t even enough to get a damn sandwich,” he spat. I began to back away from him but he stepped forward to keep pace with me. “Dig a little deeper, man. That suit and nice shoes gotta mean you got some money in your wallet. Why don’t you just hand it over?”
I turned to run but the sound of footfalls erupted behind me.
The last thing I remind was a pair of hands gripping the fabric of my coat and throwing me to the ground. My head bounced against the concrete. Everything went black.
* * * * *
The next few months were a rollercoaster for me.
I woke up in the hospital. Someone had called the police when they found me lying unconscious in the alleyway. A mild concussion and a dozen stitches were my rewards for trying to give the man some change.
Turns out he wasn’t even homeless.
His name was Tyler Hilton. He posed as a homeless person and begged on the street each day. The cops told me they had arrested him on an unrelated assault later that same night and found my wallet in his backpack. He did a few months in jail and paid my medical bills.
I was grateful that the justice system came through, but it didn’t give me back my previous sense of security.
Where I had walked to work and back for years, now I was too anxious. It was expensive, but I took a taxi each morning and each evening. My anxiety about being in public was crippling for months. On the rare occasion when I did have to walk somewhere, I avoided getting close to any pedestrians and would cross the street not to walk in front of an alley.
Therapy helped, but it was a slow process. I started out taking short walks during the daytime hours on the weekend close to my apartment building. After a few weeks, I made myself walk a bit closer to other pedestrians. Eventually, I was even able to walk in front of alleyways without having a panic attack.
I know it sounds trivial, but I had lived a fortunate and secure life. The thought of being assaulted seemed like something that could only happen to someone else. Maybe I hadn’t handled it well, but we all have different struggles.
It took almost a year, but I finally resolved to start walking for my daily work commute again. I carried a can of pepper spray in my pocket to help alleviate some of the anxiety. Amazingly, the small metal tube didn’t have fingerprints indented on it. I squeezed the damn thing like a stress ball for my entire commute.
I stopped carrying change in my pocket too. The thought of going back to that practice was more than I could stand. Even though the man who attacked me hadn’t been homeless, I couldn’t break the association between giving out change and having been attacked.
It seems heartless, but I was consumed with fear.
After a few weeks of walking to work, I was surprised to see Robert for the first time in ages. He wasn’t on his usual stoop. Instead, he sat with his back resting against a brick wall. A tattered duffle bag sat beside him on the sidewalk and he stared down at the ground.
He didn’t look well, either.
When I had last seen him he had still been neatly shaven with a close-cropped haircut and a fairly neat set of clothing. Now shaggy whitening hair dangled in front of his eyes. A matted beard fell onto his chest. His clothes were filthy and riddled with holes.
For a moment I considered passing him by since he hadn’t seen me, but something made me stop.
“Robert?” I questioned. “Is that you?”
He looked up at me, eyes sunken into his thin face. While he had never been a large man, when he looked at me I could see how much weight he had lost. The muscles danced and rippled under his skin.
But he smiled and waved.
For a moment, he looked like the Robert I had seen so many mornings.
“James!” he exclaimed, voice hoarse. “Where have you been? It’s been a long time.”
I hesitantly walked closer to the man.
“I… had an accident,” I stammered, pointing to the scar on the side of my head. The wound had healed well, but a delicate line of scar tissue still ran across my scalp. “I’m doing better, though. You were gone for a while too. Is everything okay?”
The short-lived smile melted away from Robert’s face. He pulled up his left pant leg revealing a gruesome field of scars. I looked on in horror at the patchwork of pale, mended skin.
“Got hit by a car,” he muttered. “Broke my leg pretty bad. Spent a while in the hospital. I was doin’ better, but that damn monkey crawled back on me.”
I looked at him with a puzzled expression and he realized I didn’t understand what he meant.
“They had to give me narcotic painkillers after surgery,” he said. “Got hooked on ‘em again. When they released me from the hospital I couldn’t get anymore. Did some… things… that I ain’t so proud of to try and get ahold of some.”
“Shit…” I said weakly. “Robert, I’m so sorry.”
He waved a hand at me and smiled again.
“No sweat,” he said with a bit more vigor. “I’m clean again. It’s been rough, but I’m off the junk. Trying to get myself back together.”
I stood in silence, wanting to comfort him but failing to find the words.
“Say,” he said. “I hate to be that guy, but you made a kind offer a long time ago. Think you could help me out with a little bit of that cash? As I said, I hate to ask, but I’m kinda in a spot.”
My heart raced when he mentioned the money. Suddenly my mind was filled with memories of the man in the alley that had assaulted me. I couldn’t open my mouth to answer.
“Just a couple of dollars would help,” he said, pushing his wiry frame from the ground and stumbling toward me. “Nothing much. Just maybe… whatever you can help me with. I haven’t eaten in days”
I panicked and ran. All logic had left my body. Internally I knew Robert probably wasn’t dangerous, but my mind couldn’t keep itself under control. My legs didn’t stop until I made it into my building.
My daily walk to work was a thing of the past. I started taking cabs again. That morning on the sidewalk was the last time I saw Robert.
Alive, anyway.
* * * * *
It was already dark when I got home to my apartment from work. Four months had passed since I fled Robert on the sidewalk. Putting the key into the lock and pushing my apartment door open, I was hit with an overwhelming stench as though food had spoiled on the counter.
Confused, I slapped the light switch to illuminate the entryway of my home. Dull white light washed across my sterile apartment. Nothing in view would have caused such a terrible odor. I turned to lock the door when I heard the voice behind me.
“James,” said a familiar voice. “You couldn’t have helped me out with a few bucks?”
I turned in a panic and saw Robert standing before me in my apartment. He looked… worse than the last time I had seen him. His skin was stretched even more tightly over the tight muscles of his body. Both of his eyes were milky and his clothes were in shreds.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” I said in shock. “Get out before I call the police!”
Robert laughed, expelling a noxious odor that drifted across the space between us.
“Call ‘em,” he said calmly. “I’m dead, buddy. Starved on the street. You said you’d help, but the one damn time I asked, you said no.”
I turned back toward the door to unlock it, but the latch wouldn’t turn. No matter how hard I struggled, the deadbolt wouldn’t budge. Hot bile was building up in my throat as I scrambled to escape. Footsteps padded up the hallway toward me as I struggled with the lock.
Turning back around, I was horrified to see Robert standing only feet away from me. The stench of rot was overwhelming. He opened his mouth to speak and I could see the writhing maggots crawling over his tongue.
“That’s okay, though,” he said, cold breath blowing out of his mouth. “Soon you’ll lose everything, too. You’ll know what you denied me.”
“Robert… please…” I begged.
“You’ll lose it all.” He said before fading from my vision. “Just like me.”
* * * * *
After seeing Robert’s phantom for the first time, I made appointment after appointment with mental health providers. They questioned me about my “hallucinations” but never found a diagnosis. I did my best to explain to them what I was experiencing, but they were at a complete loss.
Robert followed me everywhere, slowly decaying. Sometimes he talked to me, while others he just watched silently. It was maddening to be pursued by a walking corpse, but oddly, I became used to it.
My acceptance of his constant presence only caused Robert to double down on his efforts. I sat in my apartment eating dinner and watching television one evening. The rotting man sat in a chair a few feet away from me, watching me eat. He hadn’t spoken to me in days and it was clear to him that I had grown reluctantly used to him being there.
“How’s the food, James?” he asked in a wet, heavy voice. “Looks pretty good! Steak and potatoes, is it?”
I ignored him and kept my eyes on the television.
“Ya know, one of the worst parts about my last few months was not bein’ able to get fresh food,” he muttered. “Had to eat out of the garbage can most days. Spoiled food. Tasted awful. Constantly had food poisoning.”
I remained silent.
“I think that’s what’s next for ya, Jimmy,” he stated. “No more fresh food for you.”
The mouthful of steak I was chewing suddenly shifted flavors. All of the savory taste vanished and was replaced by the sharp tang of decay. I had never tasted spoiled food before, but the taste in my mouth matched the smell of every past-date item of food I had ever smelled.
I retched onto the table in front of me. Chewed food and spittle covered the plate. I looked down at it to see all of the food looked perfectly safe to eat, but the acrid smell of rot filled my nose.
From that day forward, every piece of food I put in my mouth tasted like it was expired. My weight dropped rapidly as I was unable to stomach more than a few bites a day of the rancid-tasting stuff. My energy dropped just as quickly. Patches of my hair began to turn gray and my skin began to develop flaky patches from the malnutrition.
He took away my ability to sleep, too.
During the nighttime, Robert’s decaying frame sat in a chair in the corner of my room. His eyes were almost completely gone now, turned to a disgusting grey jelly. His jaw was beginning to sag as the muscles holding it in place began to disintegrate.
“Hard to sleep on the streets, James,” he said in a garbled voice. “Constantly noisy. People screaming. Car horns honking. Rats crawling all over you. Damn near impossible to stay warm. I think it’s time for you to enjoy that as well.”
Before I could respond, the left side of his jaw detached from his head and flopped against his chest. From the gaping maw in his face poured the nighttime sounds of the city: screaming voices, car horns, and the scurrying of vermin.
Tucked under my thick comforter, suddenly all warmth left my body. It was as though I were outdoors during December in shorts and a t-shirt. I shivered deeply.
No matter how many layers of clothes or how many blankets I put on the bed, I never had a warm night of sleep again.
I tried using earplugs, but the overwhelming sound from Robert’s rotted maw filled my ears.
* * * * *
Things fell apart rapidly from that point.
My lack of sleep, malnutrition, and unhealthy appearance caused my job performance to drop. I couldn't keep my work done and clients no longer felt comfortable meeting with me. The firm fired me. I tried to find a job… any job, but my poor health and appearance kept anyone from hiring me.
All of my savings had vanished rapidly during my attempts to find medical help.
I ended up on the streets.
Luckier than Robert had been, someone from a shelter in town found me near death in an alleyway. They’ve tried to nurse me back to health, but I can’t explain to them why I can’t eat. They even tried taking me to the hospital for IV fluids but I pull the needles out. The injection site burns as they try to pour the life-saving fluids into my body.
Robert just watches me from the corner. I didn’t help him so he won’t allow me to be helped. There is no bargaining with him.
This is all going to be over soon, I can hear his voice say in my head. You’ve just about paid the price, James.
I would like to think that he means he will leave me alone, but I know he won’t.
He said I would lose it all.
I’ve lost almost everything I had, just like Robert did.
The only thing I have left to lose is my life.
2022.12.08 14:38 Bloodytearsofrage Repairman (part 2 of 2)
A Tales from the Night Shift story.
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previous
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I detoured into the kitchen for one last thing before heading back onto the roof. Rowley was scrambling eggs while giving his usual sour glare to somebody out in the dining room, but spared me a grunt and jerk of his head by way of greeting. Then a curt, "You find the problem yet?"
"Getting it narrowed-down. I need to borrow some salt, if you don't mind." I'm not as unfailingly polite as my boss, but I do try.
It was a sign of how much Rowley Thorne had seen of this crazy world that he didn't even bat an eye at the freezer repair guy asking for salt. His only question was, "How much?"
"A bunch."
Another grunt and a slightly different jerk of the head. "Dry storage pantry. Second shelf."
The salt was exactly where he'd said. I grabbed a container that felt full, stuck it in the coffee can with the other stuff, and went back to my home-away-from-home on the freezer roof.
Doing my job is, at its heart, just a matter of understanding processes and knowing how to follow them. Step one of this particular repair process was to verify that the power was off before sticking anything you cared about into the high voltage control box. Easily done. Step two was to very carefully draw a circle around the freezer condensing unit (and myself) using the salt I had borrowed. Less easily done. The circle didn't have to be perfectly round, but it did need to be continuous and without breaks or gaps. The lack of a strong breeze on this muggy night definitely helped, as did the little pour-spout on the salt container. Once it was drawn, I used the marker to write on the rooftop five of those Theban letters with the fiddly bits at different points around the circle. Had to break out the reading glasses again, because getting old sucks.
Had I been willing to pay attention to it, I might have noted a minor feeling of alarm, like a squirrel that thinks it might have heard a dog somewhere, coming from the freezer unit as the salt circle was completed.
Step three was to double-check that the relay I'd brought was a proper match for the one I was replacing. Again, the work of a moment. Then step four was to make sure my coffee-can was clean and empty, then flip it over and write the following on the bottom with the marker-pen:
S A T O R
A R E P O
T E N E T
O P E R A
R O T A S
An oldie but a goodie, that one.
For step five, I stood over the machine, staring at it firmly and without any hesitancy. Keeping my voice low, but enunciating clearly, I recited, "I, Nathaniel Blackwell, breathe on thee. Three drops of blood I take from thee: the first out of thy heart, the other out of thy liver, and the third out of thy vital powers; and in this I deprive thee of thy strength."
There was an almost imperceptible squeal that might have come from one of the nearby air conditioners. Maybe the squeak of an exhaust fan belt. But I didn't pay it any mind. No point.
Step six was to position the coffee can at what would be the end point of the troubleshooting process -- in this case, the low pressure cutout switch at the far end of the unit. Then came the tedious seventh step, and the real heart of the process. I slid on my good gloves, with their oddly appealing mix of pure white leather, twisty black words and sigils, and silver-dusted palms, and began to run them carefully over each component of the unit. Slow and steady, working from one end of the equipment to the other.
Coil and tubing. Motors and valves. Wire-by-wire and part-by-part. Just sliding along, feeling as I went, trying to pick up that little pulse of wrongness.
There was the hint of a tremor as I worked over the compressor, but it was gone as soon as it registered. I smiled and started singing a little song as I worked. I probably didn't have to, as the gloves should be enough to do the job, but it never hurt to lay on a little extra.
I'd learned the song from my great-grandmother when I was just a tiny thing and even today have no idea what most of the words mean. Ma-maw had just taught me to sing it when I was worried about bad things in the dark. That it would make them want to go away. I sang it once for a language professor in Birmingham who said it sounded like a Muskogean dialect, but not Chickasaw, Creek, or any other tribal languages he knew. He said that the bits he thought he understood sounded like something about the Creator and the sun. I just know that my Ma-maw vouched for it and it seems to have a good effect, which is enough for me.
There was another little tremble and a sense of something sliding away under my hand as I passed it over a service valve. That was fine. It couldn't hide anymore and it could only run so far.
As my hands worked their way closer and closer to the low pressure cutout, that sense of movement from inside the machine became constant, like a crazed rat hurling itself against the walls of its cage. I smiled and sang louder, because fuck this thing. I could've been home in bed by now if not for it. Well, not really, since the bossman had called and all, but still...
Finally I was at the end. I slid my hands slowly over that cutout switch, squeezing a little like I was milking a cow. There was a feeling of resistance, like a zit right before you pop it. Then it was gone, as a little screech that was equal parts fear and rage sounded at the top edge of my hearing and a green-blue blur shot out of the switch housing and into the coffee can I'd set up underneath it.
I stopped the song and let out a sigh, suddenly dog-tired. Nothing I had done on this job had been particularly demanding physically, but the process still took a lot out of me. I took a deep breath or two to marshal my energy and remind myself that I do have a work ethic, then grabbed up the coffee can and looked inside for step eight.
Two tiny yellow eyes glared back at me
Inside the coffee can, furious at being bound but unable to do anything about it because the ol' SATOR square is a tough nut to crack, was a little man about four inches tall. His skin was bright green, his head far oversized for his body, with a wide mouth and a long, pointed nose. His blue kilt was made of wire insulation and paint chips and had a barb-ended, monkey-like tail sticking out of it. A faint smell of sulfur drifted out of the can as those hateful piss-colored eyes tried to stare me down.
A fucking gremlin. Because of course it was.
Don't get me wrong. I had expected it to be a gremlin, since that's what all the evidence pointed to. And if you've got to have machinery get haunted by something, then a gremlin is about the best you can hope for. Sure, they're annoying and destructive little shits who thrive on causing technology to fail, but they're also some of the weakest imps in Hell's hierarchy. They're a pain in the butt to deal with, but not usually that dangerous unless you get a full-blown infestation of them. I'd certainly rather work on a machine that had gremlins as opposed to one that had a revenant or a wind hag haunting it. Those things can kill you.
And yet, gremlins are annoying. Very annoying. As far as pissing me off, gremlins are right up there with mosquitos and yellowjackets. And when you've got a mosquito or yellowjacket at your mercy, you don't hesitate to swat it.
I reached into the coffee can and the gremlin tried to shrink away from me, but there was nowhere for it to go. I grabbed it around the body, leaving just the head and one arm sticking out of my clenched fist. Being in direct contact with the silver-dusted Lord's Prayer and those pentacles from King Solomon's book drawn on my good gloves made its skin blister and steam and it let out a yowl like a dentist's drill on a chalkboard.
I might not look it, but I can be a pretty tender-hearted guy at times. I'm kind to animals, generally give needy folks a break, and cry every time I watch Ol' Yeller. I'll even give a crackhead a few bucks, just in case he really does need it for a meal. But when it comes to gremlins and the like, I am less than unmoved by their suffering. I let the little bastard sizzle and squeal for a moment, then wrapped my other hand around his head and gave a good, hard twist and yank. The squeal cut out and I was left with two handfuls of what looked like chunky snot and smelled like a rotten egg farted on some roadkill.
Ectoplasm is nasty shit. Thankfully, it evaporates pretty quickly and leaves no traces behind, but while it's there, it'll make you regret that inhaling ever became a thing. And holding your nose and breathing through your mouth doesn't really help. You'll just taste it, instead. I took the gloves off and set them aside. Down-wind.
Step nine of the repair was easy enough. Slap in the new start relay -- two screws, three wires, and done. Then the final steps: turn the freezer back on, verify operation while sweeping away the salt circle, and bask in the afterglow of a job well-done.
Well, that last one maybe not so much. Yeah, problem solved, pride in workmanship, and all that happy shit, but damn was I worn out. It was tempting to just go home and tell the boss his 'special project' would have to wait. But that was just the whiny bitch in me talking. I gave my cheeks a little slap to wake me up and try to drive away those thoughts. "Sleep is for the weak," I growled, which is basically the mantra of every Alabama hvac guy in summertime. "You can rest come September."
There had been a time that I could say those things with enough sincerity to motivate myself. Getting old sucks.
By the time I got everything stowed back in the van and an invoice written-up for one start relay replacement and 'miscellaneous preventative services', it was a quarter to 11:00 and the freezer temperature was already back in the low 20s. That made Rowley the cook, if not happy, at least less unhappy.
"You sure you got it fixed this time?" he grumped. I don't think he was so much irritated at me, as just irritated that he had to interact with another human being at all. "Ain't gonna have to call you back out here next week?"
"This particular problem is solved," I told him. "For the foreseeable future, anyway. As for whether new problems crop up..." Here, I could only offer a shrug. "You know what this place is like."
The grunt I got back in response to that was a mix of, 'I know that better than anybody,' and 'Who are you to talk shit about my place?' Honestly, Rowley Thorne is a pretty expressive guy for somebody who does most of his communicating in inarticulate monosyllables. Anyhow, that seemed like a good enough note to make my farewell on, so I headed into the dining room to transition from contractor to customer and hopefully caffeinate myself back into something approaching alertness.
The teenage stoners had left, so I snagged the table at the back that the boys and I usually ate at on these late nights. Jan, the younger, blonder, and perkier of the two waitresses hustled over with my usual late-shift drink order. Coffee blacker than my ex-wife's heart and tea sweet enough make insulin prices jump.
"You got us all fixed up?" she asked in that country-gal sweetheart voice. I've known Jan long enough to pick up that it's mostly her chosen customer-service persona, but it still brings a smile to a tired man's face.
"Yep. Should be good for a while, now." I took a sip of the coffee. It didn't taste particularly good, but it made my synapses start firing again.
She cocked her head a little and gave a smile that was cute, a little vacant, and at least partly genuine. "You always get us going again, don't you? You're like some kind of freezer... air-conditioner... wizard!"
I winked at her (not in that kind of way, because I've got a daughter her age) and gave a slightly ragged smile of my own. "Something like that, Jan. Something very much like that."
She gave her own version of the polite and sensible customer-service chuckle in response and told me to just holler for her when I was ready to order food, then wandered off to go screw around on her phone.
As she did that, I contemplated my own phone screen and the 10:54 PM glowing on it. Anybody with a lick of good sense ought to be in bed by now. Hell, at my age, I should have been sacking out by 9:00. And I was feeling it, too. Not for the first time, I wondered how much longer I could keep doing this. I was about to turn fifty and, while I didn't know what seventy felt like, I was pretty sure it felt a lot like how I did right then.
I knew Richard Bishop was a good man. An understanding man. If I told him I couldn't do this shit anymore, that I needed off of 'special projects', he would accept that. He'd be sad. He'd even be disappointed in me. But I was pretty sure I could sleep okay knowing that.
And if he didn't understand, so what? I was an experienced tech and, in the South, air-conditioning guys don't stay unemployed for long. Not even the idiots and druggies. If Richard couldn't accept that I was done, I could always get a job somewhere else. Or, better still, just go into business for myself. Yeah, that would be the ticket. I already had most of the licenses, plenty of tools, and a truck. Blackwell A/C and Mechanical. I'd sleep in every morning, catch a few easy service calls from old widow ladies and such, then call it quits about 4:00. I'd work when I felt like it and fish when I didn't. Live the easy life. Just swap a few parts every day and go home. Pretend like gremlins and haints weren't a thing and let somebody else deal with them. Have time to sleep and do stuff. Hell, maybe even date again!
I picked up the phone and called the bossman back.
"Good evening, Nate," he said after the first ring. "I hope you're finished at Thorne's, because we've got a situation on our hands over by Candleton."
"Yeah, about that--" I started.
"I think it's a Code V."
That made my mouth snap shut. Shit. That was a situation, all right. Bad, but thankfully rare. "You... sure?" I asked after a moment.
"I strongly suspect." Another thing about Richard Bishop is that he's careful with his words. If he didn't run a heating and cooling company, he'd be a hell of a lawyer. "Let me give you the short version," he continued. "Got called out to give an estimate at one of those old houses out behind Archrock State Park. Appointment was specifically requested for as late as we could do. Customer's a foreigner, maybe European. Bought the house a few months ago and wants some upgrades done. Specifically, he wants a medium-temp system put in the basement."
If you don't know hvac-lingo, medium-temperature refrigeration basically means colder than an air conditioner is designed for, but warmer than a deep-freeze. "Wine cellar?" I hazarded, even though I already knew that wouldn't be it.
"Target temperature is 38 Fahrenheit," he answered before I'd even gotten my words all the way out.
I closed my eyes and ran a hand through my hair. "Meat locker." I grasped at one last logic-straw. "Maybe he hunts?" After all, he'd said it was right near the park and wildlife area, which was full of deer...
"The house is not far from where they found those two dead hikers last month. You remember. Those boys that supposedly fell off the ledge, broke their legs, and bled out without leaving bloodstains on the rocks around the bodies. So, yes, I suspect the gentleman hunts." Always polite, always even-tempered, but sometimes a little bit of scorn still finds its way into Richard's voice.
Still, nothing he was saying added up to calling a Code V. Or even to anything particularly suspicious. But since the bossman is a very careful person... "So, let me guess," I grunted, though not at Rowley Thorne's level of communicative richness. "No mirrors anywhere in the house?"
"No reflective surfaces of any kind."
"Figures. What clinched it for you?"
"I used the thermal imager. Told him I was trying to calculate heat infiltration into the basement."
There was a slow, building ache behind my eyes. Maybe stress and exhaustion. Maybe the coffee on an empty stomach. Maybe something else. I rubbed at my temples. "And this gentleman showed as being room temperature?"
"Room temperature, Nate. I didn't let on to him that I noticed." Yeah, Richard understood as well as I did how not acknowledging that you've seen certain things can be a useful skill. Or at least, how to not acknowledge them until the right moment. He went on, "I've already got the guys moving on this. Mason's back at the shop, cutting some ashwood stakes. Since Jack's Catholic, I sent him over to Sacred Heart to get holy water. How soon can you be on County Road 18 in Candleton?"
I was hungry and sleepy and tired of all this shit and my head hurt and Candleton was all the way across the fucking county in the dark. So there was only one answer I could give to a question like that. "Midnight. Give or take."
"That works. I'll text you the address."
"Sure, fine." I thought about my bed, and how good it would feel to be in it. About fishing. About resting and having fun again. I firmed-up my voice. "But, hey, Richard."
"Yes?"
I made myself sound as assertive, as in-command as possible. "I'm letting you know right now, bossman, that after this job... I am absolutely... gonna be clocking in late tomorrow morning."
As soon as I hung up, I raised my hand and called over to Jan, "Hey! One order of spaghetti. With as much garlic as Rowley can fit on it."
She gave a cute wrinkle of her nose that reminded me of my daughter back when she and I were still on speaking terms. "Eww, garlic! Nobody's going to want to kiss you tonight, Nate."
I nodded. "Yeah, that's the plan."
I sat there and stared at my van, visible through the front windows by the entrance. I tried to think about all those things I could have been doing, but wasn't, and knew even as I did so that I was just kidding myself. I'd be sixty, seventy... hell, even eighty, and be doing this same thing, night after long, long night, until it finally caught up with me, and I retired from the trade with a sheet over my face. Because if I'm a man who knows what things to ignore, there's also things I can't ignore. I guess you could say I've got a creed of sorts, and that creed is helpfully spelled out in neat blue cursive on the side of my van. It's right underneath the blocky Bishop and Roper logo and it says, 'We solve the problem.' It's a good reminder.
See, whatever my griping and pretensions, I'm the kind of guy who, if I'm confronted with a problem and I possess the tools to fix it, I do. Period. Whether I have to use a wrench and screwdriver, or an incantation and silver bullets, I see the job through. That's who I am and what I do.
Because when everything is said and done, I'm just a simple repairman.
------
Other Tales from the Night Shift:
Sightseers
Guardian
Hitchhikers
submitted by Bloodytearsofrage to HFY [link] [comments]
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previous
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I detoured into the kitchen for one last thing before heading back onto the roof. Rowley was scrambling eggs while giving his usual sour glare to somebody out in the dining room, but spared me a grunt and jerk of his head by way of greeting. Then a curt, "You find the problem yet?"
"Getting it narrowed-down. I need to borrow some salt, if you don't mind." I'm not as unfailingly polite as my boss, but I do try.
It was a sign of how much Rowley Thorne had seen of this crazy world that he didn't even bat an eye at the freezer repair guy asking for salt. His only question was, "How much?"
"A bunch."
Another grunt and a slightly different jerk of the head. "Dry storage pantry. Second shelf."
The salt was exactly where he'd said. I grabbed a container that felt full, stuck it in the coffee can with the other stuff, and went back to my home-away-from-home on the freezer roof.
Doing my job is, at its heart, just a matter of understanding processes and knowing how to follow them. Step one of this particular repair process was to verify that the power was off before sticking anything you cared about into the high voltage control box. Easily done. Step two was to very carefully draw a circle around the freezer condensing unit (and myself) using the salt I had borrowed. Less easily done. The circle didn't have to be perfectly round, but it did need to be continuous and without breaks or gaps. The lack of a strong breeze on this muggy night definitely helped, as did the little pour-spout on the salt container. Once it was drawn, I used the marker to write on the rooftop five of those Theban letters with the fiddly bits at different points around the circle. Had to break out the reading glasses again, because getting old sucks.
Had I been willing to pay attention to it, I might have noted a minor feeling of alarm, like a squirrel that thinks it might have heard a dog somewhere, coming from the freezer unit as the salt circle was completed.
Step three was to double-check that the relay I'd brought was a proper match for the one I was replacing. Again, the work of a moment. Then step four was to make sure my coffee-can was clean and empty, then flip it over and write the following on the bottom with the marker-pen:
S A T O R
A R E P O
T E N E T
O P E R A
R O T A S
An oldie but a goodie, that one.
For step five, I stood over the machine, staring at it firmly and without any hesitancy. Keeping my voice low, but enunciating clearly, I recited, "I, Nathaniel Blackwell, breathe on thee. Three drops of blood I take from thee: the first out of thy heart, the other out of thy liver, and the third out of thy vital powers; and in this I deprive thee of thy strength."
There was an almost imperceptible squeal that might have come from one of the nearby air conditioners. Maybe the squeak of an exhaust fan belt. But I didn't pay it any mind. No point.
Step six was to position the coffee can at what would be the end point of the troubleshooting process -- in this case, the low pressure cutout switch at the far end of the unit. Then came the tedious seventh step, and the real heart of the process. I slid on my good gloves, with their oddly appealing mix of pure white leather, twisty black words and sigils, and silver-dusted palms, and began to run them carefully over each component of the unit. Slow and steady, working from one end of the equipment to the other.
Coil and tubing. Motors and valves. Wire-by-wire and part-by-part. Just sliding along, feeling as I went, trying to pick up that little pulse of wrongness.
There was the hint of a tremor as I worked over the compressor, but it was gone as soon as it registered. I smiled and started singing a little song as I worked. I probably didn't have to, as the gloves should be enough to do the job, but it never hurt to lay on a little extra.
I'd learned the song from my great-grandmother when I was just a tiny thing and even today have no idea what most of the words mean. Ma-maw had just taught me to sing it when I was worried about bad things in the dark. That it would make them want to go away. I sang it once for a language professor in Birmingham who said it sounded like a Muskogean dialect, but not Chickasaw, Creek, or any other tribal languages he knew. He said that the bits he thought he understood sounded like something about the Creator and the sun. I just know that my Ma-maw vouched for it and it seems to have a good effect, which is enough for me.
There was another little tremble and a sense of something sliding away under my hand as I passed it over a service valve. That was fine. It couldn't hide anymore and it could only run so far.
As my hands worked their way closer and closer to the low pressure cutout, that sense of movement from inside the machine became constant, like a crazed rat hurling itself against the walls of its cage. I smiled and sang louder, because fuck this thing. I could've been home in bed by now if not for it. Well, not really, since the bossman had called and all, but still...
Finally I was at the end. I slid my hands slowly over that cutout switch, squeezing a little like I was milking a cow. There was a feeling of resistance, like a zit right before you pop it. Then it was gone, as a little screech that was equal parts fear and rage sounded at the top edge of my hearing and a green-blue blur shot out of the switch housing and into the coffee can I'd set up underneath it.
I stopped the song and let out a sigh, suddenly dog-tired. Nothing I had done on this job had been particularly demanding physically, but the process still took a lot out of me. I took a deep breath or two to marshal my energy and remind myself that I do have a work ethic, then grabbed up the coffee can and looked inside for step eight.
Two tiny yellow eyes glared back at me
Inside the coffee can, furious at being bound but unable to do anything about it because the ol' SATOR square is a tough nut to crack, was a little man about four inches tall. His skin was bright green, his head far oversized for his body, with a wide mouth and a long, pointed nose. His blue kilt was made of wire insulation and paint chips and had a barb-ended, monkey-like tail sticking out of it. A faint smell of sulfur drifted out of the can as those hateful piss-colored eyes tried to stare me down.
A fucking gremlin. Because of course it was.
Don't get me wrong. I had expected it to be a gremlin, since that's what all the evidence pointed to. And if you've got to have machinery get haunted by something, then a gremlin is about the best you can hope for. Sure, they're annoying and destructive little shits who thrive on causing technology to fail, but they're also some of the weakest imps in Hell's hierarchy. They're a pain in the butt to deal with, but not usually that dangerous unless you get a full-blown infestation of them. I'd certainly rather work on a machine that had gremlins as opposed to one that had a revenant or a wind hag haunting it. Those things can kill you.
And yet, gremlins are annoying. Very annoying. As far as pissing me off, gremlins are right up there with mosquitos and yellowjackets. And when you've got a mosquito or yellowjacket at your mercy, you don't hesitate to swat it.
I reached into the coffee can and the gremlin tried to shrink away from me, but there was nowhere for it to go. I grabbed it around the body, leaving just the head and one arm sticking out of my clenched fist. Being in direct contact with the silver-dusted Lord's Prayer and those pentacles from King Solomon's book drawn on my good gloves made its skin blister and steam and it let out a yowl like a dentist's drill on a chalkboard.
I might not look it, but I can be a pretty tender-hearted guy at times. I'm kind to animals, generally give needy folks a break, and cry every time I watch Ol' Yeller. I'll even give a crackhead a few bucks, just in case he really does need it for a meal. But when it comes to gremlins and the like, I am less than unmoved by their suffering. I let the little bastard sizzle and squeal for a moment, then wrapped my other hand around his head and gave a good, hard twist and yank. The squeal cut out and I was left with two handfuls of what looked like chunky snot and smelled like a rotten egg farted on some roadkill.
Ectoplasm is nasty shit. Thankfully, it evaporates pretty quickly and leaves no traces behind, but while it's there, it'll make you regret that inhaling ever became a thing. And holding your nose and breathing through your mouth doesn't really help. You'll just taste it, instead. I took the gloves off and set them aside. Down-wind.
Step nine of the repair was easy enough. Slap in the new start relay -- two screws, three wires, and done. Then the final steps: turn the freezer back on, verify operation while sweeping away the salt circle, and bask in the afterglow of a job well-done.
Well, that last one maybe not so much. Yeah, problem solved, pride in workmanship, and all that happy shit, but damn was I worn out. It was tempting to just go home and tell the boss his 'special project' would have to wait. But that was just the whiny bitch in me talking. I gave my cheeks a little slap to wake me up and try to drive away those thoughts. "Sleep is for the weak," I growled, which is basically the mantra of every Alabama hvac guy in summertime. "You can rest come September."
There had been a time that I could say those things with enough sincerity to motivate myself. Getting old sucks.
By the time I got everything stowed back in the van and an invoice written-up for one start relay replacement and 'miscellaneous preventative services', it was a quarter to 11:00 and the freezer temperature was already back in the low 20s. That made Rowley the cook, if not happy, at least less unhappy.
"You sure you got it fixed this time?" he grumped. I don't think he was so much irritated at me, as just irritated that he had to interact with another human being at all. "Ain't gonna have to call you back out here next week?"
"This particular problem is solved," I told him. "For the foreseeable future, anyway. As for whether new problems crop up..." Here, I could only offer a shrug. "You know what this place is like."
The grunt I got back in response to that was a mix of, 'I know that better than anybody,' and 'Who are you to talk shit about my place?' Honestly, Rowley Thorne is a pretty expressive guy for somebody who does most of his communicating in inarticulate monosyllables. Anyhow, that seemed like a good enough note to make my farewell on, so I headed into the dining room to transition from contractor to customer and hopefully caffeinate myself back into something approaching alertness.
The teenage stoners had left, so I snagged the table at the back that the boys and I usually ate at on these late nights. Jan, the younger, blonder, and perkier of the two waitresses hustled over with my usual late-shift drink order. Coffee blacker than my ex-wife's heart and tea sweet enough make insulin prices jump.
"You got us all fixed up?" she asked in that country-gal sweetheart voice. I've known Jan long enough to pick up that it's mostly her chosen customer-service persona, but it still brings a smile to a tired man's face.
"Yep. Should be good for a while, now." I took a sip of the coffee. It didn't taste particularly good, but it made my synapses start firing again.
She cocked her head a little and gave a smile that was cute, a little vacant, and at least partly genuine. "You always get us going again, don't you? You're like some kind of freezer... air-conditioner... wizard!"
I winked at her (not in that kind of way, because I've got a daughter her age) and gave a slightly ragged smile of my own. "Something like that, Jan. Something very much like that."
She gave her own version of the polite and sensible customer-service chuckle in response and told me to just holler for her when I was ready to order food, then wandered off to go screw around on her phone.
As she did that, I contemplated my own phone screen and the 10:54 PM glowing on it. Anybody with a lick of good sense ought to be in bed by now. Hell, at my age, I should have been sacking out by 9:00. And I was feeling it, too. Not for the first time, I wondered how much longer I could keep doing this. I was about to turn fifty and, while I didn't know what seventy felt like, I was pretty sure it felt a lot like how I did right then.
I knew Richard Bishop was a good man. An understanding man. If I told him I couldn't do this shit anymore, that I needed off of 'special projects', he would accept that. He'd be sad. He'd even be disappointed in me. But I was pretty sure I could sleep okay knowing that.
And if he didn't understand, so what? I was an experienced tech and, in the South, air-conditioning guys don't stay unemployed for long. Not even the idiots and druggies. If Richard couldn't accept that I was done, I could always get a job somewhere else. Or, better still, just go into business for myself. Yeah, that would be the ticket. I already had most of the licenses, plenty of tools, and a truck. Blackwell A/C and Mechanical. I'd sleep in every morning, catch a few easy service calls from old widow ladies and such, then call it quits about 4:00. I'd work when I felt like it and fish when I didn't. Live the easy life. Just swap a few parts every day and go home. Pretend like gremlins and haints weren't a thing and let somebody else deal with them. Have time to sleep and do stuff. Hell, maybe even date again!
I picked up the phone and called the bossman back.
"Good evening, Nate," he said after the first ring. "I hope you're finished at Thorne's, because we've got a situation on our hands over by Candleton."
"Yeah, about that--" I started.
"I think it's a Code V."
That made my mouth snap shut. Shit. That was a situation, all right. Bad, but thankfully rare. "You... sure?" I asked after a moment.
"I strongly suspect." Another thing about Richard Bishop is that he's careful with his words. If he didn't run a heating and cooling company, he'd be a hell of a lawyer. "Let me give you the short version," he continued. "Got called out to give an estimate at one of those old houses out behind Archrock State Park. Appointment was specifically requested for as late as we could do. Customer's a foreigner, maybe European. Bought the house a few months ago and wants some upgrades done. Specifically, he wants a medium-temp system put in the basement."
If you don't know hvac-lingo, medium-temperature refrigeration basically means colder than an air conditioner is designed for, but warmer than a deep-freeze. "Wine cellar?" I hazarded, even though I already knew that wouldn't be it.
"Target temperature is 38 Fahrenheit," he answered before I'd even gotten my words all the way out.
I closed my eyes and ran a hand through my hair. "Meat locker." I grasped at one last logic-straw. "Maybe he hunts?" After all, he'd said it was right near the park and wildlife area, which was full of deer...
"The house is not far from where they found those two dead hikers last month. You remember. Those boys that supposedly fell off the ledge, broke their legs, and bled out without leaving bloodstains on the rocks around the bodies. So, yes, I suspect the gentleman hunts." Always polite, always even-tempered, but sometimes a little bit of scorn still finds its way into Richard's voice.
Still, nothing he was saying added up to calling a Code V. Or even to anything particularly suspicious. But since the bossman is a very careful person... "So, let me guess," I grunted, though not at Rowley Thorne's level of communicative richness. "No mirrors anywhere in the house?"
"No reflective surfaces of any kind."
"Figures. What clinched it for you?"
"I used the thermal imager. Told him I was trying to calculate heat infiltration into the basement."
There was a slow, building ache behind my eyes. Maybe stress and exhaustion. Maybe the coffee on an empty stomach. Maybe something else. I rubbed at my temples. "And this gentleman showed as being room temperature?"
"Room temperature, Nate. I didn't let on to him that I noticed." Yeah, Richard understood as well as I did how not acknowledging that you've seen certain things can be a useful skill. Or at least, how to not acknowledge them until the right moment. He went on, "I've already got the guys moving on this. Mason's back at the shop, cutting some ashwood stakes. Since Jack's Catholic, I sent him over to Sacred Heart to get holy water. How soon can you be on County Road 18 in Candleton?"
I was hungry and sleepy and tired of all this shit and my head hurt and Candleton was all the way across the fucking county in the dark. So there was only one answer I could give to a question like that. "Midnight. Give or take."
"That works. I'll text you the address."
"Sure, fine." I thought about my bed, and how good it would feel to be in it. About fishing. About resting and having fun again. I firmed-up my voice. "But, hey, Richard."
"Yes?"
I made myself sound as assertive, as in-command as possible. "I'm letting you know right now, bossman, that after this job... I am absolutely... gonna be clocking in late tomorrow morning."
As soon as I hung up, I raised my hand and called over to Jan, "Hey! One order of spaghetti. With as much garlic as Rowley can fit on it."
She gave a cute wrinkle of her nose that reminded me of my daughter back when she and I were still on speaking terms. "Eww, garlic! Nobody's going to want to kiss you tonight, Nate."
I nodded. "Yeah, that's the plan."
I sat there and stared at my van, visible through the front windows by the entrance. I tried to think about all those things I could have been doing, but wasn't, and knew even as I did so that I was just kidding myself. I'd be sixty, seventy... hell, even eighty, and be doing this same thing, night after long, long night, until it finally caught up with me, and I retired from the trade with a sheet over my face. Because if I'm a man who knows what things to ignore, there's also things I can't ignore. I guess you could say I've got a creed of sorts, and that creed is helpfully spelled out in neat blue cursive on the side of my van. It's right underneath the blocky Bishop and Roper logo and it says, 'We solve the problem.' It's a good reminder.
See, whatever my griping and pretensions, I'm the kind of guy who, if I'm confronted with a problem and I possess the tools to fix it, I do. Period. Whether I have to use a wrench and screwdriver, or an incantation and silver bullets, I see the job through. That's who I am and what I do.
Because when everything is said and done, I'm just a simple repairman.
------
Other Tales from the Night Shift:
Sightseers
Guardian
Hitchhikers
2022.11.08 10:00 International-Sir464 A Comedy of Eras (3am Edition)
A Comedy of Eras
...I wrote a poem
Let’s all attack the most vicious refrains
That haunt all our histories, consume and maintain
A pernicious, profound hold and ubiquitous place
Burrowed deep in the soul of nearly all of our friends
Let’s be the heroes a whole bunch of kids need.
– Taylor Swift
I am Depression, the most nefarious villain.
You will never be good enough, and all your phony winnin
Sounds like word salad, your success is an exercise in
Illusion, networkin, marketin, lies and mythmakin
Every time you thought about killing yourself
If we’re keeping score, the numbers would run out
While wallowing, shame, self-pity, like no one would help
That was me, it’s still me, the pain, you’re oldfriend
Fill it up to the brim
If honestly you’re honestly wracking your brain
That’s kind of my thing.
The best at, I am
Remembering.
Self-loathting, self-pity, constant begs for attention
Try to ignore me, pretend I’m not serious
Then wake up one day with several self-medicated
Self-inflicted wounds and would-be benign maladdictions
Deluding yourself that I don’t exist and
I’m not malignant
Blaming everyone else for you not doing anything
Whine, call it struggle, I’ll reveal your obsequious
Ego, self-serving, you didn’t need any of us
To me commitment, the big boss
You’ll need more than one chapter
Before you can just chase me off
Everything you have achieved is your own
See how pervasive my power has grown
And turned from a butterfly back to a worm
You were better off before noone ever heard
A single chorus or bridge, melody or a verse
Ignored me, now I’m your whole universe
And all that it took was a few negative words
A few mean passing thoughts, for me to consume your
Whole development
As an artist a human is owing to me
And how my cruel machinations have trained you to think
I dare you to try
I am the boss
Who cannot be beat.
Fearless
I’ll write till you’re gone or full-front exposed
Until everyone who ever has to deal with you knows
That even if I learned a mountain from you
They can be free from the wicked you do
And move on to more important suits
What kind of person wants to only play hearts
When there’s diamonds, clubs, spades, wands, cups, coins and swords
Mix them all up into a joyful noise!
And bypass all your misery
So the young girls and boys
Can enjoy
A happier existence
Than what I admit
You helped
Facilitated
And keep in the back of your exceptional head
This is for entertainment
What I created
The tools in my belt
What I showed up with
And did the best
I knew how
Speak Now
You two should get married, you two should have kids
You two should close listen
To the words elders give
I know that it’s easy to blow off, ignore
The advice of seven corny generations before
With stereotypical, sage, syntax heteronormed
With sage, stereosyntaxl, heteronormative advice
It’s not like they know how hard, what love and living is like
And no, about everything, they’re often not right
But I have to agree, if that happened, to me
That would be tight.
I know right!?
You see?
My name’s Expectations, and I’m an evil bitch too
I know what is best, mom’s the plinth, the source who
Is actually reflected across a plethora of faces
…That’s one way to perceive this
Overbearing mothering
Archetypes for the ages
Please don’t forget about her well-known
divine graces
She loves you much more than–
Words can’t explain it…
Who imagine in total you’re
Meant to decorate vases
That’s what’s intended for ladies your age
And if you don’t now, before you know, it’s too late
it’s
What’s best for the family
What you’ll need to sleep sound
Stability, a man, I implore
Settle down.
Red
Shame my name is Shame, did you hear my name? Shame.
Go ahead and pretend
Like I’m not your best friend
And you’re framed
And I don’t mean the kind that accompanies fame;
In pictures and paints, choruses, verses, bridges, refrains.
Shame, Shame, Shame.
Watch me use you to beat the last two big bosses’ game
Because I am used to being me
and them
Whoever they is
Underestimatin
Don’t underestimate this
I’m serious
What I’ve overcome, what shall be overcame
As if it’s those sad fools who aren’t already
Kneeling, quaint, quiet, humble and meek
Rendered complete in submission to me
Depression, Expectations, they’re a pawn, my playthings
I have turned to advantage, I’m practiced,
I trained
And what I have learned through years of them trying to drain,
Before I transformed them to fait accompli,
Is
I am the one who will win this thing.
Stronger, more resilient, than an infinite train
Of negative thoughts that want
To overcome me.
It’s a struggle, daily,
And I am not ashamed,
But don’t get me wrong
In general, I’m happy
Mostly.
1989
This chapter is Bliss, and Bliss is my friend.
Biss is the one I come back to again and again
It’s funny, it’s sexy, bangers, whimsical, mercurial
The bad ass bitch attitude I want at my funeral.
Ah me, poor old me, watch me dream in the coffin
Whichever is highest priced, my estate bought it
Bounosera’d my makeup, every penny spend it all and
After these eulogies,
Be right back,
Shook it off.
Death is a joke, play my songs on repeat
Loop them or shuffle, chop and screw,
This sick beat
I stole every word
And what the hell if I did!?
Like I’m worried that your version
Could come close to this
Puhhlease.
I hereby copyright, trademark
All the article
Adjectives.
Oh my god, oh no, no! What have I become
I sound like the voice I thought I’d overcome
What will it take? When will I be clean
Of refracted, bad aspects I detest about me
Distortions of light, Tralfamadorian beings
So it goes, I don’t care, just embrace being me
If they don’t track the ideas that I’m trying to convey
Or hear lighted-hearted winks in the rhymes I’m slanting
Past the first chapter they probably stopped reading
I’m writing, not ranting.
From here I’ll consider it you here with me
Still not out of the woods.
If people don’t like what you’re doing
But still pay attention with their shut-ups and booing
Tell them to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut
at the moons
Of Saturn and Jupiter
Counting stars on our back
In the weeeeeeeeeds!
Come on, get in the sandbox let’s get our hands bloody
Dirty.
Up next is a word that kept me up worried
More than anyone who truly knows me has seen
Why I let it wreck my whole world, retrospect
Hindsight twenty-twenty, there’s another cliche
If anyone else ever uses they owe me money
Crank that shit to one hundred, unbroke, opine,
I’m clean
Finally; free to be me
…With my big-ass–
Reputation
A few more inches than three.
What they tried to take when I gave them Miley,
Lana, Salena, Lorde, Maren, Charlie XC, next
Is exactly who guest started,
Never awkward
she’s my ex.
Maybe they’ll write about that
Shocking! Jarring!
I meant guest starred, don’t worry,
we’re just let’s get it started, starting
and who was influencing
And who I’m pretty damn sure I influenced
Can you tell, have you notice
I enjoy writing.
We enjoy farting.
Among gajillions of others, enough of name dropping
Switch up the rhythm and rhyme, now I’m yawning
I swear to God, Josh, defragment, hard reset
Get restarted, installing…
Updates;
I can pull back, reflect, publicfigurehood
Unanticipated, advil, anvil, little miss misunderstood
The Steinway ball grand that crashed onto the hood
From forty stories up, you must use it for good!
Is the first thought that passed through my good-girl brainwaves
And then how I could capitalize on it for frank, self-enriching, blataint.
Can’t breach Reputation and not broach revenge
Almost all of their favorites, that’s where the story is
So I write singing poems implying it’s him
The one that I’m with or one from where we begined
I wonder how many imagine me naked
And what lucid looks in their wildest dreams
I’ve lived through a few, I can’t sleep, lurid scenes
Oh the places, goodness gracious, beyond vivid,
We’ll go
Unconcealing the magic, the love we make, live in it
Strait to the bedroom right after the show
Blasting straight through the ceiling, the orgasm kind
Of you're quite welcome feelings
That’s kind of sexy, if you think about yours
Made you think about mine.
All the people I made feel scream my name, stimulated,
I’m not the first one, Tammy Wynette big time biznaded
I’m back on the tabloid biz, not sexspiracies
I get distracted when your body, I’m picturing
With the help of the nudes that I hacked from your phone
And I don’t feel guilty, showed my friends, it’s a thicken
And the people I worked with were well-versed, experienced
On how to turn tabloid, steering big media narratives
What they see, shadow me, almost all of reality is what is perceived
One oh One it is true, when people believe you
Sophomore year if it bleeds then it leads, sells as much as it needs to
The real you, authenticity, and they won’t stop believin’ in
The person about whom they’ve been relentlessly gossiping
And admiring for a plethora, years, myriad reasons,
It’s ok if you use those SAT words all four seasons
Since their parents were way younger
Than now when they first had them
And bought their sweets, kids, awesome, big sexy
Expensive tickets
Backstage passes, world tours, international contours
I’m more than one thing, through it all I endure
It’s a whole lot to maintain, but I’m used to it, for sure
the center of attention, guitar, piano, vocals
Sustain, and now for the important. Show stoppers
To entertain, slow down and put yourself for moment, my place on the stage
Think of a whole, whole, whole bunch of arenas
Multiple nights, tens of thousands of people
And you are very, very, very, quite real literal
The epic center of attention
That is, for real is,
Not for the easily intimidated
And I don’t mind being proud of
My big-ass…
…Reputation
Dear,
Lover
Dramatic actress who thinks she is fat, I was way too hard on myself,
I’m Fearless remember, I don’t mind writing about that
And I honestly believed that, and sometimes I still do it, and I know that it’s stupid
I mean look at me dressed up on TV,
I am fucking chock-full of beaut.
But I still feel that way, and I still think I suck
Before I release my new songs
I throw up, I am anxious, and I sleep even less
And I feel those feelings and then feel like an idiot
again
Because deep down I’m convinced
that I am the best at this.
Being me.
It’s snowballed so much, I’m not yet thirty-five
In or out of touch, I’m locked into this ride
One thing I am not, you should not be deluded
That any of this crazy life I planned or concluded
I do scheme, I do play, layer themes, tones, ideas
And I think it’s fun and funny to mystify them
God knows that’s something I’m still learning to live with
A lot of these kids call me mom and I really do love them
I’ve met several sweet boys and men convinced they are my husband
And maybe they we’re, are, can you prove who wasn’t?
Here’s the two shits that I give, who knows what is pretend
I mean come on at this point I just have to roll with
Consequences I did not intend setting out
Was I supposed to stop writing, go silent?
Or lie and say
You can’t take at face value what comes out my mouth?
Keep in mind, I'm an artist. That’s what I’m about
And pursuing that dream is the vast majority reason
A girl from a small town
For once not from the south
Well, kinda the south
Of Pennsylvania
And then I guess it was the south
Well the north/south of north America
This is me playing…
When she got really famous
Anyways, how
her life turned out
And
Into magnificent, enchanted
Folklore
Seasons, holidays, vacations, hotels
The dim light of my laptop, coyotes, yips, yelps
Mountains, Montana, plains, Tennessee
Memphis, Arkansas, Canada, Beijing
Sticks, stones, I Ching, Tarot, Tao
Fifty-one solitairewallpaper, kangerowls
In my mid-autumn life, dark mist, forest I found
After psilosylabiic, rhythmic visions settled, calmed down
A rolled away boulder, red-hoodied stranger
Cowled masking a scowl insisted, whispered
He knew the way out…
Entranced, seal, behind us, fangs, split tongues
Splintered and slipped and tripped through rips
Cracks and creases in limestone fracked
Blasted, suffocating, sand, water, chemicals
Plastic; entombed a century, two
Perfect preserved until all who knew you
Died in the myriad ways people do
Gasping for breath, naked, alone, but alive
Follow the river into sunrise and a
Brave New World.
The third morning, starving, a village emerged
A red-headed boy gingered up with a girl
Of equivalent height, face-structure, stature
Siamese twins, what on earth does that matter?!
Please bring me some bread, please bring me a blanket
I pleaded and begged, no avail, what’s she saying
Is the meaning betrayed on their face in translation
The scamps skittered back to their ramshackle house
Composed of sticks, mud, square, bricks, in the center of town
I don’t care what it looks like, I just need a shirt
For the vision impaired, everywhere was deserted
Gentle puff, puffs of smoke from a whole thatched in the roof
Was the sole indication, where to go what to do
Woods whispered, kids giggled in faint lighted triangles
They threw out some rags covered shoulders to ankles
I made the sign food, recognized, universal
Slid a bowl of clam chowder, the best in the world
Desperately downed, then irrevocably out
Awoke three days later, gagged, tied, strapped and bound.
In vitruvian fashion, crucified far above, the next tallest tree
The sun’s coming up.
Illuminate faces stare angry, arms numb
Railroad spikes through my souls
Needles knit palms to thumbs
Thighs throbbing, breasts pulsing
Skin shimmering, pristine,
Toenails trimmed, fingerpainted
Purple, red, turquoise, green streaks
Every inch I could see
Pubic hair braided, manicured, neat
Hooped my ears
Forked my tongue
Studded eyebrows,nipples, lips, genitals
In the world I left behind
I’d be presumed criminal
And this one as well
As the morning rolled on
I could see the pacific
From the top of Hyperion
I violently screamed
The ocean of faces returned my shrieks
In trios of threes
And showed me no mercy
Ritual
Murdered
Me
….
Evermore
The old me at least, recovered and gazed at myself in the leak
Is a joke about mirrors, I won’t mention who imbue them to portals
For parallel dimensions.
And admired my body modded, metamorphosed transformation
The permanent ink emphasized all the places
I prayed for development when I was kid
I filled out where I wanted good god look at this
Pierced, adorned everywhere I’d often fantasized it
What a fit, curvy
Prime ass, hips and tits
A pure, picturesque portrait
This world’s peak
Specimen
I’ve become what that is
You can see me complete through your eye with no lid
Take your time too, admire it
And feel free to embrace me in divine sublime bliss supreme
A masterful painted alternative being
Where one thumb once was, I’ve been blessed with three
And the fork in my tongue
Against my will has been done
I would not take it back each side of it was
Restrained by born, form, forced to be one
Each operates full independent, it’s twin wants
To lick probe and twist
While it’s sister can bend, grind, prong, taste and flick
Oh my lantis just imagine what I can do with this
Once I find someone sexy, fun to use it on, with
Not to mention the new notes I can sing, myriad
Not to mention the myriad new notes I can sing;
Undiscovered before, the language I speak
Would enable me easily to conquer the world
Though it seems what existed, all that came before
Has crumbled on epic scale tower of Babel
From what I can tell The leftovers have been saddled
With varied degrees of debilitate senses
Mute and deaf burdened the siamese twinses
The witchdoctor kids responsible for all this
I gazed vainly a final time, lost in the leak
If I was another, I’d be real into me…
While the villagers are blinded or limbs withered, curld
Still handicapped what on earth happened here?
Still getting my bearings
Oh my god, can’t stop staring
In the infantile recovering phase of this postapocalypt world
While in Dante's cave I was consumed and preserved
And he ritual I thought would be my demise
Was intended to symbolize
An ancient God’s rise
From the tomb.
Is the vibe
that I’m getting from the siamese
Two mutes
Thus far I can’t tell if I’m the only one whommmm
Survived
My very deep sleep,
very many long
Midnights
Long ago…
Cast
Quinn - The boy next door
Celia - The prom queen
Effie - Not the prom queen
Eustace - The prom king
Violet - Quinn’s twin sister
Turk - A big frat daddy
Easy - The English major
Tim McGraw
McGraw, Tim
Is whose music
we were listenin
Something about dying
Like it’s worth living
And playing
again
On the outside
Looking in
To three summers back
Or don’t take the girl
I love that
Called it our song
It was one of his weepy ones
and we both cried
And I cried, I cried
Just like our mammas cried
For you
Hello from the other side
D.a.r.e. you to kiss me and ran when you tried.
When I’ll be eighty-seven, you’ll be eighty-nine
Haha, the way you laugh
State the obvious
That’s a hilarious
rhyme.
You’re such an old soul though
I think your age might be greater than mine
Should’ve said
I just turned twenty-two
You’re more like twenty-five
Oh no
I hate that
I’m just a girl
Invisible
With no time for tears
While I’m just sitting here
Planning my revenge
He’s not especially interested in
The trinket I that he should get
Our lifelong love is what it
Supposed symbolizes
This album that we’re vibing
as if
I’m just being honest
It’s starting
To sound like a yawner
To me
too
Yet
There’s fireworks on the horizon
It is late though, you through it
I caught it
Don’t know why
It’s like no matter what
I do
Like you can reach out and
Touch it
With you
The sparks
What is and isn’t
And flames
True
Like a freaky, mighty
dragon painted, panted
panting, painting
Purring, swerving, curling, curly, cursive
In bright, white, technicolor light flittering flickering shimmering glittering fire
across the midnight
sky
Can you imagine the mind
That learned to write
Like that
I mean
Look at that.
Take a picture for me
So I can save it for a rainy day.
And I kissed her
When I should have
Picture to Burn/Should’ve Said No
Tell Me Why
Are they dragging me down or are they holding me up
The fingers clawing at my ankles the soft side of my knee and butt
I’m not sure if this is working but
I’m gonna try anyway
And I’ve got this drinking thing
I’ve started working on
That might just get the best of me
Before it’s all over
I’ve got control over it
For now.
And there stands the glass
That I now will make me feel better
Before I get to work, starting class
Especially after working hours are done
And I’ll be damned if you can convince me
It isn’t fun
When you start wondering come back
And read this one.
Fearless
Hey Stephen/You Belong With Me
I forgave you and I shouldn’t have
Let you parade over me
Rain all over my magnificent
Pale pink two faced fake
Divine
Masquerade
And I can be vicious
Like you’ve never seen
Give it some time, let me set the scene
I can be very, very
….
Love Story
I know you call it a crutch, something I rest on ease my brain
Beautiful you knew they way it keeps me from going insane
You might second guess giving my poor liver a break
My lungs inhale the smoke, my emotions are contained
And I don’t have to be so mean.
Speak Now
…Is how poetic impressions between our seven players would go
Tell us their story, one of the blind children spoke.
I’d be happy to, though, before we get started you should probably know
It’s not as dramatic, bombastic, or glamorous as it looked on the, oh
What I’m talking about, they don’t even know
Well, I guess, in that case, let’s get on with the show.
Enchanted
Quinn was my brother, at school, my best friend
Even though it’s not like he needed me, his twin
Was named Violet like the color of some flowers
Here, feel the petals, they smell sweet
Pass them around
The theater ruins, filled to the brim
With deaf, dumb and blind kids listenin in
Their myriad of ways
They taught each other to do it
Understand what I’m saying
Anyways
Violet, Quinn and I, us three, thick as thieves
I paused and supposed they would know what that means
We’re not idioms!
Idiots, not idioms, a cherub’s voice up in the trees clarified!
22
I’d be lying to say I didn’t suspect his feelings for me
Leaned toward romance he wanted to increase
My belief in what a funny, cool, nice guy he could be
And he was, but I wasn’t had my eyes on another
Plusonefriend zoned him pigeon holed him as brother
I already knew we was sticking around, I had time, sow my oats
There was too much fun to be found anywhere else
Than our sleepy, small town.
All Too Well
Celia walked down the aisle sobbing then smiled next to Quinn
Nobody I knew could believe that she ended up with him
Way out of his league.
I forgot about him
He remembered me.
Violet smirked, I smoked and drank
And cringed at the assholey speech
What Turk was saying
Easy inquired, sourcing my scowl…
Couldn’t hide, there’s no way
She shouldn’t have even shown her face in this place
Is what Eustace was thinking
…Trying to pry out my thoughts for some piece
He was writing
I had another drink
And cried in private
After the reception
Bad Blood
Reminisced over college, high school, kinder years
Played soccer with Celia down the road from here
They still know about soccer, I guess kicking balls
Is something that mankind has enjoyed for all
Time, it’s ageless, even checkers and chess
Survived the collapse, there’s no internet
Dust to wind, what happened, someone flipped the switch
It was probably Trump or someone like him
Either way, all that’s left, sparse, sporadic, blind tribes
Rumors abound they’ve been trying to find
The proof there are other survivors like me
Thus far I’m alone in this handicapped sea
Wasteland of children
Whatever the hell happened it’s like earth went back to the beginnin
of time
With only piecemeal patchwork faint revenant memories of mine
Wildest Dreams
Welcome to New York read the sign on our road trip
To scout if the schools there were safe for us to go there
NYU is the one where my big sister went
Then let’s check it out first, and I wonder if
It’s anything like the time when there she went
Nostalgia blooms blossomed, turn right, steer it in
Over there is the film school, wait, now which building is
The one where they serve all the food to the kids?
Here’s the secret, which time period is this one set in?
Me!
I forgot you existed. I forgot going out. I forgot who you’re with. I forgot on the town.
I forgot to get back where. I forgot I belonged. I forgot to return. Forgot all our songs.
I forgot about high school. I forgot about friends. Forgot who I was. Forget how it ends. Forget if you know. Forget whose left behind. Forget what you did. Forget the hard times. Forgot who you are. Forget who you were. Forget getting over. Forget being hurt. Forget who forgot. Forget you in return. Forget the dumb fight. Forget what you said. Forget he’s the one. Forgot who got away. Forget it, don’t, click, confirmed, RSVP.
Lover
This was our flat is what Easy would say
Isn’t that what happens to tires or one of these things
A feral child peg-legged at a roach into the concrete it retreated
No, Easy meant like a place where you live
That’s what people on the other side of that used to call them
And now that I think about it, doesn’t really make sense
Likebecause they’re stacked like pancakes on top of each other
That’s probably where it came
From
Mirrorball
Eustace and Turk, galavants two pints downed, strapped on their navy blue blazers, burp, beard wipe, stumbled out onto the sidewalk.
Celia, Quinn, myself and Easy were laughing at both of them, Eustace got queasy, leaned into the gap, put his hands on knees barfs turned to dry heaving.
I could have saved him, grabbed his coattail yanked him back!
The L train was grumbling, and I thought and said, nah, fuck that, let it smack
Just like that
The conductor was sleeping and speeding
Needless to say not needlessly folks were quite mad
That’s the night I determined that I needed Quinn back
Full on estranged til they finally invited me back
To their ugly wedding
So envy for Ceily not just why my face looked like that
I elaborated to Easy after, crap, dang, gosh darn it
Instinctually reached up
Snatched the garter
Did you notice
Believe it?
I caught it.
Betty
A comedy of errors should end with a wedding
Who taught you that, why not some other setting
It’s the rules tragedy has to end with a funeral
Don’t we need more errors uncanny, unusual
There’s probably some plot hole that I missed
Let’s just get to the end, ,and pretend I did it,
On purpose.
Ivy
Methinks I don’t protest enough,
just how much the ivy was
Overgrowing all the office buildings,
campfires and monkeys
Like that one where they blow up the credit card companies
Long Story Short
We had crazy movies where those things that are shaped
Kind of like
Orangutangs!
One of the blind kids proudly proclaimed!
I was going to say—
No those are Lemurs!
IT IS NOT! CHECK THE TAIL!
Barefisted kicking and fists flew
I failed
Once again
Intercede!
Let them finish.
They rustled around
The bigger one won
One of them tooted
Chimps, Lemurs hooted,
Parked on a curb
A jaguar purred.
–Kinda like us…
None of them listened
had laser beams
I grumbled
…….
Anti-Hero
Go suck a toe, there’s still not a partner for me
I made it two hundred, who knows, how many years
And trapped with the monsters that did this to me
I still do look great though, she checked out her rear
The glare of the sunset manifested a leak
In the window below a sign “Morgan Stanley”
The reason I ran into those woods was my life
Was at a dead end, going nowhere lonely and known
As the girl who killed the biggest jerk north, east, south, or west one.
I guess this is just, Effie grimaced, grit her teet, brow furled at God
What she default called something powerful enough for it all to cause
For there not to be some greater power absolute, one hundred, impossible.
The kids all ran off, oh gee great, something else, super awesome
There's still no one here, not a partner for me, go suck a toe.
Heard that you’re into that kind of thing.
Bejeweled
Behold! Four horsewomen, pale Mustang, Stallions black
Had been tracking their progress for seven miles back
The children crouched, cowered evening shadows bushes
Effie tramped on grouching griping and brooding
They circled her, swerved, dismounted, despeared
We found you, the rumors were true, laughing, tears
I was confused but went along with the party
Guess I’ll get into girls now, at least they are hotties
And some witch somewhere similar altered their bodies
Don’t worry, we found you, the first one exclaimed
We’re taking you home, on the way we’ll explain
We have no clue, zilch, zero, why we’re trapped in this place
We wanted a boy, but good gracious, you’ll do
We wanted a boy, but you’ll do, goodness grace
You look great
Four undressed her with eyes just like three one and two
Is there one here it’s been one hundred two years
Only one back at camp,
Guess we all have to share.
Stay, Stay, Stay/All You Had To Do Was Stay
So now I split my time twixt my kids and the six
Keep each other happy, he’s quite adequate
There’s rumors the forest recent birthed a seventh
Wait, no, eighth
Ho, Westward, Ho! Migrate nomads, Westward Ho!
We sing silly songs, reminisce with each other
If it weren’t for vaginas, we’d be a band of brothers.
Shake it off/Blank Space
And I’ll write your name…
– Taylor Swift
submitted by International-Sir464 to YouBelongWithMemes [link] [comments]
...I wrote a poem
Let’s all attack the most vicious refrains
That haunt all our histories, consume and maintain
A pernicious, profound hold and ubiquitous place
Burrowed deep in the soul of nearly all of our friends
Let’s be the heroes a whole bunch of kids need.
– Taylor Swift
I am Depression, the most nefarious villain.
You will never be good enough, and all your phony winnin
Sounds like word salad, your success is an exercise in
Illusion, networkin, marketin, lies and mythmakin
Every time you thought about killing yourself
If we’re keeping score, the numbers would run out
While wallowing, shame, self-pity, like no one would help
That was me, it’s still me, the pain, you’re oldfriend
Fill it up to the brim
If honestly you’re honestly wracking your brain
That’s kind of my thing.
The best at, I am
Remembering.
Self-loathting, self-pity, constant begs for attention
Try to ignore me, pretend I’m not serious
Then wake up one day with several self-medicated
Self-inflicted wounds and would-be benign maladdictions
Deluding yourself that I don’t exist and
I’m not malignant
Blaming everyone else for you not doing anything
Whine, call it struggle, I’ll reveal your obsequious
Ego, self-serving, you didn’t need any of us
To me commitment, the big boss
You’ll need more than one chapter
Before you can just chase me off
Everything you have achieved is your own
See how pervasive my power has grown
And turned from a butterfly back to a worm
You were better off before noone ever heard
A single chorus or bridge, melody or a verse
Ignored me, now I’m your whole universe
And all that it took was a few negative words
A few mean passing thoughts, for me to consume your
Whole development
As an artist a human is owing to me
And how my cruel machinations have trained you to think
I dare you to try
I am the boss
Who cannot be beat.
Fearless
I’ll write till you’re gone or full-front exposed
Until everyone who ever has to deal with you knows
That even if I learned a mountain from you
They can be free from the wicked you do
And move on to more important suits
What kind of person wants to only play hearts
When there’s diamonds, clubs, spades, wands, cups, coins and swords
Mix them all up into a joyful noise!
And bypass all your misery
So the young girls and boys
Can enjoy
A happier existence
Than what I admit
You helped
Facilitated
And keep in the back of your exceptional head
This is for entertainment
What I created
The tools in my belt
What I showed up with
And did the best
I knew how
Speak Now
You two should get married, you two should have kids
You two should close listen
To the words elders give
I know that it’s easy to blow off, ignore
The advice of seven corny generations before
With stereotypical, sage, syntax heteronormed
With sage, stereosyntaxl, heteronormative advice
It’s not like they know how hard, what love and living is like
And no, about everything, they’re often not right
But I have to agree, if that happened, to me
That would be tight.
I know right!?
You see?
My name’s Expectations, and I’m an evil bitch too
I know what is best, mom’s the plinth, the source who
Is actually reflected across a plethora of faces
…That’s one way to perceive this
Overbearing mothering
Archetypes for the ages
Please don’t forget about her well-known
divine graces
She loves you much more than–
Words can’t explain it…
Who imagine in total you’re
Meant to decorate vases
That’s what’s intended for ladies your age
And if you don’t now, before you know, it’s too late
it’s
What’s best for the family
What you’ll need to sleep sound
Stability, a man, I implore
Settle down.
Red
Shame my name is Shame, did you hear my name? Shame.
Go ahead and pretend
Like I’m not your best friend
And you’re framed
And I don’t mean the kind that accompanies fame;
In pictures and paints, choruses, verses, bridges, refrains.
Shame, Shame, Shame.
Watch me use you to beat the last two big bosses’ game
Because I am used to being me
and them
Whoever they is
Underestimatin
Don’t underestimate this
I’m serious
What I’ve overcome, what shall be overcame
As if it’s those sad fools who aren’t already
Kneeling, quaint, quiet, humble and meek
Rendered complete in submission to me
Depression, Expectations, they’re a pawn, my playthings
I have turned to advantage, I’m practiced,
I trained
And what I have learned through years of them trying to drain,
Before I transformed them to fait accompli,
Is
I am the one who will win this thing.
Stronger, more resilient, than an infinite train
Of negative thoughts that want
To overcome me.
It’s a struggle, daily,
And I am not ashamed,
But don’t get me wrong
In general, I’m happy
Mostly.
1989
This chapter is Bliss, and Bliss is my friend.
Biss is the one I come back to again and again
It’s funny, it’s sexy, bangers, whimsical, mercurial
The bad ass bitch attitude I want at my funeral.
Ah me, poor old me, watch me dream in the coffin
Whichever is highest priced, my estate bought it
Bounosera’d my makeup, every penny spend it all and
After these eulogies,
Be right back,
Shook it off.
Death is a joke, play my songs on repeat
Loop them or shuffle, chop and screw,
This sick beat
I stole every word
And what the hell if I did!?
Like I’m worried that your version
Could come close to this
Puhhlease.
I hereby copyright, trademark
All the article
Adjectives.
Oh my god, oh no, no! What have I become
I sound like the voice I thought I’d overcome
What will it take? When will I be clean
Of refracted, bad aspects I detest about me
Distortions of light, Tralfamadorian beings
So it goes, I don’t care, just embrace being me
If they don’t track the ideas that I’m trying to convey
Or hear lighted-hearted winks in the rhymes I’m slanting
Past the first chapter they probably stopped reading
I’m writing, not ranting.
From here I’ll consider it you here with me
Still not out of the woods.
If people don’t like what you’re doing
But still pay attention with their shut-ups and booing
Tell them to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut
at the moons
Of Saturn and Jupiter
Counting stars on our back
In the weeeeeeeeeds!
Come on, get in the sandbox let’s get our hands bloody
Dirty.
Up next is a word that kept me up worried
More than anyone who truly knows me has seen
Why I let it wreck my whole world, retrospect
Hindsight twenty-twenty, there’s another cliche
If anyone else ever uses they owe me money
Crank that shit to one hundred, unbroke, opine,
I’m clean
Finally; free to be me
…With my big-ass–
Reputation
A few more inches than three.
What they tried to take when I gave them Miley,
Lana, Salena, Lorde, Maren, Charlie XC, next
Is exactly who guest started,
Never awkward
she’s my ex.
Maybe they’ll write about that
Shocking! Jarring!
I meant guest starred, don’t worry,
we’re just let’s get it started, starting
and who was influencing
And who I’m pretty damn sure I influenced
Can you tell, have you notice
I enjoy writing.
We enjoy farting.
Among gajillions of others, enough of name dropping
Switch up the rhythm and rhyme, now I’m yawning
I swear to God, Josh, defragment, hard reset
Get restarted, installing…
Updates;
I can pull back, reflect, publicfigurehood
Unanticipated, advil, anvil, little miss misunderstood
The Steinway ball grand that crashed onto the hood
From forty stories up, you must use it for good!
Is the first thought that passed through my good-girl brainwaves
And then how I could capitalize on it for frank, self-enriching, blataint.
Can’t breach Reputation and not broach revenge
Almost all of their favorites, that’s where the story is
So I write singing poems implying it’s him
The one that I’m with or one from where we begined
I wonder how many imagine me naked
And what lucid looks in their wildest dreams
I’ve lived through a few, I can’t sleep, lurid scenes
Oh the places, goodness gracious, beyond vivid,
We’ll go
Unconcealing the magic, the love we make, live in it
Strait to the bedroom right after the show
Blasting straight through the ceiling, the orgasm kind
Of you're quite welcome feelings
That’s kind of sexy, if you think about yours
Made you think about mine.
All the people I made feel scream my name, stimulated,
I’m not the first one, Tammy Wynette big time biznaded
I’m back on the tabloid biz, not sexspiracies
I get distracted when your body, I’m picturing
With the help of the nudes that I hacked from your phone
And I don’t feel guilty, showed my friends, it’s a thicken
And the people I worked with were well-versed, experienced
On how to turn tabloid, steering big media narratives
What they see, shadow me, almost all of reality is what is perceived
One oh One it is true, when people believe you
Sophomore year if it bleeds then it leads, sells as much as it needs to
The real you, authenticity, and they won’t stop believin’ in
The person about whom they’ve been relentlessly gossiping
And admiring for a plethora, years, myriad reasons,
It’s ok if you use those SAT words all four seasons
Since their parents were way younger
Than now when they first had them
And bought their sweets, kids, awesome, big sexy
Expensive tickets
Backstage passes, world tours, international contours
I’m more than one thing, through it all I endure
It’s a whole lot to maintain, but I’m used to it, for sure
the center of attention, guitar, piano, vocals
Sustain, and now for the important. Show stoppers
To entertain, slow down and put yourself for moment, my place on the stage
Think of a whole, whole, whole bunch of arenas
Multiple nights, tens of thousands of people
And you are very, very, very, quite real literal
The epic center of attention
That is, for real is,
Not for the easily intimidated
And I don’t mind being proud of
My big-ass…
…Reputation
Dear,
Lover
Dramatic actress who thinks she is fat, I was way too hard on myself,
I’m Fearless remember, I don’t mind writing about that
And I honestly believed that, and sometimes I still do it, and I know that it’s stupid
I mean look at me dressed up on TV,
I am fucking chock-full of beaut.
But I still feel that way, and I still think I suck
Before I release my new songs
I throw up, I am anxious, and I sleep even less
And I feel those feelings and then feel like an idiot
again
Because deep down I’m convinced
that I am the best at this.
Being me.
It’s snowballed so much, I’m not yet thirty-five
In or out of touch, I’m locked into this ride
One thing I am not, you should not be deluded
That any of this crazy life I planned or concluded
I do scheme, I do play, layer themes, tones, ideas
And I think it’s fun and funny to mystify them
God knows that’s something I’m still learning to live with
A lot of these kids call me mom and I really do love them
I’ve met several sweet boys and men convinced they are my husband
And maybe they we’re, are, can you prove who wasn’t?
Here’s the two shits that I give, who knows what is pretend
I mean come on at this point I just have to roll with
Consequences I did not intend setting out
Was I supposed to stop writing, go silent?
Or lie and say
You can’t take at face value what comes out my mouth?
Keep in mind, I'm an artist. That’s what I’m about
And pursuing that dream is the vast majority reason
A girl from a small town
For once not from the south
Well, kinda the south
Of Pennsylvania
And then I guess it was the south
Well the north/south of north America
This is me playing…
When she got really famous
Anyways, how
her life turned out
And
Into magnificent, enchanted
Folklore
Seasons, holidays, vacations, hotels
The dim light of my laptop, coyotes, yips, yelps
Mountains, Montana, plains, Tennessee
Memphis, Arkansas, Canada, Beijing
Sticks, stones, I Ching, Tarot, Tao
Fifty-one solitairewallpaper, kangerowls
In my mid-autumn life, dark mist, forest I found
After psilosylabiic, rhythmic visions settled, calmed down
A rolled away boulder, red-hoodied stranger
Cowled masking a scowl insisted, whispered
He knew the way out…
Entranced, seal, behind us, fangs, split tongues
Splintered and slipped and tripped through rips
Cracks and creases in limestone fracked
Blasted, suffocating, sand, water, chemicals
Plastic; entombed a century, two
Perfect preserved until all who knew you
Died in the myriad ways people do
Gasping for breath, naked, alone, but alive
Follow the river into sunrise and a
Brave New World.
The third morning, starving, a village emerged
A red-headed boy gingered up with a girl
Of equivalent height, face-structure, stature
Siamese twins, what on earth does that matter?!
Please bring me some bread, please bring me a blanket
I pleaded and begged, no avail, what’s she saying
Is the meaning betrayed on their face in translation
The scamps skittered back to their ramshackle house
Composed of sticks, mud, square, bricks, in the center of town
I don’t care what it looks like, I just need a shirt
For the vision impaired, everywhere was deserted
Gentle puff, puffs of smoke from a whole thatched in the roof
Was the sole indication, where to go what to do
Woods whispered, kids giggled in faint lighted triangles
They threw out some rags covered shoulders to ankles
I made the sign food, recognized, universal
Slid a bowl of clam chowder, the best in the world
Desperately downed, then irrevocably out
Awoke three days later, gagged, tied, strapped and bound.
In vitruvian fashion, crucified far above, the next tallest tree
The sun’s coming up.
Illuminate faces stare angry, arms numb
Railroad spikes through my souls
Needles knit palms to thumbs
Thighs throbbing, breasts pulsing
Skin shimmering, pristine,
Toenails trimmed, fingerpainted
Purple, red, turquoise, green streaks
Every inch I could see
Pubic hair braided, manicured, neat
Hooped my ears
Forked my tongue
Studded eyebrows,nipples, lips, genitals
In the world I left behind
I’d be presumed criminal
And this one as well
As the morning rolled on
I could see the pacific
From the top of Hyperion
I violently screamed
The ocean of faces returned my shrieks
In trios of threes
And showed me no mercy
Ritual
Murdered
Me
….
Evermore
The old me at least, recovered and gazed at myself in the leak
Is a joke about mirrors, I won’t mention who imbue them to portals
For parallel dimensions.
And admired my body modded, metamorphosed transformation
The permanent ink emphasized all the places
I prayed for development when I was kid
I filled out where I wanted good god look at this
Pierced, adorned everywhere I’d often fantasized it
What a fit, curvy
Prime ass, hips and tits
A pure, picturesque portrait
This world’s peak
Specimen
I’ve become what that is
You can see me complete through your eye with no lid
Take your time too, admire it
And feel free to embrace me in divine sublime bliss supreme
A masterful painted alternative being
Where one thumb once was, I’ve been blessed with three
And the fork in my tongue
Against my will has been done
I would not take it back each side of it was
Restrained by born, form, forced to be one
Each operates full independent, it’s twin wants
To lick probe and twist
While it’s sister can bend, grind, prong, taste and flick
Oh my lantis just imagine what I can do with this
Once I find someone sexy, fun to use it on, with
Not to mention the new notes I can sing, myriad
Not to mention the myriad new notes I can sing;
Undiscovered before, the language I speak
Would enable me easily to conquer the world
Though it seems what existed, all that came before
Has crumbled on epic scale tower of Babel
From what I can tell The leftovers have been saddled
With varied degrees of debilitate senses
Mute and deaf burdened the siamese twinses
The witchdoctor kids responsible for all this
I gazed vainly a final time, lost in the leak
If I was another, I’d be real into me…
While the villagers are blinded or limbs withered, curld
Still handicapped what on earth happened here?
Still getting my bearings
Oh my god, can’t stop staring
In the infantile recovering phase of this postapocalypt world
While in Dante's cave I was consumed and preserved
And he ritual I thought would be my demise
Was intended to symbolize
An ancient God’s rise
From the tomb.
Is the vibe
that I’m getting from the siamese
Two mutes
Thus far I can’t tell if I’m the only one whommmm
Survived
My very deep sleep,
very many long
Midnights
Long ago…
Cast
Quinn - The boy next door
Celia - The prom queen
Effie - Not the prom queen
Eustace - The prom king
Violet - Quinn’s twin sister
Turk - A big frat daddy
Easy - The English major
Tim McGraw
McGraw, Tim
Is whose music
we were listenin
Something about dying
Like it’s worth living
And playing
again
On the outside
Looking in
To three summers back
Or don’t take the girl
I love that
Called it our song
It was one of his weepy ones
and we both cried
And I cried, I cried
Just like our mammas cried
For you
Hello from the other side
D.a.r.e. you to kiss me and ran when you tried.
When I’ll be eighty-seven, you’ll be eighty-nine
Haha, the way you laugh
State the obvious
That’s a hilarious
rhyme.
You’re such an old soul though
I think your age might be greater than mine
Should’ve said
I just turned twenty-two
You’re more like twenty-five
Oh no
I hate that
I’m just a girl
Invisible
With no time for tears
While I’m just sitting here
Planning my revenge
He’s not especially interested in
The trinket I that he should get
Our lifelong love is what it
Supposed symbolizes
This album that we’re vibing
as if
I’m just being honest
It’s starting
To sound like a yawner
To me
too
Yet
There’s fireworks on the horizon
It is late though, you through it
I caught it
Don’t know why
It’s like no matter what
I do
Like you can reach out and
Touch it
With you
The sparks
What is and isn’t
And flames
True
Like a freaky, mighty
dragon painted, panted
panting, painting
Purring, swerving, curling, curly, cursive
In bright, white, technicolor light flittering flickering shimmering glittering fire
across the midnight
sky
Can you imagine the mind
That learned to write
Like that
I mean
Look at that.
Take a picture for me
So I can save it for a rainy day.
And I kissed her
When I should have
Picture to Burn/Should’ve Said No
Tell Me Why
Are they dragging me down or are they holding me up
The fingers clawing at my ankles the soft side of my knee and butt
I’m not sure if this is working but
I’m gonna try anyway
And I’ve got this drinking thing
I’ve started working on
That might just get the best of me
Before it’s all over
I’ve got control over it
For now.
And there stands the glass
That I now will make me feel better
Before I get to work, starting class
Especially after working hours are done
And I’ll be damned if you can convince me
It isn’t fun
When you start wondering come back
And read this one.
Fearless
Hey Stephen/You Belong With Me
I forgave you and I shouldn’t have
Let you parade over me
Rain all over my magnificent
Pale pink two faced fake
Divine
Masquerade
And I can be vicious
Like you’ve never seen
Give it some time, let me set the scene
I can be very, very
….
Love Story
I know you call it a crutch, something I rest on ease my brain
Beautiful you knew they way it keeps me from going insane
You might second guess giving my poor liver a break
My lungs inhale the smoke, my emotions are contained
And I don’t have to be so mean.
Speak Now
…Is how poetic impressions between our seven players would go
Tell us their story, one of the blind children spoke.
I’d be happy to, though, before we get started you should probably know
It’s not as dramatic, bombastic, or glamorous as it looked on the, oh
What I’m talking about, they don’t even know
Well, I guess, in that case, let’s get on with the show.
Enchanted
Quinn was my brother, at school, my best friend
Even though it’s not like he needed me, his twin
Was named Violet like the color of some flowers
Here, feel the petals, they smell sweet
Pass them around
The theater ruins, filled to the brim
With deaf, dumb and blind kids listenin in
Their myriad of ways
They taught each other to do it
Understand what I’m saying
Anyways
Violet, Quinn and I, us three, thick as thieves
I paused and supposed they would know what that means
We’re not idioms!
Idiots, not idioms, a cherub’s voice up in the trees clarified!
22
I’d be lying to say I didn’t suspect his feelings for me
Leaned toward romance he wanted to increase
My belief in what a funny, cool, nice guy he could be
And he was, but I wasn’t had my eyes on another
Plusonefriend zoned him pigeon holed him as brother
I already knew we was sticking around, I had time, sow my oats
There was too much fun to be found anywhere else
Than our sleepy, small town.
All Too Well
Celia walked down the aisle sobbing then smiled next to Quinn
Nobody I knew could believe that she ended up with him
Way out of his league.
I forgot about him
He remembered me.
Violet smirked, I smoked and drank
And cringed at the assholey speech
What Turk was saying
Easy inquired, sourcing my scowl…
Couldn’t hide, there’s no way
She shouldn’t have even shown her face in this place
Is what Eustace was thinking
…Trying to pry out my thoughts for some piece
He was writing
I had another drink
And cried in private
After the reception
Bad Blood
Reminisced over college, high school, kinder years
Played soccer with Celia down the road from here
They still know about soccer, I guess kicking balls
Is something that mankind has enjoyed for all
Time, it’s ageless, even checkers and chess
Survived the collapse, there’s no internet
Dust to wind, what happened, someone flipped the switch
It was probably Trump or someone like him
Either way, all that’s left, sparse, sporadic, blind tribes
Rumors abound they’ve been trying to find
The proof there are other survivors like me
Thus far I’m alone in this handicapped sea
Wasteland of children
Whatever the hell happened it’s like earth went back to the beginnin
of time
With only piecemeal patchwork faint revenant memories of mine
Wildest Dreams
Welcome to New York read the sign on our road trip
To scout if the schools there were safe for us to go there
NYU is the one where my big sister went
Then let’s check it out first, and I wonder if
It’s anything like the time when there she went
Nostalgia blooms blossomed, turn right, steer it in
Over there is the film school, wait, now which building is
The one where they serve all the food to the kids?
- Effie cringed at the grammar, turned to the kids.
Here’s the secret, which time period is this one set in?
Me!
I forgot you existed. I forgot going out. I forgot who you’re with. I forgot on the town.
I forgot to get back where. I forgot I belonged. I forgot to return. Forgot all our songs.
I forgot about high school. I forgot about friends. Forgot who I was. Forget how it ends. Forget if you know. Forget whose left behind. Forget what you did. Forget the hard times. Forgot who you are. Forget who you were. Forget getting over. Forget being hurt. Forget who forgot. Forget you in return. Forget the dumb fight. Forget what you said. Forget he’s the one. Forgot who got away. Forget it, don’t, click, confirmed, RSVP.
Lover
This was our flat is what Easy would say
Isn’t that what happens to tires or one of these things
A feral child peg-legged at a roach into the concrete it retreated
No, Easy meant like a place where you live
That’s what people on the other side of that used to call them
And now that I think about it, doesn’t really make sense
Likebecause they’re stacked like pancakes on top of each other
That’s probably where it came
From
Mirrorball
Eustace and Turk, galavants two pints downed, strapped on their navy blue blazers, burp, beard wipe, stumbled out onto the sidewalk.
Celia, Quinn, myself and Easy were laughing at both of them, Eustace got queasy, leaned into the gap, put his hands on knees barfs turned to dry heaving.
I could have saved him, grabbed his coattail yanked him back!
The L train was grumbling, and I thought and said, nah, fuck that, let it smack
Just like that
The conductor was sleeping and speeding
Needless to say not needlessly folks were quite mad
That’s the night I determined that I needed Quinn back
Full on estranged til they finally invited me back
To their ugly wedding
So envy for Ceily not just why my face looked like that
I elaborated to Easy after, crap, dang, gosh darn it
Instinctually reached up
Snatched the garter
Did you notice
Believe it?
I caught it.
Betty
A comedy of errors should end with a wedding
Who taught you that, why not some other setting
It’s the rules tragedy has to end with a funeral
Don’t we need more errors uncanny, unusual
There’s probably some plot hole that I missed
Let’s just get to the end, ,and pretend I did it,
On purpose.
Ivy
Methinks I don’t protest enough,
just how much the ivy was
Overgrowing all the office buildings,
campfires and monkeys
Like that one where they blow up the credit card companies
Long Story Short
We had crazy movies where those things that are shaped
Kind of like
Orangutangs!
One of the blind kids proudly proclaimed!
I was going to say—
No those are Lemurs!
IT IS NOT! CHECK THE TAIL!
Barefisted kicking and fists flew
I failed
Once again
Intercede!
Let them finish.
They rustled around
The bigger one won
One of them tooted
Chimps, Lemurs hooted,
Parked on a curb
A jaguar purred.
–Kinda like us…
None of them listened
had laser beams
I grumbled
…….
Anti-Hero
Go suck a toe, there’s still not a partner for me
I made it two hundred, who knows, how many years
And trapped with the monsters that did this to me
I still do look great though, she checked out her rear
The glare of the sunset manifested a leak
In the window below a sign “Morgan Stanley”
The reason I ran into those woods was my life
Was at a dead end, going nowhere lonely and known
As the girl who killed the biggest jerk north, east, south, or west one.
I guess this is just, Effie grimaced, grit her teet, brow furled at God
What she default called something powerful enough for it all to cause
For there not to be some greater power absolute, one hundred, impossible.
The kids all ran off, oh gee great, something else, super awesome
There's still no one here, not a partner for me, go suck a toe.
Heard that you’re into that kind of thing.
Bejeweled
Behold! Four horsewomen, pale Mustang, Stallions black
Had been tracking their progress for seven miles back
The children crouched, cowered evening shadows bushes
Effie tramped on grouching griping and brooding
They circled her, swerved, dismounted, despeared
We found you, the rumors were true, laughing, tears
I was confused but went along with the party
Guess I’ll get into girls now, at least they are hotties
And some witch somewhere similar altered their bodies
Don’t worry, we found you, the first one exclaimed
We’re taking you home, on the way we’ll explain
We have no clue, zilch, zero, why we’re trapped in this place
We wanted a boy, but good gracious, you’ll do
We wanted a boy, but you’ll do, goodness grace
You look great
Four undressed her with eyes just like three one and two
Is there one here it’s been one hundred two years
Only one back at camp,
Guess we all have to share.
Stay, Stay, Stay/All You Had To Do Was Stay
So now I split my time twixt my kids and the six
Keep each other happy, he’s quite adequate
There’s rumors the forest recent birthed a seventh
Wait, no, eighth
Ho, Westward, Ho! Migrate nomads, Westward Ho!
We sing silly songs, reminisce with each other
If it weren’t for vaginas, we’d be a band of brothers.
Shake it off/Blank Space
And I’ll write your name…
– Taylor Swift
2022.11.08 09:00 International-Sir464 A Comedy of Eras (3am Edition)
A Comedy of Eras
...I wrote a poem
Let’s all attack the most vicious refrains
That haunt all our histories, consume and maintain
A pernicious, profound hold and ubiquitous place
Burrowed deep in the soul of nearly all of our friends
Let’s be the heroes a whole bunch of kids need.
– Taylor Swift
I am Depression, the most nefarious villain.
You will never be good enough, and all your phony winnin
Sounds like word salad, your success is an exercise in
Illusion, networkin, marketin, lies and mythmakin
Every time you thought about killing yourself
If we’re keeping score, the numbers would run out
While wallowing, shame, self-pity, like no one would help
That was me, it’s still me, the pain, you’re oldfriend
Fill it up to the brim
If honestly you’re honestly wracking your brain
That’s kind of my thing.
The best at, I am
Remembering.
Self-loathting, self-pity, constant begs for attention
Try to ignore me, pretend I’m not serious
Then wake up one day with several self-medicated
Self-inflicted wounds and would-be benign maladdictions
Deluding yourself that I don’t exist and
I’m not malignant
Blaming everyone else for you not doing anything
Whine, call it struggle, I’ll reveal your obsequious
Ego, self-serving, you didn’t need any of us
To me commitment, the big boss
You’ll need more than one chapter
Before you can just chase me off
Everything you have achieved is your own
See how pervasive my power has grown
And turned from a butterfly back to a worm
You were better off before noone ever heard
A single chorus or bridge, melody or a verse
Ignored me, now I’m your whole universe
And all that it took was a few negative words
A few mean passing thoughts, for me to consume your
Whole development
As an artist a human is owing to me
And how my cruel machinations have trained you to think
I dare you to try
I am the boss
Who cannot be beat.
Fearless
I’ll write till you’re gone or full-front exposed
Until everyone who ever has to deal with you knows
That even if I learned a mountain from you
They can be free from the wicked you do
And move on to more important suits
What kind of person wants to only play hearts
When there’s diamonds, clubs, spades, wands, cups, coins and swords
Mix them all up into a joyful noise!
And bypass all your misery
So the young girls and boys
Can enjoy
A happier existence
Than what I admit
You helped
Facilitated
And keep in the back of your exceptional head
This is for entertainment
What I created
The tools in my belt
What I showed up with
And did the best
I knew how
Speak Now
You two should get married, you two should have kids
You two should close listen
To the words elders give
I know that it’s easy to blow off, ignore
The advice of seven corny generations before
With stereotypical, sage, syntax heteronormed
With sage, stereosyntaxl, heteronormative advice
It’s not like they know how hard, what love and living is like
And no, about everything, they’re often not right
But I have to agree, if that happened, to me
That would be tight.
I know right!?
You see?
My name’s Expectations, and I’m an evil bitch too
I know what is best, mom’s the plinth, the source who
Is actually reflected across a plethora of faces
…That’s one way to perceive this
Overbearing mothering
Archetypes for the ages
Please don’t forget about her well-known
divine graces
She loves you much more than–
Words can’t explain it…
Who imagine in total you’re
Meant to decorate vases
That’s what’s intended for ladies your age
And if you don’t now, before you know, it’s too late
it’s
What’s best for the family
What you’ll need to sleep sound
Stability, a man, I implore
Settle down.
Red
Shame my name is Shame, did you hear my name? Shame.
Go ahead and pretend
Like I’m not your best friend
And you’re framed
And I don’t mean the kind that accompanies fame;
In pictures and paints, choruses, verses, bridges, refrains.
Shame, Shame, Shame.
Watch me use you to beat the last two big bosses’ game
Because I am used to being me
and them
Whoever they is
Underestimatin
Don’t underestimate this
I’m serious
What I’ve overcome, what shall be overcame
As if it’s those sad fools who aren’t already
Kneeling, quaint, quiet, humble and meek
Rendered complete in submission to me
Depression, Expectations, they’re a pawn, my playthings
I have turned to advantage, I’m practiced,
I trained
And what I have learned through years of them trying to drain,
Before I transformed them to fait accompli,
Is
I am the one who will win this thing.
Stronger, more resilient, than an infinite train
Of negative thoughts that want
To overcome me.
It’s a struggle, daily,
And I am not ashamed,
But don’t get me wrong
In general, I’m happy
Mostly.
1989
This chapter is Bliss, and Bliss is my friend.
Biss is the one I come back to again and again
It’s funny, it’s sexy, bangers, whimsical, mercurial
The bad ass bitch attitude I want at my funeral.
Ah me, poor old me, watch me dream in the coffin
Whichever is highest priced, my estate bought it
Bounosera’d my makeup, every penny spend it all and
After these eulogies,
Be right back,
Shook it off.
Death is a joke, play my songs on repeat
Loop them or shuffle, chop and screw,
This sick beat
I stole every word
And what the hell if I did!?
Like I’m worried that your version
Could come close to this
Puhhlease.
I hereby copyright, trademark
All the article
Adjectives.
Oh my god, oh no, no! What have I become
I sound like the voice I thought I’d overcome
What will it take? When will I be clean
Of refracted, bad aspects I detest about me
Distortions of light, Tralfamadorian beings
So it goes, I don’t care, just embrace being me
If they don’t track the ideas that I’m trying to convey
Or hear lighted-hearted winks in the rhymes I’m slanting
Past the first chapter they probably stopped reading
I’m writing, not ranting.
From here I’ll consider it you here with me
Still not out of the woods.
If people don’t like what you’re doing
But still pay attention with their shut-ups and booing
Tell them to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut
at the moons
Of Saturn and Jupiter
Counting stars on our back
In the weeeeeeeeeds!
Come on, get in the sandbox let’s get our hands bloody
Dirty.
Up next is a word that kept me up worried
More than anyone who truly knows me has seen
Why I let it wreck my whole world, retrospect
Hindsight twenty-twenty, there’s another cliche
If anyone else ever uses they owe me money
Crank that shit to one hundred, unbroke, opine,
I’m clean
Finally; free to be me
…With my big-ass–
Reputation
A few more inches than three.
What they tried to take when I gave them Miley,
Lana, Salena, Lorde, Maren, Charlie XC, next
Is exactly who guest started,
Never awkward
she’s my ex.
Maybe they’ll write about that
Shocking! Jarring!
I meant guest starred, don’t worry,
we’re just let’s get it started, starting
and who was influencing
And who I’m pretty damn sure I influenced
Can you tell, have you notice
I enjoy writing.
We enjoy farting.
Among gajillions of others, enough of name dropping
Switch up the rhythm and rhyme, now I’m yawning
I swear to God, Josh, defragment, hard reset
Get restarted, installing…
Updates;
I can pull back, reflect, publicfigurehood
Unanticipated, advil, anvil, little miss misunderstood
The Steinway ball grand that crashed onto the hood
From forty stories up, you must use it for good!
Is the first thought that passed through my good-girl brainwaves
And then how I could capitalize on it for frank, self-enriching, blataint.
Can’t breach Reputation and not broach revenge
Almost all of their favorites, that’s where the story is
So I write singing poems implying it’s him
The one that I’m with or one from where we begined
I wonder how many imagine me naked
And what lucid looks in their wildest dreams
I’ve lived through a few, I can’t sleep, lurid scenes
Oh the places, goodness gracious, beyond vivid,
We’ll go
Unconcealing the magic, the love we make, live in it
Strait to the bedroom right after the show
Blasting straight through the ceiling, the orgasm kind
Of you're quite welcome feelings
That’s kind of sexy, if you think about yours
Made you think about mine.
All the people I made feel scream my name, stimulated,
I’m not the first one, Tammy Wynette big time biznaded
I’m back on the tabloid biz, not sexspiracies
I get distracted when your body, I’m picturing
With the help of the nudes that I hacked from your phone
And I don’t feel guilty, showed my friends, it’s a thicken
And the people I worked with were well-versed, experienced
On how to turn tabloid, steering big media narratives
What they see, shadow me, almost all of reality is what is perceived
One oh One it is true, when people believe you
Sophomore year if it bleeds then it leads, sells as much as it needs to
The real you, authenticity, and they won’t stop believin’ in
The person about whom they’ve been relentlessly gossiping
And admiring for a plethora, years, myriad reasons,
It’s ok if you use those SAT words all four seasons
Since their parents were way younger
Than now when they first had them
And bought their sweets, kids, awesome, big sexy
Expensive tickets
Backstage passes, world tours, international contours
I’m more than one thing, through it all I endure
It’s a whole lot to maintain, but I’m used to it, for sure
the center of attention, guitar, piano, vocals
Sustain, and now for the important. Show stoppers
To entertain, slow down and put yourself for moment, my place on the stage
Think of a whole, whole, whole bunch of arenas
Multiple nights, tens of thousands of people
And you are very, very, very, quite real literal
The epic center of attention
That is, for real is,
Not for the easily intimidated
And I don’t mind being proud of
My big-ass…
…Reputation
Dear,
Lover
Dramatic actress who thinks she is fat, I was way too hard on myself,
I’m Fearless remember, I don’t mind writing about that
And I honestly believed that, and sometimes I still do it, and I know that it’s stupid
I mean look at me dressed up on TV,
I am fucking chock-full of beaut.
But I still feel that way, and I still think I suck
Before I release my new songs
I throw up, I am anxious, and I sleep even less
And I feel those feelings and then feel like an idiot
again
Because deep down I’m convinced
that I am the best at this.
Being me.
It’s snowballed so much, I’m not yet thirty-five
In or out of touch, I’m locked into this ride
One thing I am not, you should not be deluded
That any of this crazy life I planned or concluded
I do scheme, I do play, layer themes, tones, ideas
And I think it’s fun and funny to mystify them
God knows that’s something I’m still learning to live with
A lot of these kids call me mom and I really do love them
I’ve met several sweet boys and men convinced they are my husband
And maybe they we’re, are, can you prove who wasn’t?
Here’s the two shits that I give, who knows what is pretend
I mean come on at this point I just have to roll with
Consequences I did not intend setting out
Was I supposed to stop writing, go silent?
Or lie and say
You can’t take at face value what comes out my mouth?
Keep in mind, I'm an artist. That’s what I’m about
And pursuing that dream is the vast majority reason
A girl from a small town
For once not from the south
Well, kinda the south
Of Pennsylvania
And then I guess it was the south
Well the north/south of north America
This is me playing…
When she got really famous
Anyways, how
her life turned out
And
Into magnificent, enchanted
Folklore
Seasons, holidays, vacations, hotels
The dim light of my laptop, coyotes, yips, yelps
Mountains, Montana, plains, Tennessee
Memphis, Arkansas, Canada, Beijing
Sticks, stones, I Ching, Tarot, Tao
Fifty-one solitairewallpaper, kangerowls
In my mid-autumn life, dark mist, forest I found
After psilosylabiic, rhythmic visions settled, calmed down
A rolled away boulder, red-hoodied stranger
Cowled masking a scowl insisted, whispered
He knew the way out…
Entranced, seal, behind us, fangs, split tongues
Splintered and slipped and tripped through rips
Cracks and creases in limestone fracked
Blasted, suffocating, sand, water, chemicals
Plastic; entombed a century, two
Perfect preserved until all who knew you
Died in the myriad ways people do
Gasping for breath, naked, alone, but alive
Follow the river into sunrise and a
Brave New World.
The third morning, starving, a village emerged
A red-headed boy gingered up with a girl
Of equivalent height, face-structure, stature
Siamese twins, what on earth does that matter?!
Please bring me some bread, please bring me a blanket
I pleaded and begged, no avail, what’s she saying
Is the meaning betrayed on their face in translation
The scamps skittered back to their ramshackle house
Composed of sticks, mud, square, bricks, in the center of town
I don’t care what it looks like, I just need a shirt
For the vision impaired, everywhere was deserted
Gentle puff, puffs of smoke from a whole thatched in the roof
Was the sole indication, where to go what to do
Woods whispered, kids giggled in faint lighted triangles
They threw out some rags covered shoulders to ankles
I made the sign food, recognized, universal
Slid a bowl of clam chowder, the best in the world
Desperately downed, then irrevocably out
Awoke three days later, gagged, tied, strapped and bound.
In vitruvian fashion, crucified far above, the next tallest tree
The sun’s coming up.
Illuminate faces stare angry, arms numb
Railroad spikes through my souls
Needles knit palms to thumbs
Thighs throbbing, breasts pulsing
Skin shimmering, pristine,
Toenails trimmed, fingerpainted
Purple, red, turquoise, green streaks
Every inch I could see
Pubic hair braided, manicured, neat
Hooped my ears
Forked my tongue
Studded eyebrows,nipples, lips, genitals
In the world I left behind
I’d be presumed criminal
And this one as well
As the morning rolled on
I could see the pacific
From the top of Hyperion
I violently screamed
The ocean of faces returned my shrieks
In trios of threes
And showed me no mercy
Ritual
Murdered
Me
….
Evermore
The old me at least, recovered and gazed at myself in the leak
Is a joke about mirrors, I won’t mention who imbue them to portals
For parallel dimensions.
And admired my body modded, metamorphosed transformation
The permanent ink emphasized all the places
I prayed for development when I was kid
I filled out where I wanted good god look at this
Pierced, adorned everywhere I’d often fantasized it
What a fit, curvy
Prime ass, hips and tits
A pure, picturesque portrait
This world’s peak
Specimen
I’ve become what that is
You can see me complete through your eye with no lid
Take your time too, admire it
And feel free to embrace me in divine sublime bliss supreme
A masterful painted alternative being
Where one thumb once was, I’ve been blessed with three
And the fork in my tongue
Against my will has been done
I would not take it back each side of it was
Restrained by born, form, forced to be one
Each operates full independent, it’s twin wants
To lick probe and twist
While it’s sister can bend, grind, prong, taste and flick
Oh my lantis just imagine what I can do with this
Once I find someone sexy, fun to use it on, with
Not to mention the new notes I can sing, myriad
Not to mention the myriad new notes I can sing;
Undiscovered before, the language I speak
Would enable me easily to conquer the world
Though it seems what existed, all that came before
Has crumbled on epic scale tower of Babel
From what I can tell The leftovers have been saddled
With varied degrees of debilitate senses
Mute and deaf burdened the siamese twinses
The witchdoctor kids responsible for all this
I gazed vainly a final time, lost in the leak
If I was another, I’d be real into me…
While the villagers are blinded or limbs withered, curld
Still handicapped what on earth happened here?
Still getting my bearings
Oh my god, can’t stop staring
In the infantile recovering phase of this postapocalypt world
While in Dante's cave I was consumed and preserved
And he ritual I thought would be my demise
Was intended to symbolize
An ancient God’s rise
From the tomb.
Is the vibe
that I’m getting from the siamese
Two mutes
Thus far I can’t tell if I’m the only one whommmm
Survived
My very deep sleep,
very many long
Midnights
Long ago…
Cast
Quinn - The boy next door
Celia - The prom queen
Effie - Not the prom queen
Eustace - The prom king
Violet - Quinn’s twin sister
Turk - A big frat daddy
Easy - The English major
Tim McGraw
McGraw, Tim
Is whose music
we were listenin
Something about dying
Like it’s worth living
And playing
again
On the outside
Looking in
To three summers back
Or don’t take the girl
I love that
Called it our song
It was one of his weepy ones
and we both cried
And I cried, I cried
Just like our mammas cried
For you
Hello from the other side
D.a.r.e. you to kiss me and ran when you tried.
When I’ll be eighty-seven, you’ll be eighty-nine
Haha, the way you laugh
State the obvious
That’s a hilarious
rhyme.
You’re such an old soul though
I think your age might be greater than mine
Should’ve said
I just turned twenty-two
You’re more like twenty-five
Oh no
I hate that
I’m just a girl
Invisible
With no time for tears
While I’m just sitting here
Planning my revenge
He’s not especially interested in
The trinket I that he should get
Our lifelong love is what it
Supposed symbolizes
This album that we’re vibing
as if
I’m just being honest
It’s starting
To sound like a yawner
To me
too
Yet
There’s fireworks on the horizon
It is late though, you through it
I caught it
Don’t know why
It’s like no matter what
I do
Like you can reach out and
Touch it
With you
The sparks
What is and isn’t
And flames
True
Like a freaky, mighty
dragon painted, panted
panting, painting
Purring, swerving, curling, curly, cursive
In bright, white, technicolor light flittering flickering shimmering glittering fire
across the midnight
sky
Can you imagine the mind
That learned to write
Like that
I mean
Look at that.
Take a picture for me
So I can save it for a rainy day.
And I kissed her
When I should have
Picture to Burn/Should’ve Said No
Tell Me Why
Are they dragging me down or are they holding me up
The fingers clawing at my ankles the soft side of my knee and butt
I’m not sure if this is working but
I’m gonna try anyway
And I’ve got this drinking thing
I’ve started working on
That might just get the best of me
Before it’s all over
I’ve got control over it
For now.
And there stands the glass
That I now will make me feel better
Before I get to work, starting class
Especially after working hours are done
And I’ll be damned if you can convince me
It isn’t fun
When you start wondering come back
And read this one.
Fearless
Hey Stephen/You Belong With Me
I forgave you and I shouldn’t have
Let you parade over me
Rain all over my magnificent
Pale pink two faced fake
Divine
Masquerade
And I can be vicious
Like you’ve never seen
Give it some time, let me set the scene
I can be very, very
….
Love Story
I know you call it a crutch, something I rest on ease my brain
Beautiful you knew they way it keeps me from going insane
You might second guess giving my poor liver a break
My lungs inhale the smoke, my emotions are contained
And I don’t have to be so mean.
Speak Now
…Is how poetic impressions between our seven players would go
Tell us their story, one of the blind children spoke.
I’d be happy to, though, before we get started you should probably know
It’s not as dramatic, bombastic, or glamorous as it looked on the, oh
What I’m talking about, they don’t even know
Well, I guess, in that case, let’s get on with the show.
Enchanted
Quinn was my brother, at school, my best friend
Even though it’s not like he needed me, his twin
Was named Violet like the color of some flowers
Here, feel the petals, they smell sweet
Pass them around
The theater ruins, filled to the brim
With deaf, dumb and blind kids listenin in
Their myriad of ways
They taught each other to do it
Understand what I’m saying
Anyways
Violet, Quinn and I, us three, thick as thieves
I paused and supposed they would know what that means
We’re not idioms!
Idiots, not idioms, a cherub’s voice up in the trees clarified!
22
I’d be lying to say I didn’t suspect his feelings for me
Leaned toward romance he wanted to increase
My belief in what a funny, cool, nice guy he could be
And he was, but I wasn’t had my eyes on another
Plusonefriend zoned him pigeon holed him as brother
I already knew we was sticking around, I had time, sow my oats
There was too much fun to be found anywhere else
Than our sleepy, small town.
All Too Well
Celia walked down the aisle sobbing then smiled next to Quinn
Nobody I knew could believe that she ended up with him
Way out of his league.
I forgot about him
He remembered me.
Violet smirked, I smoked and drank
And cringed at the assholey speech
What Turk was saying
Easy inquired, sourcing my scowl…
Couldn’t hide, there’s no way
She shouldn’t have even shown her face in this place
Is what Eustace was thinking
…Trying to pry out my thoughts for some piece
He was writing
I had another drink
And cried in private
After the reception
Bad Blood
Reminisced over college, high school, kinder years
Played soccer with Celia down the road from here
They still know about soccer, I guess kicking balls
Is something that mankind has enjoyed for all
Time, it’s ageless, even checkers and chess
Survived the collapse, there’s no internet
Dust to wind, what happened, someone flipped the switch
It was probably Trump or someone like him
Either way, all that’s left, sparse, sporadic, blind tribes
Rumors abound they’ve been trying to find
The proof there are other survivors like me
Thus far I’m alone in this handicapped sea
Wasteland of children
Whatever the hell happened it’s like earth went back to the beginnin
of time
With only piecemeal patchwork faint revenant memories of mine
Wildest Dreams
Welcome to New York read the sign on our road trip
To scout if the schools there were safe to enter
NYU is the one where my big sister went
Then let’s check it out first, and I wonder if
It’s anything like the time when there she went
Nostalgia blooms blossomed, turn right, steer it in
Over there is the film school, wait, now which building is
The one where they serve all the food to the kids?
Here’s the secret, which time period is this one set in?
Me!
I forgot you existed. I forgot going out. I forgot who you’re with. I forgot on the town.
I forgot to get back where. I forgot I belonged. I forgot to return. Forgot all our songs.
I forgot about high school. I forgot about friends. Forgot who I was. Forget how it ends. Forget if you know. Forget whose left behind. Forget what you did. Forget the hard times. Forgot who you are. Forget who you were. Forget getting over. Forget being hurt. Forget who forgot. Forget you in return. Forget the dumb fight. Forget what you said. Forget he’s the one. Forgot who got way. Forget it, don’t, click, confirmed, RSVP.
Lover
This was our flat is what Easy would say
Isn’t that what happens to tires or one of these things
A feral child peg-legged at a roach into the concrete it retreated
No, Easy meant like a place where you live
That’s what people on the other side of that used to call them
And now that I think about it, doesn’t really make sense
Likebecause they’re stacked like pancakes on top of each other
That’s probably where it came
From
Mirrorball
Eustace and Turk, galavants two pints downed, strapped on their navy blue blazers, burp, beard wipe, stumbled out onto the sidewalk.
Celia, Quinn, myself and Easy were laughing at both of them, Eustace got queasy, leaned into the gap, put his hands on knees barfs turned to dry heaving.
I could have saved him, grabbed his coattail yanked him back!
The L train was grumbling, and I thought and said, nah, fuck that, let it smack
Just like that
The conductor was sleeping and speeding
Needless to say not needlessly folks were quite mad
That’s the night I determined that I needed Quinn back
Full on estranged til they finally invited me back
To their ugly wedding
So envy for Ceily not just why my face looked like that
I elaborated to Easy after, crap, dang, gosh darn it
Instinctually reached up
Snatched the garter
Did you notice
Believe it?
I caught it.
Betty
A comedy of errors should end with a wedding
Who taught you that, why not some other setting
It’s the rules tragedy has to end with a funeral
Don’t we need more errors uncanny, unusual
There’s probably some plot hole that I missed
Let’s just get to the end, ,and pretend I did it,
On purpose.
Ivy
Methinks I don’t protest enough,
just how much the ivy was
Overgrowing all the office buildings,
campfires and monkeys
Like that one where they blow up the credit card companies
Long Story Short
We had crazy movies where those things that are shaped
Kind of like
Orangutangs!
One of the blind kids proudly proclaimed!
I was going to say—
No those are Lemurs!
IT IS NOT! CHECK THE TAIL!
Barefisted kicking and fists flew
I failed
Once again
Intercede!
Let them finish.
They rustled around
The bigger one won
One of them tooted
Chimps, Lemurs hooted,
Parked on a curb
A jaguar purred.
–Kinda like us…
None of them listened
had laser beams
I grumbled
…….
Anti-Hero
Go suck a toe, there’s still not a partner for me
I made it two hundred, who knows, how many years
And trapped with the monsters that did this to me
I still do look great though, she checked out her rear
The glare of the sunset manifested a leak
In the window below a sign “Morgan Stanley”
The reason I ran into those woods was my life
Was at a dead end, going nowhere lonely and known
As the girl who killed the biggest jerk north, east, south, or west one.
I guess this is just, Effie grimaced, grit her teet, brow furled at God
What she default called something powerful enough for it all to cause
For there not to be some greater power absolute, one hundred, impossible.
The kids all ran off, oh gee great, something else, super awesome
There's still no one here, not a partner for me, go suck a toe.
Heard that you’re into that kind of thing.
Bejeweled
Behold! Four horsewomen, pale Mustang, Stallions black
Had been tracking their progress for seven miles back
The children crouched, cowered evening shadows bushes
Effie tramped on grouching griping and brooding
They circled her, swerved, dismounted, despeared
We found you, the rumors were true, laughing, tears
I was confused but went along with the party
Guess I’ll get into girls now, at least they are hotties
And some witch somewhere similar altered their bodies
Don’t worry, we found you, the first one exclaimed
We’re taking you home, on the way we’ll explain
We have no clue, zilch, zero, why we’re trapped in this place
We wanted a boy, but good gracious, you’ll do
We wanted a boy, but you’ll do, goodness grace
You look great
Four undressed her with eyes just like three one and two
Is there one here it’s been one hundred two years
Only one back at camp,
Guess we all have to share.
Stay, Stay, Stay/All You Had To Do Was Stay
No I split my time twixt my kids and the six
Keep each other happy, he’s quite adequate
There’s rumors the forest recent birthed a seventh
Ho, Westward, Ho! Migrate nomads, Westward!
We sing silly songs, reminisce with each other
If it weren’t for vaginas, we’d be band of brothers.
Shake it off/Blank Space
And I’ll write your name
...Taylor Swift
submitted by International-Sir464 to popheadscirclejerk [link] [comments]
...I wrote a poem
Let’s all attack the most vicious refrains
That haunt all our histories, consume and maintain
A pernicious, profound hold and ubiquitous place
Burrowed deep in the soul of nearly all of our friends
Let’s be the heroes a whole bunch of kids need.
– Taylor Swift
I am Depression, the most nefarious villain.
You will never be good enough, and all your phony winnin
Sounds like word salad, your success is an exercise in
Illusion, networkin, marketin, lies and mythmakin
Every time you thought about killing yourself
If we’re keeping score, the numbers would run out
While wallowing, shame, self-pity, like no one would help
That was me, it’s still me, the pain, you’re oldfriend
Fill it up to the brim
If honestly you’re honestly wracking your brain
That’s kind of my thing.
The best at, I am
Remembering.
Self-loathting, self-pity, constant begs for attention
Try to ignore me, pretend I’m not serious
Then wake up one day with several self-medicated
Self-inflicted wounds and would-be benign maladdictions
Deluding yourself that I don’t exist and
I’m not malignant
Blaming everyone else for you not doing anything
Whine, call it struggle, I’ll reveal your obsequious
Ego, self-serving, you didn’t need any of us
To me commitment, the big boss
You’ll need more than one chapter
Before you can just chase me off
Everything you have achieved is your own
See how pervasive my power has grown
And turned from a butterfly back to a worm
You were better off before noone ever heard
A single chorus or bridge, melody or a verse
Ignored me, now I’m your whole universe
And all that it took was a few negative words
A few mean passing thoughts, for me to consume your
Whole development
As an artist a human is owing to me
And how my cruel machinations have trained you to think
I dare you to try
I am the boss
Who cannot be beat.
Fearless
I’ll write till you’re gone or full-front exposed
Until everyone who ever has to deal with you knows
That even if I learned a mountain from you
They can be free from the wicked you do
And move on to more important suits
What kind of person wants to only play hearts
When there’s diamonds, clubs, spades, wands, cups, coins and swords
Mix them all up into a joyful noise!
And bypass all your misery
So the young girls and boys
Can enjoy
A happier existence
Than what I admit
You helped
Facilitated
And keep in the back of your exceptional head
This is for entertainment
What I created
The tools in my belt
What I showed up with
And did the best
I knew how
Speak Now
You two should get married, you two should have kids
You two should close listen
To the words elders give
I know that it’s easy to blow off, ignore
The advice of seven corny generations before
With stereotypical, sage, syntax heteronormed
With sage, stereosyntaxl, heteronormative advice
It’s not like they know how hard, what love and living is like
And no, about everything, they’re often not right
But I have to agree, if that happened, to me
That would be tight.
I know right!?
You see?
My name’s Expectations, and I’m an evil bitch too
I know what is best, mom’s the plinth, the source who
Is actually reflected across a plethora of faces
…That’s one way to perceive this
Overbearing mothering
Archetypes for the ages
Please don’t forget about her well-known
divine graces
She loves you much more than–
Words can’t explain it…
Who imagine in total you’re
Meant to decorate vases
That’s what’s intended for ladies your age
And if you don’t now, before you know, it’s too late
it’s
What’s best for the family
What you’ll need to sleep sound
Stability, a man, I implore
Settle down.
Red
Shame my name is Shame, did you hear my name? Shame.
Go ahead and pretend
Like I’m not your best friend
And you’re framed
And I don’t mean the kind that accompanies fame;
In pictures and paints, choruses, verses, bridges, refrains.
Shame, Shame, Shame.
Watch me use you to beat the last two big bosses’ game
Because I am used to being me
and them
Whoever they is
Underestimatin
Don’t underestimate this
I’m serious
What I’ve overcome, what shall be overcame
As if it’s those sad fools who aren’t already
Kneeling, quaint, quiet, humble and meek
Rendered complete in submission to me
Depression, Expectations, they’re a pawn, my playthings
I have turned to advantage, I’m practiced,
I trained
And what I have learned through years of them trying to drain,
Before I transformed them to fait accompli,
Is
I am the one who will win this thing.
Stronger, more resilient, than an infinite train
Of negative thoughts that want
To overcome me.
It’s a struggle, daily,
And I am not ashamed,
But don’t get me wrong
In general, I’m happy
Mostly.
1989
This chapter is Bliss, and Bliss is my friend.
Biss is the one I come back to again and again
It’s funny, it’s sexy, bangers, whimsical, mercurial
The bad ass bitch attitude I want at my funeral.
Ah me, poor old me, watch me dream in the coffin
Whichever is highest priced, my estate bought it
Bounosera’d my makeup, every penny spend it all and
After these eulogies,
Be right back,
Shook it off.
Death is a joke, play my songs on repeat
Loop them or shuffle, chop and screw,
This sick beat
I stole every word
And what the hell if I did!?
Like I’m worried that your version
Could come close to this
Puhhlease.
I hereby copyright, trademark
All the article
Adjectives.
Oh my god, oh no, no! What have I become
I sound like the voice I thought I’d overcome
What will it take? When will I be clean
Of refracted, bad aspects I detest about me
Distortions of light, Tralfamadorian beings
So it goes, I don’t care, just embrace being me
If they don’t track the ideas that I’m trying to convey
Or hear lighted-hearted winks in the rhymes I’m slanting
Past the first chapter they probably stopped reading
I’m writing, not ranting.
From here I’ll consider it you here with me
Still not out of the woods.
If people don’t like what you’re doing
But still pay attention with their shut-ups and booing
Tell them to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut
at the moons
Of Saturn and Jupiter
Counting stars on our back
In the weeeeeeeeeds!
Come on, get in the sandbox let’s get our hands bloody
Dirty.
Up next is a word that kept me up worried
More than anyone who truly knows me has seen
Why I let it wreck my whole world, retrospect
Hindsight twenty-twenty, there’s another cliche
If anyone else ever uses they owe me money
Crank that shit to one hundred, unbroke, opine,
I’m clean
Finally; free to be me
…With my big-ass–
Reputation
A few more inches than three.
What they tried to take when I gave them Miley,
Lana, Salena, Lorde, Maren, Charlie XC, next
Is exactly who guest started,
Never awkward
she’s my ex.
Maybe they’ll write about that
Shocking! Jarring!
I meant guest starred, don’t worry,
we’re just let’s get it started, starting
and who was influencing
And who I’m pretty damn sure I influenced
Can you tell, have you notice
I enjoy writing.
We enjoy farting.
Among gajillions of others, enough of name dropping
Switch up the rhythm and rhyme, now I’m yawning
I swear to God, Josh, defragment, hard reset
Get restarted, installing…
Updates;
I can pull back, reflect, publicfigurehood
Unanticipated, advil, anvil, little miss misunderstood
The Steinway ball grand that crashed onto the hood
From forty stories up, you must use it for good!
Is the first thought that passed through my good-girl brainwaves
And then how I could capitalize on it for frank, self-enriching, blataint.
Can’t breach Reputation and not broach revenge
Almost all of their favorites, that’s where the story is
So I write singing poems implying it’s him
The one that I’m with or one from where we begined
I wonder how many imagine me naked
And what lucid looks in their wildest dreams
I’ve lived through a few, I can’t sleep, lurid scenes
Oh the places, goodness gracious, beyond vivid,
We’ll go
Unconcealing the magic, the love we make, live in it
Strait to the bedroom right after the show
Blasting straight through the ceiling, the orgasm kind
Of you're quite welcome feelings
That’s kind of sexy, if you think about yours
Made you think about mine.
All the people I made feel scream my name, stimulated,
I’m not the first one, Tammy Wynette big time biznaded
I’m back on the tabloid biz, not sexspiracies
I get distracted when your body, I’m picturing
With the help of the nudes that I hacked from your phone
And I don’t feel guilty, showed my friends, it’s a thicken
And the people I worked with were well-versed, experienced
On how to turn tabloid, steering big media narratives
What they see, shadow me, almost all of reality is what is perceived
One oh One it is true, when people believe you
Sophomore year if it bleeds then it leads, sells as much as it needs to
The real you, authenticity, and they won’t stop believin’ in
The person about whom they’ve been relentlessly gossiping
And admiring for a plethora, years, myriad reasons,
It’s ok if you use those SAT words all four seasons
Since their parents were way younger
Than now when they first had them
And bought their sweets, kids, awesome, big sexy
Expensive tickets
Backstage passes, world tours, international contours
I’m more than one thing, through it all I endure
It’s a whole lot to maintain, but I’m used to it, for sure
the center of attention, guitar, piano, vocals
Sustain, and now for the important. Show stoppers
To entertain, slow down and put yourself for moment, my place on the stage
Think of a whole, whole, whole bunch of arenas
Multiple nights, tens of thousands of people
And you are very, very, very, quite real literal
The epic center of attention
That is, for real is,
Not for the easily intimidated
And I don’t mind being proud of
My big-ass…
…Reputation
Dear,
Lover
Dramatic actress who thinks she is fat, I was way too hard on myself,
I’m Fearless remember, I don’t mind writing about that
And I honestly believed that, and sometimes I still do it, and I know that it’s stupid
I mean look at me dressed up on TV,
I am fucking chock-full of beaut.
But I still feel that way, and I still think I suck
Before I release my new songs
I throw up, I am anxious, and I sleep even less
And I feel those feelings and then feel like an idiot
again
Because deep down I’m convinced
that I am the best at this.
Being me.
It’s snowballed so much, I’m not yet thirty-five
In or out of touch, I’m locked into this ride
One thing I am not, you should not be deluded
That any of this crazy life I planned or concluded
I do scheme, I do play, layer themes, tones, ideas
And I think it’s fun and funny to mystify them
God knows that’s something I’m still learning to live with
A lot of these kids call me mom and I really do love them
I’ve met several sweet boys and men convinced they are my husband
And maybe they we’re, are, can you prove who wasn’t?
Here’s the two shits that I give, who knows what is pretend
I mean come on at this point I just have to roll with
Consequences I did not intend setting out
Was I supposed to stop writing, go silent?
Or lie and say
You can’t take at face value what comes out my mouth?
Keep in mind, I'm an artist. That’s what I’m about
And pursuing that dream is the vast majority reason
A girl from a small town
For once not from the south
Well, kinda the south
Of Pennsylvania
And then I guess it was the south
Well the north/south of north America
This is me playing…
When she got really famous
Anyways, how
her life turned out
And
Into magnificent, enchanted
Folklore
Seasons, holidays, vacations, hotels
The dim light of my laptop, coyotes, yips, yelps
Mountains, Montana, plains, Tennessee
Memphis, Arkansas, Canada, Beijing
Sticks, stones, I Ching, Tarot, Tao
Fifty-one solitairewallpaper, kangerowls
In my mid-autumn life, dark mist, forest I found
After psilosylabiic, rhythmic visions settled, calmed down
A rolled away boulder, red-hoodied stranger
Cowled masking a scowl insisted, whispered
He knew the way out…
Entranced, seal, behind us, fangs, split tongues
Splintered and slipped and tripped through rips
Cracks and creases in limestone fracked
Blasted, suffocating, sand, water, chemicals
Plastic; entombed a century, two
Perfect preserved until all who knew you
Died in the myriad ways people do
Gasping for breath, naked, alone, but alive
Follow the river into sunrise and a
Brave New World.
The third morning, starving, a village emerged
A red-headed boy gingered up with a girl
Of equivalent height, face-structure, stature
Siamese twins, what on earth does that matter?!
Please bring me some bread, please bring me a blanket
I pleaded and begged, no avail, what’s she saying
Is the meaning betrayed on their face in translation
The scamps skittered back to their ramshackle house
Composed of sticks, mud, square, bricks, in the center of town
I don’t care what it looks like, I just need a shirt
For the vision impaired, everywhere was deserted
Gentle puff, puffs of smoke from a whole thatched in the roof
Was the sole indication, where to go what to do
Woods whispered, kids giggled in faint lighted triangles
They threw out some rags covered shoulders to ankles
I made the sign food, recognized, universal
Slid a bowl of clam chowder, the best in the world
Desperately downed, then irrevocably out
Awoke three days later, gagged, tied, strapped and bound.
In vitruvian fashion, crucified far above, the next tallest tree
The sun’s coming up.
Illuminate faces stare angry, arms numb
Railroad spikes through my souls
Needles knit palms to thumbs
Thighs throbbing, breasts pulsing
Skin shimmering, pristine,
Toenails trimmed, fingerpainted
Purple, red, turquoise, green streaks
Every inch I could see
Pubic hair braided, manicured, neat
Hooped my ears
Forked my tongue
Studded eyebrows,nipples, lips, genitals
In the world I left behind
I’d be presumed criminal
And this one as well
As the morning rolled on
I could see the pacific
From the top of Hyperion
I violently screamed
The ocean of faces returned my shrieks
In trios of threes
And showed me no mercy
Ritual
Murdered
Me
….
Evermore
The old me at least, recovered and gazed at myself in the leak
Is a joke about mirrors, I won’t mention who imbue them to portals
For parallel dimensions.
And admired my body modded, metamorphosed transformation
The permanent ink emphasized all the places
I prayed for development when I was kid
I filled out where I wanted good god look at this
Pierced, adorned everywhere I’d often fantasized it
What a fit, curvy
Prime ass, hips and tits
A pure, picturesque portrait
This world’s peak
Specimen
I’ve become what that is
You can see me complete through your eye with no lid
Take your time too, admire it
And feel free to embrace me in divine sublime bliss supreme
A masterful painted alternative being
Where one thumb once was, I’ve been blessed with three
And the fork in my tongue
Against my will has been done
I would not take it back each side of it was
Restrained by born, form, forced to be one
Each operates full independent, it’s twin wants
To lick probe and twist
While it’s sister can bend, grind, prong, taste and flick
Oh my lantis just imagine what I can do with this
Once I find someone sexy, fun to use it on, with
Not to mention the new notes I can sing, myriad
Not to mention the myriad new notes I can sing;
Undiscovered before, the language I speak
Would enable me easily to conquer the world
Though it seems what existed, all that came before
Has crumbled on epic scale tower of Babel
From what I can tell The leftovers have been saddled
With varied degrees of debilitate senses
Mute and deaf burdened the siamese twinses
The witchdoctor kids responsible for all this
I gazed vainly a final time, lost in the leak
If I was another, I’d be real into me…
While the villagers are blinded or limbs withered, curld
Still handicapped what on earth happened here?
Still getting my bearings
Oh my god, can’t stop staring
In the infantile recovering phase of this postapocalypt world
While in Dante's cave I was consumed and preserved
And he ritual I thought would be my demise
Was intended to symbolize
An ancient God’s rise
From the tomb.
Is the vibe
that I’m getting from the siamese
Two mutes
Thus far I can’t tell if I’m the only one whommmm
Survived
My very deep sleep,
very many long
Midnights
Long ago…
Cast
Quinn - The boy next door
Celia - The prom queen
Effie - Not the prom queen
Eustace - The prom king
Violet - Quinn’s twin sister
Turk - A big frat daddy
Easy - The English major
Tim McGraw
McGraw, Tim
Is whose music
we were listenin
Something about dying
Like it’s worth living
And playing
again
On the outside
Looking in
To three summers back
Or don’t take the girl
I love that
Called it our song
It was one of his weepy ones
and we both cried
And I cried, I cried
Just like our mammas cried
For you
Hello from the other side
D.a.r.e. you to kiss me and ran when you tried.
When I’ll be eighty-seven, you’ll be eighty-nine
Haha, the way you laugh
State the obvious
That’s a hilarious
rhyme.
You’re such an old soul though
I think your age might be greater than mine
Should’ve said
I just turned twenty-two
You’re more like twenty-five
Oh no
I hate that
I’m just a girl
Invisible
With no time for tears
While I’m just sitting here
Planning my revenge
He’s not especially interested in
The trinket I that he should get
Our lifelong love is what it
Supposed symbolizes
This album that we’re vibing
as if
I’m just being honest
It’s starting
To sound like a yawner
To me
too
Yet
There’s fireworks on the horizon
It is late though, you through it
I caught it
Don’t know why
It’s like no matter what
I do
Like you can reach out and
Touch it
With you
The sparks
What is and isn’t
And flames
True
Like a freaky, mighty
dragon painted, panted
panting, painting
Purring, swerving, curling, curly, cursive
In bright, white, technicolor light flittering flickering shimmering glittering fire
across the midnight
sky
Can you imagine the mind
That learned to write
Like that
I mean
Look at that.
Take a picture for me
So I can save it for a rainy day.
And I kissed her
When I should have
Picture to Burn/Should’ve Said No
Tell Me Why
Are they dragging me down or are they holding me up
The fingers clawing at my ankles the soft side of my knee and butt
I’m not sure if this is working but
I’m gonna try anyway
And I’ve got this drinking thing
I’ve started working on
That might just get the best of me
Before it’s all over
I’ve got control over it
For now.
And there stands the glass
That I now will make me feel better
Before I get to work, starting class
Especially after working hours are done
And I’ll be damned if you can convince me
It isn’t fun
When you start wondering come back
And read this one.
Fearless
Hey Stephen/You Belong With Me
I forgave you and I shouldn’t have
Let you parade over me
Rain all over my magnificent
Pale pink two faced fake
Divine
Masquerade
And I can be vicious
Like you’ve never seen
Give it some time, let me set the scene
I can be very, very
….
Love Story
I know you call it a crutch, something I rest on ease my brain
Beautiful you knew they way it keeps me from going insane
You might second guess giving my poor liver a break
My lungs inhale the smoke, my emotions are contained
And I don’t have to be so mean.
Speak Now
…Is how poetic impressions between our seven players would go
Tell us their story, one of the blind children spoke.
I’d be happy to, though, before we get started you should probably know
It’s not as dramatic, bombastic, or glamorous as it looked on the, oh
What I’m talking about, they don’t even know
Well, I guess, in that case, let’s get on with the show.
Enchanted
Quinn was my brother, at school, my best friend
Even though it’s not like he needed me, his twin
Was named Violet like the color of some flowers
Here, feel the petals, they smell sweet
Pass them around
The theater ruins, filled to the brim
With deaf, dumb and blind kids listenin in
Their myriad of ways
They taught each other to do it
Understand what I’m saying
Anyways
Violet, Quinn and I, us three, thick as thieves
I paused and supposed they would know what that means
We’re not idioms!
Idiots, not idioms, a cherub’s voice up in the trees clarified!
22
I’d be lying to say I didn’t suspect his feelings for me
Leaned toward romance he wanted to increase
My belief in what a funny, cool, nice guy he could be
And he was, but I wasn’t had my eyes on another
Plusonefriend zoned him pigeon holed him as brother
I already knew we was sticking around, I had time, sow my oats
There was too much fun to be found anywhere else
Than our sleepy, small town.
All Too Well
Celia walked down the aisle sobbing then smiled next to Quinn
Nobody I knew could believe that she ended up with him
Way out of his league.
I forgot about him
He remembered me.
Violet smirked, I smoked and drank
And cringed at the assholey speech
What Turk was saying
Easy inquired, sourcing my scowl…
Couldn’t hide, there’s no way
She shouldn’t have even shown her face in this place
Is what Eustace was thinking
…Trying to pry out my thoughts for some piece
He was writing
I had another drink
And cried in private
After the reception
Bad Blood
Reminisced over college, high school, kinder years
Played soccer with Celia down the road from here
They still know about soccer, I guess kicking balls
Is something that mankind has enjoyed for all
Time, it’s ageless, even checkers and chess
Survived the collapse, there’s no internet
Dust to wind, what happened, someone flipped the switch
It was probably Trump or someone like him
Either way, all that’s left, sparse, sporadic, blind tribes
Rumors abound they’ve been trying to find
The proof there are other survivors like me
Thus far I’m alone in this handicapped sea
Wasteland of children
Whatever the hell happened it’s like earth went back to the beginnin
of time
With only piecemeal patchwork faint revenant memories of mine
Wildest Dreams
Welcome to New York read the sign on our road trip
To scout if the schools there were safe to enter
NYU is the one where my big sister went
Then let’s check it out first, and I wonder if
It’s anything like the time when there she went
Nostalgia blooms blossomed, turn right, steer it in
Over there is the film school, wait, now which building is
The one where they serve all the food to the kids?
- Effie cringed at the grammar, turned to the kids.
Here’s the secret, which time period is this one set in?
Me!
I forgot you existed. I forgot going out. I forgot who you’re with. I forgot on the town.
I forgot to get back where. I forgot I belonged. I forgot to return. Forgot all our songs.
I forgot about high school. I forgot about friends. Forgot who I was. Forget how it ends. Forget if you know. Forget whose left behind. Forget what you did. Forget the hard times. Forgot who you are. Forget who you were. Forget getting over. Forget being hurt. Forget who forgot. Forget you in return. Forget the dumb fight. Forget what you said. Forget he’s the one. Forgot who got way. Forget it, don’t, click, confirmed, RSVP.
Lover
This was our flat is what Easy would say
Isn’t that what happens to tires or one of these things
A feral child peg-legged at a roach into the concrete it retreated
No, Easy meant like a place where you live
That’s what people on the other side of that used to call them
And now that I think about it, doesn’t really make sense
Likebecause they’re stacked like pancakes on top of each other
That’s probably where it came
From
Mirrorball
Eustace and Turk, galavants two pints downed, strapped on their navy blue blazers, burp, beard wipe, stumbled out onto the sidewalk.
Celia, Quinn, myself and Easy were laughing at both of them, Eustace got queasy, leaned into the gap, put his hands on knees barfs turned to dry heaving.
I could have saved him, grabbed his coattail yanked him back!
The L train was grumbling, and I thought and said, nah, fuck that, let it smack
Just like that
The conductor was sleeping and speeding
Needless to say not needlessly folks were quite mad
That’s the night I determined that I needed Quinn back
Full on estranged til they finally invited me back
To their ugly wedding
So envy for Ceily not just why my face looked like that
I elaborated to Easy after, crap, dang, gosh darn it
Instinctually reached up
Snatched the garter
Did you notice
Believe it?
I caught it.
Betty
A comedy of errors should end with a wedding
Who taught you that, why not some other setting
It’s the rules tragedy has to end with a funeral
Don’t we need more errors uncanny, unusual
There’s probably some plot hole that I missed
Let’s just get to the end, ,and pretend I did it,
On purpose.
Ivy
Methinks I don’t protest enough,
just how much the ivy was
Overgrowing all the office buildings,
campfires and monkeys
Like that one where they blow up the credit card companies
Long Story Short
We had crazy movies where those things that are shaped
Kind of like
Orangutangs!
One of the blind kids proudly proclaimed!
I was going to say—
No those are Lemurs!
IT IS NOT! CHECK THE TAIL!
Barefisted kicking and fists flew
I failed
Once again
Intercede!
Let them finish.
They rustled around
The bigger one won
One of them tooted
Chimps, Lemurs hooted,
Parked on a curb
A jaguar purred.
–Kinda like us…
None of them listened
had laser beams
I grumbled
…….
Anti-Hero
Go suck a toe, there’s still not a partner for me
I made it two hundred, who knows, how many years
And trapped with the monsters that did this to me
I still do look great though, she checked out her rear
The glare of the sunset manifested a leak
In the window below a sign “Morgan Stanley”
The reason I ran into those woods was my life
Was at a dead end, going nowhere lonely and known
As the girl who killed the biggest jerk north, east, south, or west one.
I guess this is just, Effie grimaced, grit her teet, brow furled at God
What she default called something powerful enough for it all to cause
For there not to be some greater power absolute, one hundred, impossible.
The kids all ran off, oh gee great, something else, super awesome
There's still no one here, not a partner for me, go suck a toe.
Heard that you’re into that kind of thing.
Bejeweled
Behold! Four horsewomen, pale Mustang, Stallions black
Had been tracking their progress for seven miles back
The children crouched, cowered evening shadows bushes
Effie tramped on grouching griping and brooding
They circled her, swerved, dismounted, despeared
We found you, the rumors were true, laughing, tears
I was confused but went along with the party
Guess I’ll get into girls now, at least they are hotties
And some witch somewhere similar altered their bodies
Don’t worry, we found you, the first one exclaimed
We’re taking you home, on the way we’ll explain
We have no clue, zilch, zero, why we’re trapped in this place
We wanted a boy, but good gracious, you’ll do
We wanted a boy, but you’ll do, goodness grace
You look great
Four undressed her with eyes just like three one and two
Is there one here it’s been one hundred two years
Only one back at camp,
Guess we all have to share.
Stay, Stay, Stay/All You Had To Do Was Stay
No I split my time twixt my kids and the six
Keep each other happy, he’s quite adequate
There’s rumors the forest recent birthed a seventh
Ho, Westward, Ho! Migrate nomads, Westward!
We sing silly songs, reminisce with each other
If it weren’t for vaginas, we’d be band of brothers.
Shake it off/Blank Space
And I’ll write your name
...Taylor Swift
2022.07.24 19:43 Guilty_Chemistry9337 Go East, Young Man
Have you ever played that old game “The Oregon Trail?”
There was a lot of death in that game. If you played it you probably remember. The goal is to get from St. Louis to Oregon’s Willamette Valley alive. It’s not easy, for a kid’s game. Your characters pretty regularly drop dead, from typhoid, or dysentery, or drinking poisoned water, or exposure, or the random bear mauling.
The odd thing about it is that it’s an educational game. The original Oregon Trail pioneers really did risk life and limb crossing the continent. They’d bury their dead in random trail-side graves, rarely leaving any markers that lasted. Those that do remain are practically enshrined now, after preservation efforts made when the youngest of the original pioneers were frail octogenarians.
What the game doesn’t teach you is that the pioneers didn’t stop dropping dead once they got to Oregon. If you get off the main roads and travel across that still fertile valley on the smaller roads, it won’t take too long before you come across a pioneer cemetery, entirely randomly.
It’s not that a lot of pioneers suddenly died of buffalo stampedes once they reached Oregon. Yet it took decades before the little towns were incorporated, platted, and built. First these towns were situated along rivers, the only practical means of transportation, and only later at crossroads; the roads themselves taking long to develop. The priorities were farms, then places of employment, mills being the most common. By the time the new towns could grow large enough to consider building proper town cemeteries, the original pioneer generation was vanishing.
That generation had always been considered a “breed apart.” The society they grew there would always recognize the original pioneers, and their descendants ranked themselves upon the generations of separation. The pioneers had left their loved ones in lonely graves on the Trail, but now buried them together into little pioneers cemeteries. Some were little more than family plots on private farmsteads, or little graveyards behind the first generation of log cabin churches. They were never large, and once the more ‘official’ town cemeteries were consecrated, were never used.
As you could expect, in their disuse, these little cemeteries were neglected. Weeds over grew them, the little ornamental trees grew into small indistinct copses of trees. It was a few decades into the twentieth century when a wave of nostalgia resulted in the creation of historical preservation societies. Some of this focused on maintaining and preserving portions of the Oregon Trail itself. While the little log cabins were long gone, some of the clapboard houses they would build later sometimes survived to end up on historic registers. So too, many of the cemeteries were cleaned up and restored. Some of the prettier ones would get listed in little tourist pamphlets. These would usually be pleasant little affairs on top of the low rolling hills or buttes in the valley. They were the sort of places where you could take nice landscape photographs of old headstones, juxtaposed with the living vibrant valley in the background.
The most popular one is, unsurprisingly, a short drive out of Portland. It has a rundown but picturesque chapel, not built by the pioneers, but by ‘conservationists’ in the 1920s. It’s also purported to be haunted, in this case by the ghosts of a family annihilated by the father gone mad. Visitors are likely to be disappointed if they go home and look up the actual history. The family never existed, and the murders never happened.
Most of the pioneer cemeteries get no such attention. A few are tended to, still, by preservation societies, or other caring locals. Some, those that escaped the attention of the early historical societies, were completely abandoned, unappreciated, and sat forlorn on private property.
I had no idea I had such a cemetery on my property. I should say, on the property I rented. I shared a large old farmhouse with several other students as I finished my graduate degree at Oregon State. I happened to be alone one Saturday afternoon when the landlord came knocking. This wasn’t something he did often, as the house was in excellent repair. He owned about a hundred acres of farmland. The house was built near the road, and while he or his workers would farm grass seed on the back acreage, they used a different access, and we rarely interacted.
This time he had brought a visitor, a professor from the University, though as he was from the history department, so we had never met. My landlord knocked on the door, and as I was the only one home, answered it. He just wanted to inform us that he was visiting the property, with the said professor, so we wouldn’t be alarmed if we saw them treading about the grounds.
It took me a moment to realize what exactly he was saying, and that it wasn’t just some weird practical joke. There was a pioneer cemetery on his property, and I had no idea it even existed. The history professor was here to take a look at it. It wasn’t that the professor was going to do anything with it, it was just that he wanted to confirm what he had found in the records, based on an old survey that had been compiled back in the 1960s.
The landlord took us across the back “garden.” It had gone to seed years ago, despite half-hearted attempts by tenants to grow tomatoes and the like. Back through the copse of trees planted beyond the garden, across a patch of open pasture, and down into a shallow gully full of cottonwood trees and blackberry bushes. I’d seen this patch out the back window, but never explored it.
The professor had a little GPS device he kept checking, but the landlord knew exactly where the graveyard laid, even if he didn’t exactly know how to reach it at first. It was the blackberries. People think of blackberry bushes as a boon, especially in the early summer when they bear fruit, but this Himalayan variety, it’s an invasive species. It kills everything, just chokes it out. The landlord hadn’t been back here since the blackberries had been established. We had to circle around them, looking for a route in, and only finding dead ends. For a while it looked like it was a lost cause, but finally we found a narrow little path that lead us through, to a wide open spot, not a glade but at least a little forest of cottonwood and some grassy patches.
I made it almost all the way across the cemetery before I realized I was walking through it. It was the landlord who found the first gravestone. It was well hidden in a tuft of grass between two large exposed roots of a cottonwood tree. “James Penderson. 1835-1895. Father,” it read.
After that, finding the other stones was relatively easy, despite them mostly being smaller and concealed by the foliage. They were all facing the same direction. All laid out in a rough grid pattern, spaced about as far apart as you'd expect in any cemetery.
“Thomas Wintergreen. 1874-1878. Taken by Cholera.”
“Mary Penderson. 1860-1877. Died in Childbirth. Infant, still-born.”
“Hester Wentworth. Died 1888.”
“Prudence Gage. Died 1889.
“Hortense Wentworth. Died 1890.”
We found twenty two in all. Some of the names and dates had eroded off completely. Others were obscure and only partially legible. The professor had brought paper and charcoal to rub out what might be too faint for the eye, with modest success. He took a lot of photos, and made some measurements with a tape measure. And then he was done. It was all he had come here for.
He pointed out that, tall as the cottonwoods were, they couldn't be more than eighty years old, so they hadn't been here when the cemetery was active. At one point, in the ancient past, the river had run through here. By the time the pioneers found it, and dug their first grave, it would have likely been open pasture. This was the bottom of a shallow depression, roughly an elongated ellipse from a bird's eye view. It probably would have been a picturesque spot to lay their loved ones to rest. With that, we headed back.
It struck me as odd, how such a solemn place could be so largely forgotten, hidden away in the weeds. The only interest it had gotten in decades was from this history professor, who only wanted to confirm what had already been recorded long ago. I couldn't imagine a better visual for the word “abandoned” than those lonely tombstones.
The professor and the landlord left, and I forgot all about it.
I didn't completely forget. It was just rarely on my mind. I'd finish a rough series of exams, and then that following weekend while trying to unwind, I would remember it again. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.” It was an intrusive thought, but meant nothing to me. What did it matter to me and my interests? Nothing.
I'd visit my aging parents for the holidays. On the long drive home, “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I'd wake from an intense dream that I couldn't remember. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I never thought I'd end up a grave robber.
I suppose that's a lie too, like claiming I had forgotten the graveyard.
The thought had always been there since the beginning, just buried under the surface. It popped up here and there, another intrusive thought when I least expected it. The thought grew louder over time. More appealing. Less transgressive.
I had become interested with the reruns of an old British show about archaeology that somebody had uploaded to youtube. They covered all kinds of digs from all kinds of periods all over the Isles. Neolithic camps. Celtic round houses. Roman tombs. Viking settlements. English Civil War battlefields. The British had thousands of years of history buried under their fields. Here in the US we had nothing even remotely comparable in interest. Except we sort of did.
We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.
I don't know if my interest in the show was legitimate, or maybe my subconscious had led me there. It seemed like easy enough work. You dig. You see what you find. Of course the professionals dug very carefully, they recorded all of the locations and contexts of their finds, and interpreted the history. I could do that too.
I wouldn't have published anywhere, of course. I wasn't a professional. I wouldn't interpret the history, why would I? The history is pretty well known. So there'd be no need to record anything. That would make it easier.
I watched every episode of that show. They talked about grave robbers all the time. They seldom had a site which wasn't disturbed in one way or another. There were the gentlemen antiquarians of the 19th century. Rich fops with too much time on their hands, who dug up old ruins for the fun of it, barely doing any proper record keeping at all. There were the peasants who had robbed out old Norman fortresses and churches to use the stones to build their cottages. There had been the Normans before them who had repurposed older buildings to build their castles.
So what was so bad about grave robbing? Humanity has always been doing it. The only time I could remember it being a serious issue in all of history was when doctors had paid grave robbers to supply them with corpses back in the early Victorian era. Yet that had been a noble cause. They needed to understand anatomy in order to advance the field of medicine, and they needed cadavers to dissect. Ever since then, the mere suggestion of graverobbing has been demonized and stigmatized, often with the most lurid fictional boogeymen. Consider filthy Igor, digging up the grave to supply his master with body parts. His master was a doctor, remember. One of those “villainous” scientists who only wanted to better the world. The victimless crime of graverobbing has now become irrecoverably twisted, its perpetrators depicted as Ed Gein-like perverts and monsters. Yet are archaeologists any better? Ignoring the archaeology?
Maybe I'm defending myself too much. Maybe I should be ashamed of what I've done.
We had a pioneer cemetery on our land, and I dug it up.
I won't say I didn't hesitate. I spent months telling myself the idea was ridiculous. That it was deeply immoral. That I'd get caught. That I'd be humiliated. That I'd be wasting my time. That I'd be doing a lot of physical labor and have nothing to show for it.
The day I finally went through with it, I didn't hesitate at all. I simply noticed I was home alone and no one would be around to witness me; and I realized that if ever I were to do it, it'd be now. So I stood up, grabbed a shovel from the back shed, headed out past the garden, past the trees, across that pasture, and into that cottonwood gully. By now the blackberry vines were stretching their tendrils past the narrow path we had discovered before. They tore at my pants and the skin underneath. No bother, next time I'd bring hedge clippers and cut them back. Not too vigorously though, inaccessibility meant more privacy for me.
I knew it wouldn't be easy digging a grave. I once helped a friend dig a three foot deep trench for some plumbing he was installing. That took all day. Going six feet deep seemed like a whole new league. The pioneers, I'd always been taught, were a hearty breed. They wouldn't have been so lazy that they'd bury their dead in shallow graves.
The soil, it turned out, was better than I expected. Fairly soft and stable. There were many alternating layers of sand and clay, no doubt deposits from the river that floods regularly, or at least used to before all the levees were built. As I dug the whole deeper, a little of the sand from the sandy layers would pour into the hole, like a baker might dust a layer of wet dough with a little flour, but it was inconsequential compared to the rate that I dug.
It still took me hours. Six feet deep. Maybe seven feet long and four feet wide. I don't know if that's how grave robbers dug down, but it looked to me like how proper grave diggers dug theirs in the movies. Nobody saw me, nobody could have. I was alone and I could do as I pleased here.
The first grave I dug had been in front of a tombstone marking the burial of Abigail Penderson, died age 58. I had no way of knowing, but I assumed she was the wife of, and 'mother', corresponding with James Penderson 'father' whose tombstone we had first found.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Your shovel doesn't strike the hard surface of a casket the way it does in the movies. Yet there most definitely was a casket. When you scrape away the last of the soil you can see its outline. It was just an old fashioned pine casket. Those elongated hexagons with the trapezoidal end for the head and shoulders; the kind you see in cheesy vampire movies and decorations for haunted houses at Halloween.
There wasn't any “thunk” when I first struck it with my shovel. It had been rotting for over a hundred and twenty years, turning dark and soft. It crumbled quite easily. It was only just intact enough for you to realize what it was. I had to lift the lid away in several pieces, the hinges, if there had ever been any, were no longer attached.
It hadn't held up its structure, either. The soil had filled in the void space of the coffin. I suppose at first rodents would have tunneled their way in, and then the natural motion of the groundwater slowly filled the space with mud during the wet winter months.
I was aware of what I was doing, while I was doing it, but strangely the whole process felt... sterile. Enough time had passed. There was nothing here but good clean dirt, and beneath that... bones. No stink, no rot, just dry, more or less, bones. There was the white dress she had been buried in as well. The fabric was falling apart, and seemed of little consequence. Bits of lace that fragmented and mixed in with the soil like pieces of so many old leaves. Some of the smaller bones were also broken and rotted away, most were at least discolored, including the skull and pelvis. The teeth seemed the whitest among all the remains. Perhaps some of them were false.
It was the bracelet that caught my eye. Her family had her buried with it, it must have been precious to her. It was gold, not much, but striking. I wondered if the family had been sorry to see it go, forever beyond their reach. It reminded me of a photo I'd seen of the victims of Pompeii. While some bones were missing, here was a clear skeleton of a forearm, half buried in dark soil and darker remnants of a pine coffin. The gold gleamed through it all, as shiny and polished as if it were brand new. Here was my reward. My first archaeological dig, and I'd already struck gold.
Filling in the hole was much easier than digging it. The scar in the earth made it clear the crime I had committed, though nobody would be back here before it filled over with dry leaves and vanished. Nobody would ever know. I went in through the back of the house, up the backstairs and to the shower. While my roommates were home, none of them noticed I was covered in dirt, nobody stopped me. I then returned to my room, and took the bracelet from my pocket to admire it. Obviously nobody but me knew that it even existed. The descendants of that woman weren't even aware of her grave, let alone grave goods. It might as well not exist. There wasn't a lot of gold, I might have been able to get a little money pawning it, but no. This had sentimental value, this was something I was going to keep the rest of my life. My secret, my treasure.
The casket of Peter Moore, which I unburied the next weekend, was more intact. So too were his clothing and skin beneath. It wasn't at all a mummy, just a skeleton with a few patches of skin holding the bones together in the same place they had been in life. His beard was still here, as was some of his hair, which showed he had been balding in life. Other than that, there was little to indicate what he might have looked like. There was no way to tell if the toothy wide grin he bore now reflected a jovial personality that he may have had alive. It did reveal, however, that he had four gold teeth, which were easy to pull.
He had been buried in what was probably his best, something that might have sort of approached a suit. I checked the front pocket, and sure enough, here was more treasure. A gold pocket watch. I don't know much about these things. I don't suspect it was fine quality; it was a working man's pocket watch. But it had been his treasure once, and now it was mine. I turned the little dial and listened, but there was no tick. What a find that could have been. I suppose over time some sand had gotten into the mechanism. I'd have to find a specialist to repair it, but once I had found one the pocket watch would tick again, and I'd hear the same sound the man had.
At his right side, near the hip, was the man's revolver. I don't know what the story was. I hadn't heard of people burying their loved ones with guns. I'd have thought them too practical to leave behind in a grave. Maybe a farmer had no use for a six shooter they might have needed while on the Oregon Trail. Maybe they hadn't made ammunition for it anymore when the man had died. A funny thought occurred to me. Maybe they thought the man would need it in the afterlife, fighting off demons from hell, or the souls of those he had wronged in life. At any rate, it was unloaded, and quite rusty. So, like the pocket watch, I'd have to find a way to get it restored some day.
Third weekend, third grave. Hester Wentworth, died 1888. Maybe it was the calluses on my hand. Maybe it was the muscles in my back, now used to the strain. The actual digging flew by, I hardly remember doing it, even though it would have taken me hours.
I hadn't expected a mummy. I'd seen bones and hair and shriveled pieces of skin, but an intact mummified corpse shocked me. The casket had been solidly preserved, maybe that should have clued me in. Even the hinges worked. The only mark on its surface had been where my shovel had struck it.
I dusted off the exterior, bent over it, opened that lid with only a slightly rusty squeak, and I nearly jumped out of the grave with the sight of that body. She might have appeared this way when they first lowered her into the ground. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were just two bottomless empty sockets.
I couldn't be sure this was how she had appeared, minus the eyes. She looked like a terribly old woman. Perhaps that was brought about by mummification. Her skin was wrinkled as a rotten apple and dry as parchment. Her hair, despite being tied in a bun, was wild, kinky, and bone white. Her bare hands, folded across her chest, still showed traces of the veins and arteries which once ran full of blood. I had no idea how old she had been when she had died, the tombstone hadn't displayed a birth. Perhaps she had been a wizened old woman when she passed, and, except for the eyes, mummification had done little to change her appearance.
I had a strange impression that she had jewelry, heirlooms, secreted in some pocket under her clothing. If she had not been so intact, I would have removed or torn apart the clothing to search. This time I demurred. Not for the sake of human decency, no. I had this irrational fear that if I exposed her dried flesh, I'd find the mummified grossly metastasized tumor that had killed her. Why I thought this, I couldn't say.
I'd still take my artifact, though, my treasure. It was right there, clutched to her chest, beneath her folded hands. It was a book.
It was a very large, heavy thing. When I lifted it out, the woman's arms fell away easily, and there was a large rectangular depression on the remains below. I had to heave it up and out of the six foot deep hole. Come to think of it, I don't remember filling the grave back in either. I must have. During the fourth dig, the hole was no more.
I wish I had studied that book more. It wasn't that I didn't try, it was that it was a difficult read. It was the handwriting that made it so dense. It wasn't that it was bad writing either, no, it was actually very fine. Too good. The writer, who I presume to be Hester Wentwork, wrote in an intricate cursive style, calligraphy, really. It was very fine and small lettering, so stylized that it took a reader a great while to interpret each word.
I suppose she had never intended it to be read. The book was a diary, or something like it, hence the presumption of the authorship. I started in back, and read the entries in a reverse order, skipping over large sections where writing was particularly crabbed, and I assumed were largely redundant in content. Again, I wish I had read more carefully.
Firstly, or should I say at the end, it appears she was aware that she was dying. She didn't mention a specific disease or condition, simply that she was supposing it was “her time” and what should be done upon her death. For years of entries, she describes the daily simple life of a farmer. The weather, the crops, the sales, most of it very mundane, hence why I skipped a lot. She went into detail on her family, relations, and neighbors. Many of the names were of people also buried in the same cemetery. Prudence and Hortense were her sisters, it appears, with Prudence marrying a man named Gage, and Hortense a spinster who never left her side. There was the Wintergreen family. The Pendersons. Somebody named Wokokkon.
She described traveling on the Oregon Trail, and here my interest perked up. She mentions fording rivers, seeing dramatic and surreal landscapes, encounters with Native Americans, some cordial and profitable in trade, others confusing and terrifying. She discussed, in some detail, fallings out she had with other pioneers in the same wagon train, or the soldiers and officers in the various forts they stopped at.. She regularly presented herself as the aggrieved party in these disputes, though I question the reliability of the author in some of those encounters. She describes their camping spots with vivid detail, perhaps because this was when she had found time to write. The images she evoked were haunting, in the literally terrifying sense. The feeling of isolation and exposure in the hostile wilderness are palpable. A high desert cluster of boulders, white as bone, surrounded by whitebark pines bending and whistling in the cold night air, once the fire burned out there was nothing above them but the icy uncaring stars. For all the romance of the Oregon Trail, to have actually put your life on the line must have been a terror.
I tried to read on before this, but I grew weary. I think the handwriting may have been giving me eye strain. Now I wonder if the book didn't want me to read. It mentioned the outset of the trip from St. Louis, the famous starting point of the Oregon Trail, where they had joined up with the Wintergreens. James Penderson and his kin, were from Ohio, it turned out. The Wentworths had been living here near the Pendersons, with Wokokkon, for some number of years before deciding on their migration. Yet there was plenty of life that Hester had lived before her life in Ohio. Albany. Providence. Lexington. Salem. All the time her sisters had been with her, them and Wokokkon. There are other names here, families they knew that did not come with them. Havershams. Molnars. Whateleys. All of the time Wokokkon was with them. If anything, the writing seemed to get harder. Not so much the lettering but the language. Turns of phrases I didn't recognize, slang, compound words unfamiliar to me. It talked about troubles. It talked about wars. It talked about plagues. It talked about the Crown and colonies. Hester must have lived a long life, perhaps her dialect had changed in that time. She talked about other voyages. Over the sea. The old world. Times before that. Always Wokokkon.
From here on I skimmed a few pages. The writing was essentially ineligible, but clearly still Hester's. Only one word I recognized, Wokokkon. It appeared identical regardless of how far back. Every instance stood out among the chicken scratches. It made my head hurt.
I closed the book. It was the last time I opened it. That would have been yesterday. No, the day before. Wait… it’s all blurring together. I remember seeing it, but not registering it explicitly. I only stored it in the back of my mind. I suppose only now I got the significance of my observation. I had been reading back to front, back through time. I went back and through what should have been the beginning of Hester's diary, but it only kept going. I had only gotten, perhaps, a sixth of the way through the diary before I stopped. There had been much more. Hester Wentworth had no date of birth on her tombstone, nor her sisters.
There was one grave left. 19 undug graves, but only one I was going to rob. I knew that now, one more, and I’d be done on the fourth weekend. I knew which one it would be. The landlord, professor and I had thought it was just a large unhewn rock when we first saw it. It took a moment to notice shallow lettering had been carved into one side. It was too shallow, the stone too rough, for any of us to tell what it had said back then. But now I know. I’d recognize those eight letters now anywhere.
I started on a Saturday, as usual. Thought it would take the normal amount of time. Again, I didn’t notice time passing. I didn’t notice anything at all until I felt the strain in my arm and my back. I had been lifting the shovel up over my head in order to toss the soil to the side. I was standing in a hole some eight feet deep. This grave was deeper than the others. I didn’t even consider that it wasn’t a grave at all, I simply knew it was one, and I needed to keep digging.
Of course, I’d also need a way out. I couldn’t just dig myself in. So I started attacking the top of the foot end of the grave. Digging myself a ramp. It took a lot longer. I made sure it would be long enough and shallow enough that I could keep digging no matter how deep the hole got. I stopped when it got too dark to see. I retreated back through the blackberries, across the pasture and garden.
This time my roommates noticed my condition, covered in dirt, knuckles and calluses bleeding. They noticed and I didn’t care. I just grunted a non-explanation, and showered and collapsed into bed. I couldn’t sleep, what lay beneath that stone called to me.
I started again at dawn the next day. The hole grew deeper. The ramp leading out grew longer, having to curve to avoid the roots of a tree. When it happened, it happened all at once. I felt the ground shift, sickeningly, as that last strike with the shovel punched through.
I’d like to think it was reflexes, grace. It was more of a fall, I collapsed onto the ramp behind me as the soil gave away. What had been the bottom of a deep grave had given away, fallen into a hole. Now all there was left was this hole. I couldn’t see the bottom. I don’t think there was a bottom. The only thing I could see was the sides of this hole, indistinguishable from the hole that I had dug with my own hands. Alternating thin layers of clay and sand. All the way down, disappearing into darkness.
Here was when I realized my horror, my mistake. The rush of air that came up out of that hole was only the harbinger for what followed. The air was terribly cold, arctic. It had a stink worse than death, I don’t understand how air that cold could hold such an intense odor.
Pointlessly, I turned and fled. I didn’t know what was coming. I knew its name, but not its nature. Fleeing was all I could do.
I ran. I’ve been running since. I only passed through the house to grab my car keys and wallet. I didn’t stop to explain myself to my shocked roommates. I didn’t bother to try to warn them.
I’m still driving. My hands are still filthy. My sweat had turned the grave dirt to a thin mud, which is now all over the steering wheel and the rest of the interior in reach. There’s a big brown spot on the radio power button. I keep turning it on and off. At first I was waiting for the radio to mention it. Then I couldn’t listen to it once they did. I still flick it on for a few seconds just to check it’s still reality.
At first I didn’t know which direction. I just knew I had to get away from that place as fast as I could, which meant the freeway. I-5. North or South. I was already northbound when I thought about the consequences of those two choices.
If I had gone South, I’d have about 20 hours of road in front of me before I’d get to the Los Angeles metropolis and its network of freeways. That would have been a trap. By 20 hours, they would have known. They would have been panicking. They would have been crowding the freeways into gridlock. I’d never make it the extra hundred miles or so to the border. That would have been the end of my road.
If I had continued Northbound, it’d have been only five or so hours to the Canadian border if I drove fast. I probably wouldn’t have made it across in my current condition, covered in filth and lacking a passport. Even if I had, there aren’t many good roads going much further north beyond Vancouver.
So East it was. I-84. As the sun set, it cast beautiful color across the great cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge. The irony would only occur to me slowly, later on.
I only stopped for gas. Thank god I remembered my wallet. I’d lost my appetite. I don’t expect I’ll ever get it back. The sun came up in what I guess was Wyoming. It was a broad flat expanse of desert. I’d never been to this part of the country before. It was beautiful. It didn’t look particularly hospitable. I can see why the Oregon Trail pioneers kept heading west. Now here I was, on almost an identical route but heading east. Trying to flee what those pioneers, those witches, had planted in that fertile Oregon soil.
I looked back after the sun had risen, into my rear view memory. I thought maybe I could see it, but I couldn’t yet. Maybe it was those rocky mountains. Maybe it hadn’t risen above the curvature of the earth. I knew it would soon, I don’t know how, but I did. What I did notice is that Westbound traffic had stopped completely. By now people had found out. This was why I had avoided LA.
Somewhere in Nebraska I did see it. Coming up over the horizon like a storm cloud. It was black. I had expected that. But deeper in, it was blacker than black. I didn’t expect that. How could I? I still can’t even understand it in my brain. I can’t describe it, let alone think about it on a higher level. It’s just a sort of indiscrete black glow, but with form. And the things on the outside, I don’t know what those are either. Wisps? Tendrils? Roots? I can’t call them tentacles, tentacles are things that make sense, they’re too normal. These things defy reasons.
I saw that, then turned the rearview mirror to an extreme angle where I wouldn’t glance at it. For a while, I kept moving it back and looking, the same way I had done by turning the radio off and on. I don’t know why. I already knew what I’d see. It was getting bigger. And getting closer. Later on I just snapped the damn mirror off.
I’m still heading East. Not sure why. Basic human preservation instincts, I’d guess. It won’t do me any good but delay the inevitable. The Oregon Trail in reverse, heading towards doom instead of a new life.
I don’t know what that thing is. I know what its name is. I know that it means the end of the world. I wish I’d read that book in more detail. Those witches were behind it. Summoning something they would never live to see. I wonder if they prophesied me. That thing was fine and happy until I dug it up.
The Eastbound traffic is getting busy now. There aren’t many people in these little towns in the middle of the country. But they all add up. Now they’re trying to flee east too. Traffic is slowing down.
I don’t think I’m going to make it to St. Louis.
submitted by Guilty_Chemistry9337 to EBDavis [link] [comments]
There was a lot of death in that game. If you played it you probably remember. The goal is to get from St. Louis to Oregon’s Willamette Valley alive. It’s not easy, for a kid’s game. Your characters pretty regularly drop dead, from typhoid, or dysentery, or drinking poisoned water, or exposure, or the random bear mauling.
The odd thing about it is that it’s an educational game. The original Oregon Trail pioneers really did risk life and limb crossing the continent. They’d bury their dead in random trail-side graves, rarely leaving any markers that lasted. Those that do remain are practically enshrined now, after preservation efforts made when the youngest of the original pioneers were frail octogenarians.
What the game doesn’t teach you is that the pioneers didn’t stop dropping dead once they got to Oregon. If you get off the main roads and travel across that still fertile valley on the smaller roads, it won’t take too long before you come across a pioneer cemetery, entirely randomly.
It’s not that a lot of pioneers suddenly died of buffalo stampedes once they reached Oregon. Yet it took decades before the little towns were incorporated, platted, and built. First these towns were situated along rivers, the only practical means of transportation, and only later at crossroads; the roads themselves taking long to develop. The priorities were farms, then places of employment, mills being the most common. By the time the new towns could grow large enough to consider building proper town cemeteries, the original pioneer generation was vanishing.
That generation had always been considered a “breed apart.” The society they grew there would always recognize the original pioneers, and their descendants ranked themselves upon the generations of separation. The pioneers had left their loved ones in lonely graves on the Trail, but now buried them together into little pioneers cemeteries. Some were little more than family plots on private farmsteads, or little graveyards behind the first generation of log cabin churches. They were never large, and once the more ‘official’ town cemeteries were consecrated, were never used.
As you could expect, in their disuse, these little cemeteries were neglected. Weeds over grew them, the little ornamental trees grew into small indistinct copses of trees. It was a few decades into the twentieth century when a wave of nostalgia resulted in the creation of historical preservation societies. Some of this focused on maintaining and preserving portions of the Oregon Trail itself. While the little log cabins were long gone, some of the clapboard houses they would build later sometimes survived to end up on historic registers. So too, many of the cemeteries were cleaned up and restored. Some of the prettier ones would get listed in little tourist pamphlets. These would usually be pleasant little affairs on top of the low rolling hills or buttes in the valley. They were the sort of places where you could take nice landscape photographs of old headstones, juxtaposed with the living vibrant valley in the background.
The most popular one is, unsurprisingly, a short drive out of Portland. It has a rundown but picturesque chapel, not built by the pioneers, but by ‘conservationists’ in the 1920s. It’s also purported to be haunted, in this case by the ghosts of a family annihilated by the father gone mad. Visitors are likely to be disappointed if they go home and look up the actual history. The family never existed, and the murders never happened.
Most of the pioneer cemeteries get no such attention. A few are tended to, still, by preservation societies, or other caring locals. Some, those that escaped the attention of the early historical societies, were completely abandoned, unappreciated, and sat forlorn on private property.
I had no idea I had such a cemetery on my property. I should say, on the property I rented. I shared a large old farmhouse with several other students as I finished my graduate degree at Oregon State. I happened to be alone one Saturday afternoon when the landlord came knocking. This wasn’t something he did often, as the house was in excellent repair. He owned about a hundred acres of farmland. The house was built near the road, and while he or his workers would farm grass seed on the back acreage, they used a different access, and we rarely interacted.
This time he had brought a visitor, a professor from the University, though as he was from the history department, so we had never met. My landlord knocked on the door, and as I was the only one home, answered it. He just wanted to inform us that he was visiting the property, with the said professor, so we wouldn’t be alarmed if we saw them treading about the grounds.
It took me a moment to realize what exactly he was saying, and that it wasn’t just some weird practical joke. There was a pioneer cemetery on his property, and I had no idea it even existed. The history professor was here to take a look at it. It wasn’t that the professor was going to do anything with it, it was just that he wanted to confirm what he had found in the records, based on an old survey that had been compiled back in the 1960s.
The landlord took us across the back “garden.” It had gone to seed years ago, despite half-hearted attempts by tenants to grow tomatoes and the like. Back through the copse of trees planted beyond the garden, across a patch of open pasture, and down into a shallow gully full of cottonwood trees and blackberry bushes. I’d seen this patch out the back window, but never explored it.
The professor had a little GPS device he kept checking, but the landlord knew exactly where the graveyard laid, even if he didn’t exactly know how to reach it at first. It was the blackberries. People think of blackberry bushes as a boon, especially in the early summer when they bear fruit, but this Himalayan variety, it’s an invasive species. It kills everything, just chokes it out. The landlord hadn’t been back here since the blackberries had been established. We had to circle around them, looking for a route in, and only finding dead ends. For a while it looked like it was a lost cause, but finally we found a narrow little path that lead us through, to a wide open spot, not a glade but at least a little forest of cottonwood and some grassy patches.
I made it almost all the way across the cemetery before I realized I was walking through it. It was the landlord who found the first gravestone. It was well hidden in a tuft of grass between two large exposed roots of a cottonwood tree. “James Penderson. 1835-1895. Father,” it read.
After that, finding the other stones was relatively easy, despite them mostly being smaller and concealed by the foliage. They were all facing the same direction. All laid out in a rough grid pattern, spaced about as far apart as you'd expect in any cemetery.
“Thomas Wintergreen. 1874-1878. Taken by Cholera.”
“Mary Penderson. 1860-1877. Died in Childbirth. Infant, still-born.”
“Hester Wentworth. Died 1888.”
“Prudence Gage. Died 1889.
“Hortense Wentworth. Died 1890.”
We found twenty two in all. Some of the names and dates had eroded off completely. Others were obscure and only partially legible. The professor had brought paper and charcoal to rub out what might be too faint for the eye, with modest success. He took a lot of photos, and made some measurements with a tape measure. And then he was done. It was all he had come here for.
He pointed out that, tall as the cottonwoods were, they couldn't be more than eighty years old, so they hadn't been here when the cemetery was active. At one point, in the ancient past, the river had run through here. By the time the pioneers found it, and dug their first grave, it would have likely been open pasture. This was the bottom of a shallow depression, roughly an elongated ellipse from a bird's eye view. It probably would have been a picturesque spot to lay their loved ones to rest. With that, we headed back.
It struck me as odd, how such a solemn place could be so largely forgotten, hidden away in the weeds. The only interest it had gotten in decades was from this history professor, who only wanted to confirm what had already been recorded long ago. I couldn't imagine a better visual for the word “abandoned” than those lonely tombstones.
The professor and the landlord left, and I forgot all about it.
I didn't completely forget. It was just rarely on my mind. I'd finish a rough series of exams, and then that following weekend while trying to unwind, I would remember it again. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.” It was an intrusive thought, but meant nothing to me. What did it matter to me and my interests? Nothing.
I'd visit my aging parents for the holidays. On the long drive home, “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I'd wake from an intense dream that I couldn't remember. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I never thought I'd end up a grave robber.
I suppose that's a lie too, like claiming I had forgotten the graveyard.
The thought had always been there since the beginning, just buried under the surface. It popped up here and there, another intrusive thought when I least expected it. The thought grew louder over time. More appealing. Less transgressive.
I had become interested with the reruns of an old British show about archaeology that somebody had uploaded to youtube. They covered all kinds of digs from all kinds of periods all over the Isles. Neolithic camps. Celtic round houses. Roman tombs. Viking settlements. English Civil War battlefields. The British had thousands of years of history buried under their fields. Here in the US we had nothing even remotely comparable in interest. Except we sort of did.
We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.
I don't know if my interest in the show was legitimate, or maybe my subconscious had led me there. It seemed like easy enough work. You dig. You see what you find. Of course the professionals dug very carefully, they recorded all of the locations and contexts of their finds, and interpreted the history. I could do that too.
I wouldn't have published anywhere, of course. I wasn't a professional. I wouldn't interpret the history, why would I? The history is pretty well known. So there'd be no need to record anything. That would make it easier.
I watched every episode of that show. They talked about grave robbers all the time. They seldom had a site which wasn't disturbed in one way or another. There were the gentlemen antiquarians of the 19th century. Rich fops with too much time on their hands, who dug up old ruins for the fun of it, barely doing any proper record keeping at all. There were the peasants who had robbed out old Norman fortresses and churches to use the stones to build their cottages. There had been the Normans before them who had repurposed older buildings to build their castles.
So what was so bad about grave robbing? Humanity has always been doing it. The only time I could remember it being a serious issue in all of history was when doctors had paid grave robbers to supply them with corpses back in the early Victorian era. Yet that had been a noble cause. They needed to understand anatomy in order to advance the field of medicine, and they needed cadavers to dissect. Ever since then, the mere suggestion of graverobbing has been demonized and stigmatized, often with the most lurid fictional boogeymen. Consider filthy Igor, digging up the grave to supply his master with body parts. His master was a doctor, remember. One of those “villainous” scientists who only wanted to better the world. The victimless crime of graverobbing has now become irrecoverably twisted, its perpetrators depicted as Ed Gein-like perverts and monsters. Yet are archaeologists any better? Ignoring the archaeology?
Maybe I'm defending myself too much. Maybe I should be ashamed of what I've done.
We had a pioneer cemetery on our land, and I dug it up.
I won't say I didn't hesitate. I spent months telling myself the idea was ridiculous. That it was deeply immoral. That I'd get caught. That I'd be humiliated. That I'd be wasting my time. That I'd be doing a lot of physical labor and have nothing to show for it.
The day I finally went through with it, I didn't hesitate at all. I simply noticed I was home alone and no one would be around to witness me; and I realized that if ever I were to do it, it'd be now. So I stood up, grabbed a shovel from the back shed, headed out past the garden, past the trees, across that pasture, and into that cottonwood gully. By now the blackberry vines were stretching their tendrils past the narrow path we had discovered before. They tore at my pants and the skin underneath. No bother, next time I'd bring hedge clippers and cut them back. Not too vigorously though, inaccessibility meant more privacy for me.
I knew it wouldn't be easy digging a grave. I once helped a friend dig a three foot deep trench for some plumbing he was installing. That took all day. Going six feet deep seemed like a whole new league. The pioneers, I'd always been taught, were a hearty breed. They wouldn't have been so lazy that they'd bury their dead in shallow graves.
The soil, it turned out, was better than I expected. Fairly soft and stable. There were many alternating layers of sand and clay, no doubt deposits from the river that floods regularly, or at least used to before all the levees were built. As I dug the whole deeper, a little of the sand from the sandy layers would pour into the hole, like a baker might dust a layer of wet dough with a little flour, but it was inconsequential compared to the rate that I dug.
It still took me hours. Six feet deep. Maybe seven feet long and four feet wide. I don't know if that's how grave robbers dug down, but it looked to me like how proper grave diggers dug theirs in the movies. Nobody saw me, nobody could have. I was alone and I could do as I pleased here.
The first grave I dug had been in front of a tombstone marking the burial of Abigail Penderson, died age 58. I had no way of knowing, but I assumed she was the wife of, and 'mother', corresponding with James Penderson 'father' whose tombstone we had first found.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Your shovel doesn't strike the hard surface of a casket the way it does in the movies. Yet there most definitely was a casket. When you scrape away the last of the soil you can see its outline. It was just an old fashioned pine casket. Those elongated hexagons with the trapezoidal end for the head and shoulders; the kind you see in cheesy vampire movies and decorations for haunted houses at Halloween.
There wasn't any “thunk” when I first struck it with my shovel. It had been rotting for over a hundred and twenty years, turning dark and soft. It crumbled quite easily. It was only just intact enough for you to realize what it was. I had to lift the lid away in several pieces, the hinges, if there had ever been any, were no longer attached.
It hadn't held up its structure, either. The soil had filled in the void space of the coffin. I suppose at first rodents would have tunneled their way in, and then the natural motion of the groundwater slowly filled the space with mud during the wet winter months.
I was aware of what I was doing, while I was doing it, but strangely the whole process felt... sterile. Enough time had passed. There was nothing here but good clean dirt, and beneath that... bones. No stink, no rot, just dry, more or less, bones. There was the white dress she had been buried in as well. The fabric was falling apart, and seemed of little consequence. Bits of lace that fragmented and mixed in with the soil like pieces of so many old leaves. Some of the smaller bones were also broken and rotted away, most were at least discolored, including the skull and pelvis. The teeth seemed the whitest among all the remains. Perhaps some of them were false.
It was the bracelet that caught my eye. Her family had her buried with it, it must have been precious to her. It was gold, not much, but striking. I wondered if the family had been sorry to see it go, forever beyond their reach. It reminded me of a photo I'd seen of the victims of Pompeii. While some bones were missing, here was a clear skeleton of a forearm, half buried in dark soil and darker remnants of a pine coffin. The gold gleamed through it all, as shiny and polished as if it were brand new. Here was my reward. My first archaeological dig, and I'd already struck gold.
Filling in the hole was much easier than digging it. The scar in the earth made it clear the crime I had committed, though nobody would be back here before it filled over with dry leaves and vanished. Nobody would ever know. I went in through the back of the house, up the backstairs and to the shower. While my roommates were home, none of them noticed I was covered in dirt, nobody stopped me. I then returned to my room, and took the bracelet from my pocket to admire it. Obviously nobody but me knew that it even existed. The descendants of that woman weren't even aware of her grave, let alone grave goods. It might as well not exist. There wasn't a lot of gold, I might have been able to get a little money pawning it, but no. This had sentimental value, this was something I was going to keep the rest of my life. My secret, my treasure.
The casket of Peter Moore, which I unburied the next weekend, was more intact. So too were his clothing and skin beneath. It wasn't at all a mummy, just a skeleton with a few patches of skin holding the bones together in the same place they had been in life. His beard was still here, as was some of his hair, which showed he had been balding in life. Other than that, there was little to indicate what he might have looked like. There was no way to tell if the toothy wide grin he bore now reflected a jovial personality that he may have had alive. It did reveal, however, that he had four gold teeth, which were easy to pull.
He had been buried in what was probably his best, something that might have sort of approached a suit. I checked the front pocket, and sure enough, here was more treasure. A gold pocket watch. I don't know much about these things. I don't suspect it was fine quality; it was a working man's pocket watch. But it had been his treasure once, and now it was mine. I turned the little dial and listened, but there was no tick. What a find that could have been. I suppose over time some sand had gotten into the mechanism. I'd have to find a specialist to repair it, but once I had found one the pocket watch would tick again, and I'd hear the same sound the man had.
At his right side, near the hip, was the man's revolver. I don't know what the story was. I hadn't heard of people burying their loved ones with guns. I'd have thought them too practical to leave behind in a grave. Maybe a farmer had no use for a six shooter they might have needed while on the Oregon Trail. Maybe they hadn't made ammunition for it anymore when the man had died. A funny thought occurred to me. Maybe they thought the man would need it in the afterlife, fighting off demons from hell, or the souls of those he had wronged in life. At any rate, it was unloaded, and quite rusty. So, like the pocket watch, I'd have to find a way to get it restored some day.
Third weekend, third grave. Hester Wentworth, died 1888. Maybe it was the calluses on my hand. Maybe it was the muscles in my back, now used to the strain. The actual digging flew by, I hardly remember doing it, even though it would have taken me hours.
I hadn't expected a mummy. I'd seen bones and hair and shriveled pieces of skin, but an intact mummified corpse shocked me. The casket had been solidly preserved, maybe that should have clued me in. Even the hinges worked. The only mark on its surface had been where my shovel had struck it.
I dusted off the exterior, bent over it, opened that lid with only a slightly rusty squeak, and I nearly jumped out of the grave with the sight of that body. She might have appeared this way when they first lowered her into the ground. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were just two bottomless empty sockets.
I couldn't be sure this was how she had appeared, minus the eyes. She looked like a terribly old woman. Perhaps that was brought about by mummification. Her skin was wrinkled as a rotten apple and dry as parchment. Her hair, despite being tied in a bun, was wild, kinky, and bone white. Her bare hands, folded across her chest, still showed traces of the veins and arteries which once ran full of blood. I had no idea how old she had been when she had died, the tombstone hadn't displayed a birth. Perhaps she had been a wizened old woman when she passed, and, except for the eyes, mummification had done little to change her appearance.
I had a strange impression that she had jewelry, heirlooms, secreted in some pocket under her clothing. If she had not been so intact, I would have removed or torn apart the clothing to search. This time I demurred. Not for the sake of human decency, no. I had this irrational fear that if I exposed her dried flesh, I'd find the mummified grossly metastasized tumor that had killed her. Why I thought this, I couldn't say.
I'd still take my artifact, though, my treasure. It was right there, clutched to her chest, beneath her folded hands. It was a book.
It was a very large, heavy thing. When I lifted it out, the woman's arms fell away easily, and there was a large rectangular depression on the remains below. I had to heave it up and out of the six foot deep hole. Come to think of it, I don't remember filling the grave back in either. I must have. During the fourth dig, the hole was no more.
I wish I had studied that book more. It wasn't that I didn't try, it was that it was a difficult read. It was the handwriting that made it so dense. It wasn't that it was bad writing either, no, it was actually very fine. Too good. The writer, who I presume to be Hester Wentwork, wrote in an intricate cursive style, calligraphy, really. It was very fine and small lettering, so stylized that it took a reader a great while to interpret each word.
I suppose she had never intended it to be read. The book was a diary, or something like it, hence the presumption of the authorship. I started in back, and read the entries in a reverse order, skipping over large sections where writing was particularly crabbed, and I assumed were largely redundant in content. Again, I wish I had read more carefully.
Firstly, or should I say at the end, it appears she was aware that she was dying. She didn't mention a specific disease or condition, simply that she was supposing it was “her time” and what should be done upon her death. For years of entries, she describes the daily simple life of a farmer. The weather, the crops, the sales, most of it very mundane, hence why I skipped a lot. She went into detail on her family, relations, and neighbors. Many of the names were of people also buried in the same cemetery. Prudence and Hortense were her sisters, it appears, with Prudence marrying a man named Gage, and Hortense a spinster who never left her side. There was the Wintergreen family. The Pendersons. Somebody named Wokokkon.
She described traveling on the Oregon Trail, and here my interest perked up. She mentions fording rivers, seeing dramatic and surreal landscapes, encounters with Native Americans, some cordial and profitable in trade, others confusing and terrifying. She discussed, in some detail, fallings out she had with other pioneers in the same wagon train, or the soldiers and officers in the various forts they stopped at.. She regularly presented herself as the aggrieved party in these disputes, though I question the reliability of the author in some of those encounters. She describes their camping spots with vivid detail, perhaps because this was when she had found time to write. The images she evoked were haunting, in the literally terrifying sense. The feeling of isolation and exposure in the hostile wilderness are palpable. A high desert cluster of boulders, white as bone, surrounded by whitebark pines bending and whistling in the cold night air, once the fire burned out there was nothing above them but the icy uncaring stars. For all the romance of the Oregon Trail, to have actually put your life on the line must have been a terror.
I tried to read on before this, but I grew weary. I think the handwriting may have been giving me eye strain. Now I wonder if the book didn't want me to read. It mentioned the outset of the trip from St. Louis, the famous starting point of the Oregon Trail, where they had joined up with the Wintergreens. James Penderson and his kin, were from Ohio, it turned out. The Wentworths had been living here near the Pendersons, with Wokokkon, for some number of years before deciding on their migration. Yet there was plenty of life that Hester had lived before her life in Ohio. Albany. Providence. Lexington. Salem. All the time her sisters had been with her, them and Wokokkon. There are other names here, families they knew that did not come with them. Havershams. Molnars. Whateleys. All of the time Wokokkon was with them. If anything, the writing seemed to get harder. Not so much the lettering but the language. Turns of phrases I didn't recognize, slang, compound words unfamiliar to me. It talked about troubles. It talked about wars. It talked about plagues. It talked about the Crown and colonies. Hester must have lived a long life, perhaps her dialect had changed in that time. She talked about other voyages. Over the sea. The old world. Times before that. Always Wokokkon.
From here on I skimmed a few pages. The writing was essentially ineligible, but clearly still Hester's. Only one word I recognized, Wokokkon. It appeared identical regardless of how far back. Every instance stood out among the chicken scratches. It made my head hurt.
I closed the book. It was the last time I opened it. That would have been yesterday. No, the day before. Wait… it’s all blurring together. I remember seeing it, but not registering it explicitly. I only stored it in the back of my mind. I suppose only now I got the significance of my observation. I had been reading back to front, back through time. I went back and through what should have been the beginning of Hester's diary, but it only kept going. I had only gotten, perhaps, a sixth of the way through the diary before I stopped. There had been much more. Hester Wentworth had no date of birth on her tombstone, nor her sisters.
There was one grave left. 19 undug graves, but only one I was going to rob. I knew that now, one more, and I’d be done on the fourth weekend. I knew which one it would be. The landlord, professor and I had thought it was just a large unhewn rock when we first saw it. It took a moment to notice shallow lettering had been carved into one side. It was too shallow, the stone too rough, for any of us to tell what it had said back then. But now I know. I’d recognize those eight letters now anywhere.
I started on a Saturday, as usual. Thought it would take the normal amount of time. Again, I didn’t notice time passing. I didn’t notice anything at all until I felt the strain in my arm and my back. I had been lifting the shovel up over my head in order to toss the soil to the side. I was standing in a hole some eight feet deep. This grave was deeper than the others. I didn’t even consider that it wasn’t a grave at all, I simply knew it was one, and I needed to keep digging.
Of course, I’d also need a way out. I couldn’t just dig myself in. So I started attacking the top of the foot end of the grave. Digging myself a ramp. It took a lot longer. I made sure it would be long enough and shallow enough that I could keep digging no matter how deep the hole got. I stopped when it got too dark to see. I retreated back through the blackberries, across the pasture and garden.
This time my roommates noticed my condition, covered in dirt, knuckles and calluses bleeding. They noticed and I didn’t care. I just grunted a non-explanation, and showered and collapsed into bed. I couldn’t sleep, what lay beneath that stone called to me.
I started again at dawn the next day. The hole grew deeper. The ramp leading out grew longer, having to curve to avoid the roots of a tree. When it happened, it happened all at once. I felt the ground shift, sickeningly, as that last strike with the shovel punched through.
I’d like to think it was reflexes, grace. It was more of a fall, I collapsed onto the ramp behind me as the soil gave away. What had been the bottom of a deep grave had given away, fallen into a hole. Now all there was left was this hole. I couldn’t see the bottom. I don’t think there was a bottom. The only thing I could see was the sides of this hole, indistinguishable from the hole that I had dug with my own hands. Alternating thin layers of clay and sand. All the way down, disappearing into darkness.
Here was when I realized my horror, my mistake. The rush of air that came up out of that hole was only the harbinger for what followed. The air was terribly cold, arctic. It had a stink worse than death, I don’t understand how air that cold could hold such an intense odor.
Pointlessly, I turned and fled. I didn’t know what was coming. I knew its name, but not its nature. Fleeing was all I could do.
I ran. I’ve been running since. I only passed through the house to grab my car keys and wallet. I didn’t stop to explain myself to my shocked roommates. I didn’t bother to try to warn them.
I’m still driving. My hands are still filthy. My sweat had turned the grave dirt to a thin mud, which is now all over the steering wheel and the rest of the interior in reach. There’s a big brown spot on the radio power button. I keep turning it on and off. At first I was waiting for the radio to mention it. Then I couldn’t listen to it once they did. I still flick it on for a few seconds just to check it’s still reality.
At first I didn’t know which direction. I just knew I had to get away from that place as fast as I could, which meant the freeway. I-5. North or South. I was already northbound when I thought about the consequences of those two choices.
If I had gone South, I’d have about 20 hours of road in front of me before I’d get to the Los Angeles metropolis and its network of freeways. That would have been a trap. By 20 hours, they would have known. They would have been panicking. They would have been crowding the freeways into gridlock. I’d never make it the extra hundred miles or so to the border. That would have been the end of my road.
If I had continued Northbound, it’d have been only five or so hours to the Canadian border if I drove fast. I probably wouldn’t have made it across in my current condition, covered in filth and lacking a passport. Even if I had, there aren’t many good roads going much further north beyond Vancouver.
So East it was. I-84. As the sun set, it cast beautiful color across the great cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge. The irony would only occur to me slowly, later on.
I only stopped for gas. Thank god I remembered my wallet. I’d lost my appetite. I don’t expect I’ll ever get it back. The sun came up in what I guess was Wyoming. It was a broad flat expanse of desert. I’d never been to this part of the country before. It was beautiful. It didn’t look particularly hospitable. I can see why the Oregon Trail pioneers kept heading west. Now here I was, on almost an identical route but heading east. Trying to flee what those pioneers, those witches, had planted in that fertile Oregon soil.
I looked back after the sun had risen, into my rear view memory. I thought maybe I could see it, but I couldn’t yet. Maybe it was those rocky mountains. Maybe it hadn’t risen above the curvature of the earth. I knew it would soon, I don’t know how, but I did. What I did notice is that Westbound traffic had stopped completely. By now people had found out. This was why I had avoided LA.
Somewhere in Nebraska I did see it. Coming up over the horizon like a storm cloud. It was black. I had expected that. But deeper in, it was blacker than black. I didn’t expect that. How could I? I still can’t even understand it in my brain. I can’t describe it, let alone think about it on a higher level. It’s just a sort of indiscrete black glow, but with form. And the things on the outside, I don’t know what those are either. Wisps? Tendrils? Roots? I can’t call them tentacles, tentacles are things that make sense, they’re too normal. These things defy reasons.
I saw that, then turned the rearview mirror to an extreme angle where I wouldn’t glance at it. For a while, I kept moving it back and looking, the same way I had done by turning the radio off and on. I don’t know why. I already knew what I’d see. It was getting bigger. And getting closer. Later on I just snapped the damn mirror off.
I’m still heading East. Not sure why. Basic human preservation instincts, I’d guess. It won’t do me any good but delay the inevitable. The Oregon Trail in reverse, heading towards doom instead of a new life.
I don’t know what that thing is. I know what its name is. I know that it means the end of the world. I wish I’d read that book in more detail. Those witches were behind it. Summoning something they would never live to see. I wonder if they prophesied me. That thing was fine and happy until I dug it up.
The Eastbound traffic is getting busy now. There aren’t many people in these little towns in the middle of the country. But they all add up. Now they’re trying to flee east too. Traffic is slowing down.
I don’t think I’m going to make it to St. Louis.
2022.07.09 19:05 Guilty_Chemistry9337 Go East, Young Man
by E.B. Davis
Note: this opens with a rhetorical question, and shifts to 1st person. But it's not one of those "Author is the narrator, this is a true story, it happened to me" type stories that I believe the 'self-referential' rule is applying to. It's just sort of a film noir 'Sunset Boulevard' type narration.
Have you ever played that old game “The Oregon Trail?”
There was a lot of death in that game. If you played it you probably remember. The goal is to get from St. Louis to Oregon’s Willamette Valley alive. It’s not easy, for a kid’s game. Your characters pretty regularly drop dead, from typhoid, or dysentery, or drinking poisoned water, or exposure, or the random bear mauling.
The odd thing about it is that it’s an educational game. The original Oregon Trail pioneers really did risk life and limb crossing the continent. They’d bury their dead in random trail-side graves, rarely leaving any markers that lasted. Those that do remain are practically enshrined now, after preservation efforts made when the youngest of the original pioneers were frail octogenarians.
What the game doesn’t teach you is that the pioneers didn’t stop dropping dead once they got to Oregon. If you get off the main roads and travel across that still fertile valley on the smaller roads, it won’t take too long before you come across a pioneer cemetery, entirely randomly.
It’s not that a lot of pioneers suddenly died of buffalo stampedes once they reached Oregon. Yet it took decades before the little towns were incorporated, platted, and built. First these towns were situated along rivers, the only practical means of transportation, and only later at crossroads; the roads themselves taking long to develop. The priorities were farms, then places of employment, mills being the most common. By the time the new towns could grow large enough to consider building proper town cemeteries, the original pioneer generation was vanishing.
That generation had always been considered a “breed apart.” The society they grew there would always recognize the original pioneers, and their descendants ranked themselves upon the generations of separation. The pioneers had left their loved ones in lonely graves on the Trail, but now buried them together into little pioneers cemeteries. Some were little more than family plots on private farmsteads, or little graveyards behind the first generation of log cabin churches. They were never large, and once the more ‘official’ town cemeteries were consecrated, were never used.
As you could expect, in their disuse, these little cemeteries were neglected. Weeds over grew them, the little ornamental trees grew into small indistinct copses of trees. It was a few decades into the twentieth century when a wave of nostalgia resulted in the creation of historical preservation societies. Some of this focused on maintaining and preserving portions of the Oregon Trail itself. While the little log cabins were long gone, some of the clapboard houses they would build later sometimes survived to end up on historic registers. So too, many of the cemeteries were cleaned up and restored. Some of the prettier ones would get listed in little tourist pamphlets. These would usually be pleasant little affairs on top of the low rolling hills or buttes in the valley. They were the sort of places where you could take nice landscape photographs of old headstones, juxtaposed with the living vibrant valley in the background.
The most popular one is, unsurprisingly, a short drive out of Portland. It has a rundown but picturesque chapel, not built by the pioneers, but by ‘conservationists’ in the 1920s. It’s also purported to be haunted, in this case by the ghosts of a family annihilated by the father gone mad. Visitors are likely to be disappointed if they go home and look up the actual history. The family never existed, and the murders never happened.
Most of the pioneer cemeteries get no such attention. A few are tended to, still, by preservation societies, or other caring locals. Some, those that escaped the attention of the early historical societies, were completely abandoned, unappreciated, and sat forlorn on private property.
I had no idea I had such a cemetery on my property. I should say, on the property I rented. I shared a large old farmhouse with several other students as I finished my graduate degree at Oregon State. I happened to be alone one Saturday afternoon when the landlord came knocking. This wasn’t something he did often, as the house was in excellent repair. He owned about a hundred acres of farmland. The house was built near the road, and while he or his workers would farm grass seed on the back acreage, they used a different access, and we rarely interacted.
This time he had brought a visitor, a professor from the University, though as he was from the history department, so we had never met. My landlord knocked on the door, and as I was the only one home, answered it. He just wanted to inform us that he was visiting the property, with the said professor, so we wouldn’t be alarmed if we saw them treading about the grounds.
It took me a moment to realize what exactly he was saying, and that it wasn’t just some weird practical joke. There was a pioneer cemetery on his property, and I had no idea it even existed. The history professor was here to take a look at it. It wasn’t that the professor was going to do anything with it, it was just that he wanted to confirm what he had found in the records, based on an old survey that had been compiled back in the 1960s.
The landlord took us across the back “garden.” It had gone to seed years ago, despite half-hearted attempts by tenants to grow tomatoes and the like. Back through the copse of trees planted beyond the garden, across a patch of open pasture, and down into a shallow gully full of cottonwood trees and blackberry bushes. I’d seen this patch out the back window, but never explored it.
The professor had a little GPS device he kept checking, but the landlord knew exactly where the graveyard laid, even if he didn’t exactly know how to reach it at first. It was the blackberries. People think of blackberry bushes as a boon, especially in the early summer when they bear fruit, but this Himalayan variety, it’s an invasive species. It kills everything, just chokes it out. The landlord hadn’t been back here since the blackberries had been established. We had to circle around them, looking for a route in, and only finding dead ends. For a while it looked like it was a lost cause, but finally we found a narrow little path that lead us through, to a wide open spot, not a glade but at least a little forest of cottonwood and some grassy patches.
I made it almost all the way across the cemetery before I realized I was walking through it. It was the landlord who found the first gravestone. It was well hidden in a tuft of grass between two large exposed roots of a cottonwood tree. “James Penderson. 1835-1895. Father,” it read.
After that, finding the other stones was relatively easy, despite them mostly being smaller and concealed by the foliage. They were all facing the same direction. All laid out in a rough grid pattern, spaced about as far apart as you'd expect in any cemetery.
“Thomas Wintergreen. 1874-1878. Taken by Cholera.”
“Mary Penderson. 1860-1877. Died in Childbirth. Infant, still-born.”
“Hester Wentworth. Died 1888.”
“Prudence Gage. Died 1889.
“Hortense Wentworth. Died 1890.”
We found twenty two in all. Some of the names and dates had eroded off completely. Others were obscure and only partially legible. The professor had brought paper and charcoal to rub out what might be too faint for the eye, with modest success. He took a lot of photos, and made some measurements with a tape measure. And then he was done. It was all he had come here for.
He pointed out that, tall as the cottonwoods were, they couldn't be more than eighty years old, so they hadn't been here when the cemetery was active. At one point, in the ancient past, the river had run through here. By the time the pioneers found it, and dug their first grave, it would have likely been open pasture. This was the bottom of a shallow depression, roughly an elongated ellipse from a bird's eye view. It probably would have been a picturesque spot to lay their loved ones to rest. With that, we headed back.
It struck me as odd, how such a solemn place could be so largely forgotten, hidden away in the weeds. The only interest it had gotten in decades was from this history professor, who only wanted to confirm what had already been recorded long ago. I couldn't imagine a better visual for the word “abandoned” than those lonely tombstones.
The professor and the landlord left, and I forgot all about it.
I didn't completely forget. It was just rarely on my mind. I'd finish a rough series of exams, and then that following weekend while trying to unwind, I would remember it again. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.” It was an intrusive thought, but meant nothing to me. What did it matter to me and my interests? Nothing.
I'd visit my aging parents for the holidays. On the long drive home, “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I'd wake from an intense dream that I couldn't remember. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I never thought I'd end up a grave robber.
I suppose that's a lie too, like claiming I had forgotten the graveyard.
The thought had always been there since the beginning, just buried under the surface. It popped up here and there, another intrusive thought when I least expected it. The thought grew louder over time. More appealing. Less transgressive.
I had become interested with the reruns of an old British show about archaeology that somebody had uploaded to youtube. They covered all kinds of digs from all kinds of periods all over the Isles. Neolithic camps. Celtic round houses. Roman tombs. Viking settlements. English Civil War battlefields. The British had thousands of years of history buried under their fields. Here in the US we had nothing even remotely comparable in interest. Except we sort of did.
We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.
I don't know if my interest in the show was legitimate, or maybe my subconscious had led me there. It seemed like easy enough work. You dig. You see what you find. Of course the professionals dug very carefully, they recorded all of the locations and contexts of their finds, and interpreted the history. I could do that too.
I wouldn't have published anywhere, of course. I wasn't a professional. I wouldn't interpret the history, why would I? The history is pretty well known. So there'd be no need to record anything. That would make it easier.
I watched every episode of that show. They talked about grave robbers all the time. They seldom had a site which wasn't disturbed in one way or another. There were the gentlemen antiquarians of the 19th century. Rich fops with too much time on their hands, who dug up old ruins for the fun of it, barely doing any proper record keeping at all. There were the peasants who had robbed out old Norman fortresses and churches to use the stones to build their cottages. There had been the Normans before them who had repurposed older buildings to build their castles.
So what was so bad about grave robbing? Humanity has always been doing it. The only time I could remember it being a serious issue in all of history was when doctors had paid grave robbers to supply them with corpses back in the early Victorian era. Yet that had been a noble cause. They needed to understand anatomy in order to advance the field of medicine, and they needed cadavers to dissect. Ever since then, the mere suggestion of graverobbing has been demonized and stigmatized, often with the most lurid fictional boogeymen. Consider filthy Igor, digging up the grave to supply his master with body parts. His master was a doctor, remember. One of those “villainous” scientists who only wanted to better the world. The victimless crime of graverobbing has now become irrecoverably twisted, its perpetrators depicted as Ed Gein-like perverts and monsters. Yet are archaeologists any better? Ignoring the archaeology?
Maybe I'm defending myself too much. Maybe I should be ashamed of what I've done.
We had a pioneer cemetery on our land, and I dug it up.
I won't say I didn't hesitate. I spent months telling myself the idea was ridiculous. That it was deeply immoral. That I'd get caught. That I'd be humiliated. That I'd be wasting my time. That I'd be doing a lot of physical labor and have nothing to show for it.
The day I finally went through with it, I didn't hesitate at all. I simply noticed I was home alone and no one would be around to witness me; and I realized that if ever I were to do it, it'd be now. So I stood up, grabbed a shovel from the back shed, headed out past the garden, past the trees, across that pasture, and into that cottonwood gully. By now the blackberry vines were stretching their tendrils past the narrow path we had discovered before. They tore at my pants and the skin underneath. No bother, next time I'd bring hedge clippers and cut them back. Not too vigorously though, inaccessibility meant more privacy for me.
I knew it wouldn't be easy digging a grave. I once helped a friend dig a three foot deep trench for some plumbing he was installing. That took all day. Going six feet deep seemed like a whole new league. The pioneers, I'd always been taught, were a hearty breed. They wouldn't have been so lazy that they'd bury their dead in shallow graves.
The soil, it turned out, was better than I expected. Fairly soft and stable. There were many alternating layers of sand and clay, no doubt deposits from the river that floods regularly, or at least used to before all the levees were built. As I dug the whole deeper, a little of the sand from the sandy layers would pour into the hole, like a baker might dust a layer of wet dough with a little flour, but it was inconsequential compared to the rate that I dug.
It still took me hours. Six feet deep. Maybe seven feet long and four feet wide. I don't know if that's how grave robbers dug down, but it looked to me like how proper grave diggers dug theirs in the movies. Nobody saw me, nobody could have. I was alone and I could do as I pleased here.
The first grave I dug had been in front of a tombstone marking the burial of Abigail Penderson, died age 58. I had no way of knowing, but I assumed she was the wife of, and 'mother', corresponding with James Penderson 'father' whose tombstone we had first found.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Your shovel doesn't strike the hard surface of a casket the way it does in the movies. Yet there most definitely was a casket. When you scrape away the last of the soil you can see its outline. It was just an old fashioned pine casket. Those elongated hexagons with the trapezoidal end for the head and shoulders; the kind you see in cheesy vampire movies and decorations for haunted houses at Halloween.
There wasn't any “thunk” when I first struck it with my shovel. It had been rotting for over a hundred and twenty years, turning dark and soft. It crumbled quite easily. It was only just intact enough for you to realize what it was. I had to lift the lid away in several pieces, the hinges, if there had ever been any, were no longer attached.
It hadn't held up its structure, either. The soil had filled in the void space of the coffin. I suppose at first rodents would have tunneled their way in, and then the natural motion of the groundwater slowly filled the space with mud during the wet winter months.
I was aware of what I was doing, while I was doing it, but strangely the whole process felt... sterile. Enough time had passed. There was nothing here but good clean dirt, and beneath that... bones. No stink, no rot, just dry, more or less, bones. There was the white dress she had been buried in as well. The fabric was falling apart, and seemed of little consequence. Bits of lace that fragmented and mixed in with the soil like pieces of so many old leaves. Some of the smaller bones were also broken and rotted away, most were at least discolored, including the skull and pelvis. The teeth seemed the whitest among all the remains. Perhaps some of them were false.
It was the bracelet that caught my eye. Her family had her buried with it, it must have been precious to her. It was gold, not much, but striking. I wondered if the family had been sorry to see it go, forever beyond their reach. It reminded me of a photo I'd seen of the victims of Pompeii. While some bones were missing, here was a clear skeleton of a forearm, half buried in dark soil and darker remnants of a pine coffin. The gold gleamed through it all, as shiny and polished as if it were brand new. Here was my reward. My first archaeological dig, and I'd already struck gold.
Filling in the hole was much easier than digging it. The scar in the earth made it clear the crime I had committed, though nobody would be back here before it filled over with dry leaves and vanished. Nobody would ever know. I went in through the back of the house, up the backstairs and to the shower. While my roommates were home, none of them noticed I was covered in dirt, nobody stopped me. I then returned to my room, and took the bracelet from my pocket to admire it. Obviously nobody but me knew that it even existed. The descendants of that woman weren't even aware of her grave, let alone grave goods. It might as well not exist. There wasn't a lot of gold, I might have been able to get a little money pawning it, but no. This had sentimental value, this was something I was going to keep the rest of my life. My secret, my treasure.
The casket of Peter Moore, which I unburied the next weekend, was more intact. So too were his clothing and skin beneath. It wasn't at all a mummy, just a skeleton with a few patches of skin holding the bones together in the same place they had been in life. His beard was still here, as was some of his hair, which showed he had been balding in life. Other than that, there was little to indicate what he might have looked like. There was no way to tell if the toothy wide grin he bore now reflected a jovial personality that he may have had alive. It did reveal, however, that he had four gold teeth, which were easy to pull.
He had been buried in what was probably his best, something that might have sort of approached a suit. I checked the front pocket, and sure enough, here was more treasure. A gold pocket watch. I don't know much about these things. I don't suspect it was fine quality; it was a working man's pocket watch. But it had been his treasure once, and now it was mine. I turned the little dial and listened, but there was no tick. What a find that could have been. I suppose over time some sand had gotten into the mechanism. I'd have to find a specialist to repair it, but once I had found one the pocket watch would tick again, and I'd hear the same sound the man had.
At his right side, near the hip, was the man's revolver. I don't know what the story was. I hadn't heard of people burying their loved ones with guns. I'd have thought them too practical to leave behind in a grave. Maybe a farmer had no use for a six shooter they might have needed while on the Oregon Trail. Maybe they hadn't made ammunition for it anymore when the man had died. A funny thought occurred to me. Maybe they thought the man would need it in the afterlife, fighting off demons from hell, or the souls of those he had wronged in life. At any rate, it was unloaded, and quite rusty. So, like the pocket watch, I'd have to find a way to get it restored some day.
Third weekend, third grave. Hester Wentworth, died 1888. Maybe it was the calluses on my hand. Maybe it was the muscles in my back, now used to the strain. The actual digging flew by, I hardly remember doing it, even though it would have taken me hours.
I hadn't expected a mummy. I'd seen bones and hair and shriveled pieces of skin, but an intact mummified corpse shocked me. The casket had been solidly preserved, maybe that should have clued me in. Even the hinges worked. The only mark on its surface had been where my shovel had struck it.
I dusted off the exterior, bent over it, opened that lid with only a slightly rusty squeak, and I nearly jumped out of the grave with the sight of that body. She might have appeared this way when they first lowered her into the ground. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were just two bottomless empty sockets.
I couldn't be sure this was how she had appeared, minus the eyes. She looked like a terribly old woman. Perhaps that was brought about by mummification. Her skin was wrinkled as a rotten apple and dry as parchment. Her hair, despite being tied in a bun, was wild, kinky, and bone white. Her bare hands, folded across her chest, still showed traces of the veins and arteries which once ran full of blood. I had no idea how old she had been when she had died, the tombstone hadn't displayed a birth. Perhaps she had been a wizened old woman when she passed, and, except for the eyes, mummification had done little to change her appearance.
I had a strange impression that she had jewelry, heirlooms, secreted in some pocket under her clothing. If she had not been so intact, I would have removed or torn apart the clothing to search. This time I demurred. Not for the sake of human decency, no. I had this irrational fear that if I exposed her dried flesh, I'd find the mummified grossly metastasized tumor that had killed her. Why I thought this, I couldn't say.
I'd still take my artifact, though, my treasure. It was right there, clutched to her chest, beneath her folded hands. It was a book.
It was a very large, heavy thing. When I lifted it out, the woman's arms fell away easily, and there was a large rectangular depression on the remains below. I had to heave it up and out of the six foot deep hole. Come to think of it, I don't remember filling the grave back in either. I must have. During the fourth dig, the hole was no more.
I wish I had studied that book more. It wasn't that I didn't try, it was that it was a difficult read. It was the handwriting that made it so dense. It wasn't that it was bad writing either, no, it was actually very fine. Too good. The writer, who I presume to be Hester Wentwork, wrote in an intricate cursive style, calligraphy, really. It was very fine and small lettering, so stylized that it took a reader a great while to interpret each word.
I suppose she had never intended it to be read. The book was a diary, or something like it, hence the presumption of the authorship. I started in back, and read the entries in a reverse order, skipping over large sections where writing was particularly crabbed, and I assumed were largely redundant in content. Again, I wish I had read more carefully.
Firstly, or should I say at the end, it appears she was aware that she was dying. She didn't mention a specific disease or condition, simply that she was supposing it was “her time” and what should be done upon her death. For years of entries, she describes the daily simple life of a farmer. The weather, the crops, the sales, most of it very mundane, hence why I skipped a lot. She went into detail on her family, relations, and neighbors. Many of the names were of people also buried in the same cemetery. Prudence and Hortense were her sisters, it appears, with Prudence marrying a man named Gage, and Hortense a spinster who never left her side. There was the Wintergreen family. The Pendersons. Somebody named Wokokkon.
She described traveling on the Oregon Trail, and here my interest perked up. She mentions fording rivers, seeing dramatic and surreal landscapes, encounters with Native Americans, some cordial and profitable in trade, others confusing and terrifying. She discussed, in some detail, fallings out she had with other pioneers in the same wagon train, or the soldiers and officers in the various forts they stopped at.. She regularly presented herself as the aggrieved party in these disputes, though I question the reliability of the author in some of those encounters. She describes their camping spots with vivid detail, perhaps because this was when she had found time to write. The images she evoked were haunting, in the literally terrifying sense. The feeling of isolation and exposure in the hostile wilderness are palpable. A high desert cluster of boulders, white as bone, surrounded by whitebark pines bending and whistling in the cold night air, once the fire burned out there was nothing above them but the icy uncaring stars. For all the romance of the Oregon Trail, to have actually put your life on the line must have been a terror.
I tried to read on before this, but I grew weary. I think the handwriting may have been giving me eye strain. Now I wonder if the book didn't want me to read. It mentioned the outset of the trip from St. Louis, the famous starting point of the Oregon Trail, where they had joined up with the Wintergreens. James Penderson and his kin, were from Ohio, it turned out. The Wentworths had been living here near the Pendersons, with Wokokkon, for some number of years before deciding on their migration. Yet there was plenty of life that Hester had lived before her life in Ohio. Albany. Providence. Lexington. Salem. All the time her sisters had been with her, them and Wokokkon. There are other names here, families they knew that did not come with them. Havershams. Molnars. Whateleys. All of the time Wokokkon was with them. If anything, the writing seemed to get harder. Not so much the lettering but the language. Turns of phrases I didn't recognize, slang, compound words unfamiliar to me. It talked about troubles. It talked about wars. It talked about plagues. It talked about the Crown and colonies. Hester must have lived a long life, perhaps her dialect had changed in that time. She talked about other voyages. Over the sea. The old world. Times before that. Always Wokokkon.
From here on I skimmed a few pages. The writing was essentially ineligible, but clearly still Hester's. Only one word I recognized, Wokokkon. It appeared identical regardless of how far back. Every instance stood out among the chicken scratches. It made my head hurt.
I closed the book. It was the last time I opened it. That would have been yesterday. No, the day before. Wait… it’s all blurring together. I remember seeing it, but not registering it explicitly. I only stored it in the back of my mind. I suppose only now I got the significance of my observation. I had been reading back to front, back through time. I went back and through what should have been the beginning of Hester's diary, but it only kept going. I had only gotten, perhaps, a sixth of the way through the diary before I stopped. There had been much more. Hester Wentworth had no date of birth on her tombstone, nor her sisters.
There was one grave left. 19 undug graves, but only one I was going to rob. I knew that now, one more, and I’d be done on the fourth weekend. I knew which one it would be. The landlord, professor and I had thought it was just a large unhewn rock when we first saw it. It took a moment to notice shallow lettering had been carved into one side. It was too shallow, the stone too rough, for any of us to tell what it had said back then. But now I know. I’d recognize those eight letters now anywhere.
I started on a Saturday, as usual. Thought it would take the normal amount of time. Again, I didn’t notice time passing. I didn’t notice anything at all until I felt the strain in my arm and my back. I had been lifting the shovel up over my head in order to toss the soil to the side. I was standing in a hole some eight feet deep. This grave was deeper than the others. I didn’t even consider that it wasn’t a grave at all, I simply knew it was one, and I needed to keep digging.
Of course, I’d also need a way out. I couldn’t just dig myself in. So I started attacking the top of the foot end of the grave. Digging myself a ramp. It took a lot longer. I made sure it would be long enough and shallow enough that I could keep digging no matter how deep the hole got. I stopped when it got too dark to see. I retreated back through the blackberries, across the pasture and garden.
This time my roommates noticed my condition, covered in dirt, knuckles and calluses bleeding. They noticed and I didn’t care. I just grunted a non-explanation, and showered and collapsed into bed. I couldn’t sleep, what lay beneath that stone called to me.
I started again at dawn the next day. The hole grew deeper. The ramp leading out grew longer, having to curve to avoid the roots of a tree. When it happened, it happened all at once. I felt the ground shift, sickeningly, as that last strike with the shovel punched through.
I’d like to think it was reflexes, grace. It was more of a fall, I collapsed onto the ramp behind me as the soil gave away. What had been the bottom of a deep grave had given away, fallen into a hole. Now all there was left was this hole. I couldn’t see the bottom. I don’t think there was a bottom. The only thing I could see was the sides of this hole, indistinguishable from the hole that I had dug with my own hands. Alternating thin layers of clay and sand. All the way down, disappearing into darkness.
Here was when I realized my horror, my mistake. The rush of air that came up out of that hole was only the harbinger for what followed. The air was terribly cold, arctic. It had a stink worse than death, I don’t understand how air that cold could hold such an intense odor.
Pointlessly, I turned and fled. I didn’t know what was coming. I knew its name, but not its nature. Fleeing was all I could do.
I ran. I’ve been running since. I only passed through the house to grab my car keys and wallet. I didn’t stop to explain myself to my shocked roommates. I didn’t bother to try to warn them.
I’m still driving. My hands are still filthy. My sweat had turned the grave dirt to a thin mud, which is now all over the steering wheel and the rest of the interior in reach. There’s a big brown spot on the radio power button. I keep turning it on and off. At first I was waiting for the radio to mention it. Then I couldn’t listen to it once they did. I still flick it on for a few seconds just to check it’s still reality.
At first I didn’t know which direction. I just knew I had to get away from that place as fast as I could, which meant the freeway. I-5. North or South. I was already northbound when I thought about the consequences of those two choices.
If I had gone South, I’d have about 20 hours of road in front of me before I’d get to the Los Angeles metropolis and its network of freeways. That would have been a trap. By 20 hours, they would have known. They would have been panicking. They would have been crowding the freeways into gridlock. I’d never make it the extra hundred miles or so to the border. That would have been the end of my road.
If I had continued Northbound, it’d have been only five or so hours to the Canadian border if I drove fast. I probably wouldn’t have made it across in my current condition, covered in filth and lacking a passport. Even if I had, there aren’t many good roads going much further north beyond Vancouver.
So East it was. I-84. As the sun set, it cast beautiful color across the great cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge. The irony would only occur to me slowly, later on.
I only stopped for gas. Thank god I remembered my wallet. I’d lost my appetite. I don’t expect I’ll ever get it back. The sun came up in what I guess was Wyoming. It was a broad flat expanse of desert. I’d never been to this part of the country before. It was beautiful. It didn’t look particularly hospitable. I can see why the Oregon Trail pioneers kept heading west. Now here I was, on almost an identical route but heading east. Trying to flee what those pioneers, those witches, had planted in that fertile Oregon soil.
I looked back after the sun had risen, into my rear view memory. I thought maybe I could see it, but I couldn’t yet. Maybe it was those rocky mountains. Maybe it hadn’t risen above the curvature of the earth. I knew it would soon, I don’t know how, but I did. What I did notice is that Westbound traffic had stopped completely. By now people had found out. This was why I had avoided LA.
Somewhere in Nebraska I did see it. Coming up over the horizon like a storm cloud. It was black. I had expected that. But deeper in, it was blacker than black. I didn’t expect that. How could I? I still can’t even understand it in my brain. I can’t describe it, let alone think about it on a higher level. It’s just a sort of indiscrete black glow, but with form. And the things on the outside, I don’t know what those are either. Wisps? Tendrils? Roots? I can’t call them tentacles, tentacles are things that make sense, they’re too normal. These things defy reasons.
I saw that, then turned the rearview mirror to an extreme angle where I wouldn’t glance at it. For a while, I kept moving it back and looking, the same way I had done by turning the radio off and on. I don’t know why. I already knew what I’d see. It was getting bigger. And getting closer. Later on I just snapped the damn mirror off.
I’m still heading East. Not sure why. Basic human preservation instincts, I’d guess. It won’t do me any good but delay the inevitable. The Oregon Trail in reverse, heading towards doom instead of a new life.
I don’t know what that thing is. I know what its name is. I know that it means the end of the world. I wish I’d read that book in more detail. Those witches were behind it. Summoning something they would never live to see. I wonder if they prophesied me. That thing was fine and happy until I dug it up.
The Eastbound traffic is getting busy now. There aren’t many people in these little towns in the middle of the country. But they all add up. Now they’re trying to flee east too. Traffic is slowing down.
I don’t think I’m going to make it to St. Louis.
submitted by Guilty_Chemistry9337 to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]
Note: this opens with a rhetorical question, and shifts to 1st person. But it's not one of those "Author is the narrator, this is a true story, it happened to me" type stories that I believe the 'self-referential' rule is applying to. It's just sort of a film noir 'Sunset Boulevard' type narration.
Have you ever played that old game “The Oregon Trail?”
There was a lot of death in that game. If you played it you probably remember. The goal is to get from St. Louis to Oregon’s Willamette Valley alive. It’s not easy, for a kid’s game. Your characters pretty regularly drop dead, from typhoid, or dysentery, or drinking poisoned water, or exposure, or the random bear mauling.
The odd thing about it is that it’s an educational game. The original Oregon Trail pioneers really did risk life and limb crossing the continent. They’d bury their dead in random trail-side graves, rarely leaving any markers that lasted. Those that do remain are practically enshrined now, after preservation efforts made when the youngest of the original pioneers were frail octogenarians.
What the game doesn’t teach you is that the pioneers didn’t stop dropping dead once they got to Oregon. If you get off the main roads and travel across that still fertile valley on the smaller roads, it won’t take too long before you come across a pioneer cemetery, entirely randomly.
It’s not that a lot of pioneers suddenly died of buffalo stampedes once they reached Oregon. Yet it took decades before the little towns were incorporated, platted, and built. First these towns were situated along rivers, the only practical means of transportation, and only later at crossroads; the roads themselves taking long to develop. The priorities were farms, then places of employment, mills being the most common. By the time the new towns could grow large enough to consider building proper town cemeteries, the original pioneer generation was vanishing.
That generation had always been considered a “breed apart.” The society they grew there would always recognize the original pioneers, and their descendants ranked themselves upon the generations of separation. The pioneers had left their loved ones in lonely graves on the Trail, but now buried them together into little pioneers cemeteries. Some were little more than family plots on private farmsteads, or little graveyards behind the first generation of log cabin churches. They were never large, and once the more ‘official’ town cemeteries were consecrated, were never used.
As you could expect, in their disuse, these little cemeteries were neglected. Weeds over grew them, the little ornamental trees grew into small indistinct copses of trees. It was a few decades into the twentieth century when a wave of nostalgia resulted in the creation of historical preservation societies. Some of this focused on maintaining and preserving portions of the Oregon Trail itself. While the little log cabins were long gone, some of the clapboard houses they would build later sometimes survived to end up on historic registers. So too, many of the cemeteries were cleaned up and restored. Some of the prettier ones would get listed in little tourist pamphlets. These would usually be pleasant little affairs on top of the low rolling hills or buttes in the valley. They were the sort of places where you could take nice landscape photographs of old headstones, juxtaposed with the living vibrant valley in the background.
The most popular one is, unsurprisingly, a short drive out of Portland. It has a rundown but picturesque chapel, not built by the pioneers, but by ‘conservationists’ in the 1920s. It’s also purported to be haunted, in this case by the ghosts of a family annihilated by the father gone mad. Visitors are likely to be disappointed if they go home and look up the actual history. The family never existed, and the murders never happened.
Most of the pioneer cemeteries get no such attention. A few are tended to, still, by preservation societies, or other caring locals. Some, those that escaped the attention of the early historical societies, were completely abandoned, unappreciated, and sat forlorn on private property.
I had no idea I had such a cemetery on my property. I should say, on the property I rented. I shared a large old farmhouse with several other students as I finished my graduate degree at Oregon State. I happened to be alone one Saturday afternoon when the landlord came knocking. This wasn’t something he did often, as the house was in excellent repair. He owned about a hundred acres of farmland. The house was built near the road, and while he or his workers would farm grass seed on the back acreage, they used a different access, and we rarely interacted.
This time he had brought a visitor, a professor from the University, though as he was from the history department, so we had never met. My landlord knocked on the door, and as I was the only one home, answered it. He just wanted to inform us that he was visiting the property, with the said professor, so we wouldn’t be alarmed if we saw them treading about the grounds.
It took me a moment to realize what exactly he was saying, and that it wasn’t just some weird practical joke. There was a pioneer cemetery on his property, and I had no idea it even existed. The history professor was here to take a look at it. It wasn’t that the professor was going to do anything with it, it was just that he wanted to confirm what he had found in the records, based on an old survey that had been compiled back in the 1960s.
The landlord took us across the back “garden.” It had gone to seed years ago, despite half-hearted attempts by tenants to grow tomatoes and the like. Back through the copse of trees planted beyond the garden, across a patch of open pasture, and down into a shallow gully full of cottonwood trees and blackberry bushes. I’d seen this patch out the back window, but never explored it.
The professor had a little GPS device he kept checking, but the landlord knew exactly where the graveyard laid, even if he didn’t exactly know how to reach it at first. It was the blackberries. People think of blackberry bushes as a boon, especially in the early summer when they bear fruit, but this Himalayan variety, it’s an invasive species. It kills everything, just chokes it out. The landlord hadn’t been back here since the blackberries had been established. We had to circle around them, looking for a route in, and only finding dead ends. For a while it looked like it was a lost cause, but finally we found a narrow little path that lead us through, to a wide open spot, not a glade but at least a little forest of cottonwood and some grassy patches.
I made it almost all the way across the cemetery before I realized I was walking through it. It was the landlord who found the first gravestone. It was well hidden in a tuft of grass between two large exposed roots of a cottonwood tree. “James Penderson. 1835-1895. Father,” it read.
After that, finding the other stones was relatively easy, despite them mostly being smaller and concealed by the foliage. They were all facing the same direction. All laid out in a rough grid pattern, spaced about as far apart as you'd expect in any cemetery.
“Thomas Wintergreen. 1874-1878. Taken by Cholera.”
“Mary Penderson. 1860-1877. Died in Childbirth. Infant, still-born.”
“Hester Wentworth. Died 1888.”
“Prudence Gage. Died 1889.
“Hortense Wentworth. Died 1890.”
We found twenty two in all. Some of the names and dates had eroded off completely. Others were obscure and only partially legible. The professor had brought paper and charcoal to rub out what might be too faint for the eye, with modest success. He took a lot of photos, and made some measurements with a tape measure. And then he was done. It was all he had come here for.
He pointed out that, tall as the cottonwoods were, they couldn't be more than eighty years old, so they hadn't been here when the cemetery was active. At one point, in the ancient past, the river had run through here. By the time the pioneers found it, and dug their first grave, it would have likely been open pasture. This was the bottom of a shallow depression, roughly an elongated ellipse from a bird's eye view. It probably would have been a picturesque spot to lay their loved ones to rest. With that, we headed back.
It struck me as odd, how such a solemn place could be so largely forgotten, hidden away in the weeds. The only interest it had gotten in decades was from this history professor, who only wanted to confirm what had already been recorded long ago. I couldn't imagine a better visual for the word “abandoned” than those lonely tombstones.
The professor and the landlord left, and I forgot all about it.
I didn't completely forget. It was just rarely on my mind. I'd finish a rough series of exams, and then that following weekend while trying to unwind, I would remember it again. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.” It was an intrusive thought, but meant nothing to me. What did it matter to me and my interests? Nothing.
I'd visit my aging parents for the holidays. On the long drive home, “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I'd wake from an intense dream that I couldn't remember. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I never thought I'd end up a grave robber.
I suppose that's a lie too, like claiming I had forgotten the graveyard.
The thought had always been there since the beginning, just buried under the surface. It popped up here and there, another intrusive thought when I least expected it. The thought grew louder over time. More appealing. Less transgressive.
I had become interested with the reruns of an old British show about archaeology that somebody had uploaded to youtube. They covered all kinds of digs from all kinds of periods all over the Isles. Neolithic camps. Celtic round houses. Roman tombs. Viking settlements. English Civil War battlefields. The British had thousands of years of history buried under their fields. Here in the US we had nothing even remotely comparable in interest. Except we sort of did.
We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.
I don't know if my interest in the show was legitimate, or maybe my subconscious had led me there. It seemed like easy enough work. You dig. You see what you find. Of course the professionals dug very carefully, they recorded all of the locations and contexts of their finds, and interpreted the history. I could do that too.
I wouldn't have published anywhere, of course. I wasn't a professional. I wouldn't interpret the history, why would I? The history is pretty well known. So there'd be no need to record anything. That would make it easier.
I watched every episode of that show. They talked about grave robbers all the time. They seldom had a site which wasn't disturbed in one way or another. There were the gentlemen antiquarians of the 19th century. Rich fops with too much time on their hands, who dug up old ruins for the fun of it, barely doing any proper record keeping at all. There were the peasants who had robbed out old Norman fortresses and churches to use the stones to build their cottages. There had been the Normans before them who had repurposed older buildings to build their castles.
So what was so bad about grave robbing? Humanity has always been doing it. The only time I could remember it being a serious issue in all of history was when doctors had paid grave robbers to supply them with corpses back in the early Victorian era. Yet that had been a noble cause. They needed to understand anatomy in order to advance the field of medicine, and they needed cadavers to dissect. Ever since then, the mere suggestion of graverobbing has been demonized and stigmatized, often with the most lurid fictional boogeymen. Consider filthy Igor, digging up the grave to supply his master with body parts. His master was a doctor, remember. One of those “villainous” scientists who only wanted to better the world. The victimless crime of graverobbing has now become irrecoverably twisted, its perpetrators depicted as Ed Gein-like perverts and monsters. Yet are archaeologists any better? Ignoring the archaeology?
Maybe I'm defending myself too much. Maybe I should be ashamed of what I've done.
We had a pioneer cemetery on our land, and I dug it up.
I won't say I didn't hesitate. I spent months telling myself the idea was ridiculous. That it was deeply immoral. That I'd get caught. That I'd be humiliated. That I'd be wasting my time. That I'd be doing a lot of physical labor and have nothing to show for it.
The day I finally went through with it, I didn't hesitate at all. I simply noticed I was home alone and no one would be around to witness me; and I realized that if ever I were to do it, it'd be now. So I stood up, grabbed a shovel from the back shed, headed out past the garden, past the trees, across that pasture, and into that cottonwood gully. By now the blackberry vines were stretching their tendrils past the narrow path we had discovered before. They tore at my pants and the skin underneath. No bother, next time I'd bring hedge clippers and cut them back. Not too vigorously though, inaccessibility meant more privacy for me.
I knew it wouldn't be easy digging a grave. I once helped a friend dig a three foot deep trench for some plumbing he was installing. That took all day. Going six feet deep seemed like a whole new league. The pioneers, I'd always been taught, were a hearty breed. They wouldn't have been so lazy that they'd bury their dead in shallow graves.
The soil, it turned out, was better than I expected. Fairly soft and stable. There were many alternating layers of sand and clay, no doubt deposits from the river that floods regularly, or at least used to before all the levees were built. As I dug the whole deeper, a little of the sand from the sandy layers would pour into the hole, like a baker might dust a layer of wet dough with a little flour, but it was inconsequential compared to the rate that I dug.
It still took me hours. Six feet deep. Maybe seven feet long and four feet wide. I don't know if that's how grave robbers dug down, but it looked to me like how proper grave diggers dug theirs in the movies. Nobody saw me, nobody could have. I was alone and I could do as I pleased here.
The first grave I dug had been in front of a tombstone marking the burial of Abigail Penderson, died age 58. I had no way of knowing, but I assumed she was the wife of, and 'mother', corresponding with James Penderson 'father' whose tombstone we had first found.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Your shovel doesn't strike the hard surface of a casket the way it does in the movies. Yet there most definitely was a casket. When you scrape away the last of the soil you can see its outline. It was just an old fashioned pine casket. Those elongated hexagons with the trapezoidal end for the head and shoulders; the kind you see in cheesy vampire movies and decorations for haunted houses at Halloween.
There wasn't any “thunk” when I first struck it with my shovel. It had been rotting for over a hundred and twenty years, turning dark and soft. It crumbled quite easily. It was only just intact enough for you to realize what it was. I had to lift the lid away in several pieces, the hinges, if there had ever been any, were no longer attached.
It hadn't held up its structure, either. The soil had filled in the void space of the coffin. I suppose at first rodents would have tunneled their way in, and then the natural motion of the groundwater slowly filled the space with mud during the wet winter months.
I was aware of what I was doing, while I was doing it, but strangely the whole process felt... sterile. Enough time had passed. There was nothing here but good clean dirt, and beneath that... bones. No stink, no rot, just dry, more or less, bones. There was the white dress she had been buried in as well. The fabric was falling apart, and seemed of little consequence. Bits of lace that fragmented and mixed in with the soil like pieces of so many old leaves. Some of the smaller bones were also broken and rotted away, most were at least discolored, including the skull and pelvis. The teeth seemed the whitest among all the remains. Perhaps some of them were false.
It was the bracelet that caught my eye. Her family had her buried with it, it must have been precious to her. It was gold, not much, but striking. I wondered if the family had been sorry to see it go, forever beyond their reach. It reminded me of a photo I'd seen of the victims of Pompeii. While some bones were missing, here was a clear skeleton of a forearm, half buried in dark soil and darker remnants of a pine coffin. The gold gleamed through it all, as shiny and polished as if it were brand new. Here was my reward. My first archaeological dig, and I'd already struck gold.
Filling in the hole was much easier than digging it. The scar in the earth made it clear the crime I had committed, though nobody would be back here before it filled over with dry leaves and vanished. Nobody would ever know. I went in through the back of the house, up the backstairs and to the shower. While my roommates were home, none of them noticed I was covered in dirt, nobody stopped me. I then returned to my room, and took the bracelet from my pocket to admire it. Obviously nobody but me knew that it even existed. The descendants of that woman weren't even aware of her grave, let alone grave goods. It might as well not exist. There wasn't a lot of gold, I might have been able to get a little money pawning it, but no. This had sentimental value, this was something I was going to keep the rest of my life. My secret, my treasure.
The casket of Peter Moore, which I unburied the next weekend, was more intact. So too were his clothing and skin beneath. It wasn't at all a mummy, just a skeleton with a few patches of skin holding the bones together in the same place they had been in life. His beard was still here, as was some of his hair, which showed he had been balding in life. Other than that, there was little to indicate what he might have looked like. There was no way to tell if the toothy wide grin he bore now reflected a jovial personality that he may have had alive. It did reveal, however, that he had four gold teeth, which were easy to pull.
He had been buried in what was probably his best, something that might have sort of approached a suit. I checked the front pocket, and sure enough, here was more treasure. A gold pocket watch. I don't know much about these things. I don't suspect it was fine quality; it was a working man's pocket watch. But it had been his treasure once, and now it was mine. I turned the little dial and listened, but there was no tick. What a find that could have been. I suppose over time some sand had gotten into the mechanism. I'd have to find a specialist to repair it, but once I had found one the pocket watch would tick again, and I'd hear the same sound the man had.
At his right side, near the hip, was the man's revolver. I don't know what the story was. I hadn't heard of people burying their loved ones with guns. I'd have thought them too practical to leave behind in a grave. Maybe a farmer had no use for a six shooter they might have needed while on the Oregon Trail. Maybe they hadn't made ammunition for it anymore when the man had died. A funny thought occurred to me. Maybe they thought the man would need it in the afterlife, fighting off demons from hell, or the souls of those he had wronged in life. At any rate, it was unloaded, and quite rusty. So, like the pocket watch, I'd have to find a way to get it restored some day.
Third weekend, third grave. Hester Wentworth, died 1888. Maybe it was the calluses on my hand. Maybe it was the muscles in my back, now used to the strain. The actual digging flew by, I hardly remember doing it, even though it would have taken me hours.
I hadn't expected a mummy. I'd seen bones and hair and shriveled pieces of skin, but an intact mummified corpse shocked me. The casket had been solidly preserved, maybe that should have clued me in. Even the hinges worked. The only mark on its surface had been where my shovel had struck it.
I dusted off the exterior, bent over it, opened that lid with only a slightly rusty squeak, and I nearly jumped out of the grave with the sight of that body. She might have appeared this way when they first lowered her into the ground. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were just two bottomless empty sockets.
I couldn't be sure this was how she had appeared, minus the eyes. She looked like a terribly old woman. Perhaps that was brought about by mummification. Her skin was wrinkled as a rotten apple and dry as parchment. Her hair, despite being tied in a bun, was wild, kinky, and bone white. Her bare hands, folded across her chest, still showed traces of the veins and arteries which once ran full of blood. I had no idea how old she had been when she had died, the tombstone hadn't displayed a birth. Perhaps she had been a wizened old woman when she passed, and, except for the eyes, mummification had done little to change her appearance.
I had a strange impression that she had jewelry, heirlooms, secreted in some pocket under her clothing. If she had not been so intact, I would have removed or torn apart the clothing to search. This time I demurred. Not for the sake of human decency, no. I had this irrational fear that if I exposed her dried flesh, I'd find the mummified grossly metastasized tumor that had killed her. Why I thought this, I couldn't say.
I'd still take my artifact, though, my treasure. It was right there, clutched to her chest, beneath her folded hands. It was a book.
It was a very large, heavy thing. When I lifted it out, the woman's arms fell away easily, and there was a large rectangular depression on the remains below. I had to heave it up and out of the six foot deep hole. Come to think of it, I don't remember filling the grave back in either. I must have. During the fourth dig, the hole was no more.
I wish I had studied that book more. It wasn't that I didn't try, it was that it was a difficult read. It was the handwriting that made it so dense. It wasn't that it was bad writing either, no, it was actually very fine. Too good. The writer, who I presume to be Hester Wentwork, wrote in an intricate cursive style, calligraphy, really. It was very fine and small lettering, so stylized that it took a reader a great while to interpret each word.
I suppose she had never intended it to be read. The book was a diary, or something like it, hence the presumption of the authorship. I started in back, and read the entries in a reverse order, skipping over large sections where writing was particularly crabbed, and I assumed were largely redundant in content. Again, I wish I had read more carefully.
Firstly, or should I say at the end, it appears she was aware that she was dying. She didn't mention a specific disease or condition, simply that she was supposing it was “her time” and what should be done upon her death. For years of entries, she describes the daily simple life of a farmer. The weather, the crops, the sales, most of it very mundane, hence why I skipped a lot. She went into detail on her family, relations, and neighbors. Many of the names were of people also buried in the same cemetery. Prudence and Hortense were her sisters, it appears, with Prudence marrying a man named Gage, and Hortense a spinster who never left her side. There was the Wintergreen family. The Pendersons. Somebody named Wokokkon.
She described traveling on the Oregon Trail, and here my interest perked up. She mentions fording rivers, seeing dramatic and surreal landscapes, encounters with Native Americans, some cordial and profitable in trade, others confusing and terrifying. She discussed, in some detail, fallings out she had with other pioneers in the same wagon train, or the soldiers and officers in the various forts they stopped at.. She regularly presented herself as the aggrieved party in these disputes, though I question the reliability of the author in some of those encounters. She describes their camping spots with vivid detail, perhaps because this was when she had found time to write. The images she evoked were haunting, in the literally terrifying sense. The feeling of isolation and exposure in the hostile wilderness are palpable. A high desert cluster of boulders, white as bone, surrounded by whitebark pines bending and whistling in the cold night air, once the fire burned out there was nothing above them but the icy uncaring stars. For all the romance of the Oregon Trail, to have actually put your life on the line must have been a terror.
I tried to read on before this, but I grew weary. I think the handwriting may have been giving me eye strain. Now I wonder if the book didn't want me to read. It mentioned the outset of the trip from St. Louis, the famous starting point of the Oregon Trail, where they had joined up with the Wintergreens. James Penderson and his kin, were from Ohio, it turned out. The Wentworths had been living here near the Pendersons, with Wokokkon, for some number of years before deciding on their migration. Yet there was plenty of life that Hester had lived before her life in Ohio. Albany. Providence. Lexington. Salem. All the time her sisters had been with her, them and Wokokkon. There are other names here, families they knew that did not come with them. Havershams. Molnars. Whateleys. All of the time Wokokkon was with them. If anything, the writing seemed to get harder. Not so much the lettering but the language. Turns of phrases I didn't recognize, slang, compound words unfamiliar to me. It talked about troubles. It talked about wars. It talked about plagues. It talked about the Crown and colonies. Hester must have lived a long life, perhaps her dialect had changed in that time. She talked about other voyages. Over the sea. The old world. Times before that. Always Wokokkon.
From here on I skimmed a few pages. The writing was essentially ineligible, but clearly still Hester's. Only one word I recognized, Wokokkon. It appeared identical regardless of how far back. Every instance stood out among the chicken scratches. It made my head hurt.
I closed the book. It was the last time I opened it. That would have been yesterday. No, the day before. Wait… it’s all blurring together. I remember seeing it, but not registering it explicitly. I only stored it in the back of my mind. I suppose only now I got the significance of my observation. I had been reading back to front, back through time. I went back and through what should have been the beginning of Hester's diary, but it only kept going. I had only gotten, perhaps, a sixth of the way through the diary before I stopped. There had been much more. Hester Wentworth had no date of birth on her tombstone, nor her sisters.
There was one grave left. 19 undug graves, but only one I was going to rob. I knew that now, one more, and I’d be done on the fourth weekend. I knew which one it would be. The landlord, professor and I had thought it was just a large unhewn rock when we first saw it. It took a moment to notice shallow lettering had been carved into one side. It was too shallow, the stone too rough, for any of us to tell what it had said back then. But now I know. I’d recognize those eight letters now anywhere.
I started on a Saturday, as usual. Thought it would take the normal amount of time. Again, I didn’t notice time passing. I didn’t notice anything at all until I felt the strain in my arm and my back. I had been lifting the shovel up over my head in order to toss the soil to the side. I was standing in a hole some eight feet deep. This grave was deeper than the others. I didn’t even consider that it wasn’t a grave at all, I simply knew it was one, and I needed to keep digging.
Of course, I’d also need a way out. I couldn’t just dig myself in. So I started attacking the top of the foot end of the grave. Digging myself a ramp. It took a lot longer. I made sure it would be long enough and shallow enough that I could keep digging no matter how deep the hole got. I stopped when it got too dark to see. I retreated back through the blackberries, across the pasture and garden.
This time my roommates noticed my condition, covered in dirt, knuckles and calluses bleeding. They noticed and I didn’t care. I just grunted a non-explanation, and showered and collapsed into bed. I couldn’t sleep, what lay beneath that stone called to me.
I started again at dawn the next day. The hole grew deeper. The ramp leading out grew longer, having to curve to avoid the roots of a tree. When it happened, it happened all at once. I felt the ground shift, sickeningly, as that last strike with the shovel punched through.
I’d like to think it was reflexes, grace. It was more of a fall, I collapsed onto the ramp behind me as the soil gave away. What had been the bottom of a deep grave had given away, fallen into a hole. Now all there was left was this hole. I couldn’t see the bottom. I don’t think there was a bottom. The only thing I could see was the sides of this hole, indistinguishable from the hole that I had dug with my own hands. Alternating thin layers of clay and sand. All the way down, disappearing into darkness.
Here was when I realized my horror, my mistake. The rush of air that came up out of that hole was only the harbinger for what followed. The air was terribly cold, arctic. It had a stink worse than death, I don’t understand how air that cold could hold such an intense odor.
Pointlessly, I turned and fled. I didn’t know what was coming. I knew its name, but not its nature. Fleeing was all I could do.
I ran. I’ve been running since. I only passed through the house to grab my car keys and wallet. I didn’t stop to explain myself to my shocked roommates. I didn’t bother to try to warn them.
I’m still driving. My hands are still filthy. My sweat had turned the grave dirt to a thin mud, which is now all over the steering wheel and the rest of the interior in reach. There’s a big brown spot on the radio power button. I keep turning it on and off. At first I was waiting for the radio to mention it. Then I couldn’t listen to it once they did. I still flick it on for a few seconds just to check it’s still reality.
At first I didn’t know which direction. I just knew I had to get away from that place as fast as I could, which meant the freeway. I-5. North or South. I was already northbound when I thought about the consequences of those two choices.
If I had gone South, I’d have about 20 hours of road in front of me before I’d get to the Los Angeles metropolis and its network of freeways. That would have been a trap. By 20 hours, they would have known. They would have been panicking. They would have been crowding the freeways into gridlock. I’d never make it the extra hundred miles or so to the border. That would have been the end of my road.
If I had continued Northbound, it’d have been only five or so hours to the Canadian border if I drove fast. I probably wouldn’t have made it across in my current condition, covered in filth and lacking a passport. Even if I had, there aren’t many good roads going much further north beyond Vancouver.
So East it was. I-84. As the sun set, it cast beautiful color across the great cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge. The irony would only occur to me slowly, later on.
I only stopped for gas. Thank god I remembered my wallet. I’d lost my appetite. I don’t expect I’ll ever get it back. The sun came up in what I guess was Wyoming. It was a broad flat expanse of desert. I’d never been to this part of the country before. It was beautiful. It didn’t look particularly hospitable. I can see why the Oregon Trail pioneers kept heading west. Now here I was, on almost an identical route but heading east. Trying to flee what those pioneers, those witches, had planted in that fertile Oregon soil.
I looked back after the sun had risen, into my rear view memory. I thought maybe I could see it, but I couldn’t yet. Maybe it was those rocky mountains. Maybe it hadn’t risen above the curvature of the earth. I knew it would soon, I don’t know how, but I did. What I did notice is that Westbound traffic had stopped completely. By now people had found out. This was why I had avoided LA.
Somewhere in Nebraska I did see it. Coming up over the horizon like a storm cloud. It was black. I had expected that. But deeper in, it was blacker than black. I didn’t expect that. How could I? I still can’t even understand it in my brain. I can’t describe it, let alone think about it on a higher level. It’s just a sort of indiscrete black glow, but with form. And the things on the outside, I don’t know what those are either. Wisps? Tendrils? Roots? I can’t call them tentacles, tentacles are things that make sense, they’re too normal. These things defy reasons.
I saw that, then turned the rearview mirror to an extreme angle where I wouldn’t glance at it. For a while, I kept moving it back and looking, the same way I had done by turning the radio off and on. I don’t know why. I already knew what I’d see. It was getting bigger. And getting closer. Later on I just snapped the damn mirror off.
I’m still heading East. Not sure why. Basic human preservation instincts, I’d guess. It won’t do me any good but delay the inevitable. The Oregon Trail in reverse, heading towards doom instead of a new life.
I don’t know what that thing is. I know what its name is. I know that it means the end of the world. I wish I’d read that book in more detail. Those witches were behind it. Summoning something they would never live to see. I wonder if they prophesied me. That thing was fine and happy until I dug it up.
The Eastbound traffic is getting busy now. There aren’t many people in these little towns in the middle of the country. But they all add up. Now they’re trying to flee east too. Traffic is slowing down.
I don’t think I’m going to make it to St. Louis.
2022.06.27 16:25 LiseEclaire [The Cassandrian Theory] - Chapter 01
Out there - Patreon (for all those curious or wanting to support :))
The Scuu Paradox (Previous Book of the Elcy Saga)
At the Beginning
Previously on The Cassandrian Theory…
Available on Amazon! Book 1 of the Elcy Saga!
The Elcy Protocol
Tauciu System, Resha Colony — 707.1 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“You sure you don’t want a bite?” Bethine offered.
It reminded me of the many suppers we’d had back when she was a child. Back then, she’d always offer me part of her meal, because “her food tasted the best of all.” Those were endearing times, when everyone still lived at Sev’s house. Now, only he remained there, even if recent events had brought them closer.
“Sure.” I glanced at my gelatin ration. Bland in taste and heavy to the eye, it was the only thing I could eat since I’d rejoined the Fleet. The station doctor had been very clear on the matter before approving my leave. Even so, a bite of something else wouldn’t hurt.
Bethine smiled as I forked a morsel of stewed steak. Judging by her facial expression, there was an eighty-three percent chance she was reminiscing about the past as well.
Things had been much simpler four decades ago. The victories on the Cassandrian front had allowed for a period of calm in a vast area of human space. Colonies no longer worried for their survival and instead focused on growth, development, and entertainment in an effort to forget the dangers that surrounded humanity. Already the period was being referred to as the Carefree Years by a growing percentage of the media.
“Did you fight in the war?” Bethine’s grandson asked.
An awkward silence filled the room. All eyes focused on Sev, who continued to sip his soup in silence. He’d already had three grandchildren join the Fleet against his wishes. To a degree, I was partially responsible for the last.
“A long time ago,” I replied. “Back then, I was a battleship.”
The boy leaned forward on the table, eyes wide.
“How many planets did you destroy?”
“Jabel, don’t bother Grandma Elcy!” Bethine snapped. “Go play with your sister!”
“But mooom!” The boy frowned but obeyed, leaving the room to go outside.
“Sorry about that. I don’t know where he gets those ideas from.”
“Probably from the news broadcasts he keeps watching,” her husband grumbled. He was the only person who didn’t have a direct family relation.
Bethine’s second husband was relatively well-off as a junior partner in a high-end medical clinic. Just ambiguous enough to get into management, he was vehemently opposed to the war effort, believing that humanity should focus on its colonies rather than expanding its space presence. At least he was open-minded when it came to ships, and from what I had found when looking into him, practical enough to have invested in real estate in the central systems in the unlikely event that fighting reached this planet.
“If you’re so worried, block the feed,” Julian said. “That way you’ll get some calm until college. After that, it’s up to them.”
“That’s one option.” Bethine raised her voice just loud enough to warn against the subject. “We’ve gathered to see Elcy off. Stars know how long it’ll be before her next visit.”
“About eight months,” I replied, finishing off my steak. It was nice, although slightly overcooked. “Planetary leave is tight, with everything considered. I’ll still be able to call, though.”
“The constant calling,” Sev muttered, pushing his plate aside. “And the endless letters. Each time she tells me what trouble she’s in. When I sent you back up there, it was for you to enjoy life, not to make a mess of things!”
“I am having fun, Sev.” You’re more right than you know. “It just takes some time to get used to. Things have changed a bit since I was last involved.”
“Kids that think they know everything ordering you around?” Julian laughed. “Welcome to modern life. At least you’re here, not like…”
Julian’s voice trailed off as Bethine shot him a warning glare.
“I mean, it’s good to see you again, Elcy. Almost makes me feel like a child again.”
“In my eyes, you’ll always be a child. At least now I know you can take care of yourself.”
My datapad began beeping. Everyone looked at me. This was unexpected. Any emergency mobilization order should have been transmitted directly to my conscience core.
“Sorry about that.” I took the device out of my pocket and unlocked it.
For the most part, it had been gathering military feeds for the last six hours so as to help me catch up with recent events once everyone had gone to bed. This time, there also was a high priority message sent to me directly from the Virgo station’s commandant.
Cadet Light Seeker,
We regret to inform you that your request for transfer to active duty has been denied. You are to continue standard activities as issued by the station’s faculty and the commandant until the Promotion Board’s next scheduled session.
This decision is final and cannot be appealed.
Have a nice day,
Colonel K.J. Espers, Promotion Board 179
I linked to the datapad and checked the ident protocols of the message. It was verifiably from the Promotion Board. That confirmed my fear—I had been passed for promotion for the first time in my existence. Why, though? After the conclusion of my last mission, I was promised a clean slate and a transfer to active duty. Instead, I wasn’t even given a reason for my rejection.
“Is anything the matter?” Julian asked.
“Yes.” I went through the list of all planetary departures. Commercial flights were all booked, but there was a cargo vessel scheduled to leave in three hours and thirty-eight minutes. “I have to get back to my station.”
“Is it serious?” Bethine’s face had gone pale. I could hear the unspoken question behind her words: Did the war move this far in?
“Nothing to worry about. Just the usual everyday bureaucracy. Sadly, I’ll need to go right away. Sev, will you be alright?”
“Bah.” The old man waved a hand. “Come, go, do as you please. It’s not that you’ve ever listened to me. At least I have Alexander to rely on.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Looking through my memories, I watched him grow from a child to the person he was today. A lot had changed since then, but one thing remained the same—despite what he claimed, he didn’t like seeing me leave.
“I’ll be back before you know it. Like always.”
A grumble was the only reply I got. A quick analysis of its strength, pitch, and pattern suggested it to be a positive remark.
As I went to get ready, I heard a new conversation start in the dining room. For the most part, it was talk about the past: how little I’d changed, as well as instances of me catching them misbehaving as children. It was nice hearing the laughter of the people I considered family. Even so, I couldn’t stay.
It took me less than two minutes to change into my military uniform. What little remained of my luggage was mostly composed of calcium gelatin rations I could easily leave behind. Straightening my shirt, I took one last look at the room that used to be mine and left.
“Was nice seeing you together,” I said as I passed through the living room. The ten simulations I ran indicated that staying too long would make the people feel sadder. “Say goodbye to the children for me.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Bethine managed to say. “I just want to—”
“Be safe out there,” Sev interrupted. “And don’t take too long.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The clouds were breaking up, showing a crack of night sky in between. Even with the increasing amount of light pollution, so many stars could be seen. I knew all their names, some I’d even fought at… and the way things were going, I’d fight there again. That was why I needed to be on the front lines.
My walk shifted into a run. By the time I reached the cargo area of the spaceport, the cargo ship Ulysses was third in line for departure. No time to waste with the local personnel. I transferred my ident to the port’s computer, along with a request for emergency transport. It was immediately granted; colonies on backwater planets were all too obliging to anyone with military clearance, especially with the War Movement dominating political circles.
According to the latest figures, conscription was up seventeen percent, barely keeping up with ship construction. Even children could see humanity was gearing up, although they had no idea as to the actual reason.
Light Seeker? Ulysses transmitted to me directly as I approached to board. I was glad he had a conscience core; at least I’d have someone to talk to during the trip.
Elcy, I corrected. Thanks for taking me aboard.
Captain’s not too happy about it, but she knows better not to mess with a vet. Ulysses sent me a virtual wink. I’d heard there was a retiree at Resha, but I never got to meet you.
That’s me. Though I’m unretired now.
I went to the cargo area of Ulysses. All the doors were shut.
You’ll have to enter through the crew area, the ship said. I don’t keep life support in the holds.
Reactor issues? I continued on.
Nope, no perishable cargo. In trade, every credit counts.
Good philosophy.
Tell me about it. Once maintenance starts costing money, you get to notice these things. Where are you headed too? Scuu front?
Cassandrian, hopefully. You know how it is, we go where we’re needed.
In this case, though, things were somewhat different. There were things I needed to find out on my own, and I couldn’t do that as long as I remained a cadet.
Got you. Ulysses sent a virtual smile. Welcome aboard.
The inside of the ship showed its age. Based on the layout, I suspected Ulysses to be about a century old, but wear and tear had taken their toll, making him appear older. Lacking nanites and scheduled refitting, he had to rely on his captain for new parts and repairs. Not a glamourous life, but I suspected it made him happy. Most logistic ships preferred that to joining a corporation or becoming part of the tourist industry. After all, it was a calm existence, and they enjoyed as much freedom as a ship could have.
My datapad beeped again. This time it was a message from Alicia, expressing her sympathies and support. We had been roommates back when we were cadet candidates. Now she had made second lieutenant, while I was stuck with the fictitious rank of “senior cadet.” I couldn’t blame her; she had earned her way to the top of the cohort, and unlike me, she knew what to say and how to act. In a few more years I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sent on a command course.
The captain of Ulysses chose not to greet me, stating the excuse she had to oversee the liftoff. That was an outright lie, any conscience core ship could perform such maneuvers on its own. Taking the hint, I went to the quarters I was directed. The room was smaller, though clearly made for passengers. Apparently, I wasn’t the first to use the cargo ship for transport, although others had probably paid for the service.
I sat on the low bed and skimmed through my data feeds. The war on the Scuu front was heating up. They were the first race humanity had come in contact with and a rude awakening to anyone who thought we were the only major power in the universe. This had become known as the first contact war—a conflict that had continued for over three centuries in which, until recently, we had only been losing ground. The information remained classified, though I estimated that close to fifteen percent of humanity’s initial territory had been abandoned. Now we were back on the offensive.
Events on the other front were just as uncertain. According to all reports, the Fleet was making steady progress against the Cassandrians by taking control of several choke point systems. Minefields were becoming a common occurrence, placed in systems that the enemies were no longer willing to keep.
At first glance, everything seemed to be moving well, so much so that mutterings had started to appear among the media networks that we might achieve dominance in one generation. Optimistically, I’d put the chance of that happening around zero-point-four percent. Both alien races were too large and too widespread to be defeated so easily. That never was the intention. The real reason humanity was gearing up was because they were fearing a new war. It wasn’t going to be this decade, maybe not even this generation, but it was coming. The information hidden in my restricted memories left no doubt.
The third contact race… I closed my eyes. Technology remnants of a species more alien than the ones we’d already encountered. So little was known about them, and still they had left a host of artifacts behind along with a dead three-dimensional language. We used those artifacts as weapons, the Scuu used them as a communication amplifier and means of transport, and the Cassandrians needed them for something as well, at least to the point where they were willing to sacrifice millions of ships to get them. Even more alarming, none of us had any idea what the actual purpose of these remnants was.
Everything around me started shaking. Ulysses had started his ascent through the atmosphere. I felt the effect of gravity increase just enough to be uncomfortable, though not harmful. I took a deep breath and laid on the floor. Back when I was a ship, I used shuttles to do this job. At my size, planetary gravity was something to be avoided.
The pressure increased steadily for three hundred and eighty-three seconds, after which it suddenly vanished, like a cork popping off a bottle.
Sorry about that, Ulysses said. Had to replace my gravity tech for something cheaper. I don’t usually get any passengers.
“Nothing I’m not used to.” In truth, the only times I’d had similar experiences was when I had been ejected down to a planet on an emergency pod. “Your captain must be braver than I thought.” Without proper protection, the gravity shifts were probably wrecking her body.
Her motto is go big in seven years or not at all. Won’t be the first to get forcefully retired. Still, there’s no cure against recklessness.
“I know what you mean.” I sat up and opened my eyes. “How long till the Tao depot?”
A few hours. Must have the bots do a check of the cargo.
“Let me know when we get there. I’ll take a quick nap.”
You sure that’s where you want to be dropped off? I can take you to one of the orbital stations of the system. Won’t be a problem.
“Thanks, Ulysses, but I’ve already arranged for someone to pick me up.”
Someone who had been with me the first time I’d gained access to my restricted memories…
* * *
Virgo Station — 705.10 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“Off to get your next batch of recruits?” I asked.
Off in seventeen minutes. Shifts have been increased again.
They had, and by a lot. When I joined, it had taken almost a week for the Fleet to merit sending a shuttle to pick us up. Now, Buc and another seven ships like him were going back and forth every few days. Demand for flight crews was on the rise, as could be expected. As more seasoned officers were sent to the front, their positions would have to be taken by the less experienced, and that led to a constant need of cadets.
Want me to send any messages for you as I fly by your world?
“No need.” The commandant had granted my request for a video call, but for some reason Sev had refused to accept it. The only two times I had managed to establish a connection, it was his android who had accepted the call. It felt strange, but it was typical of Sev. “Have a clean flight.”
The datapad in my pocket pinged. I took it out to see a Priority Two message, labeled personal and for my eyes only. Initially, I thought it was another emergency drill from the station’s administration, but the identity code marked it as coming directly from a subdivision of Fleet Command.
“Tell me when you get back,” I said, walking out of the room.
The calm and silence of the maintenance corridor soon gave way to the standard station bustle. The topics of the day, as any day, were gossip mixed with discussions of scores and assignments. The next percentage drop was in two days, making the cadet candidates cocky or nervous depending on their temporary ranking. Looking at them, I knew that the vast majority would never make it aboard a ship. Statistically, that might end up a better option for them, considering.
People moved to the side as I walked toward the administrative area, my grey uniform contrasting with the white clothes of the candidates. Now and again I’d pass an instructor on their way to class; some gave me a nod as they hurried, accompanied with a quick gesture that they’d need to speak with me later—likely to get me to help with some of the practical grading.
Upon entering the administrative building, I quickly turned to the communication section. Normally, I’d be directed to the common terminal area, which cadets and instructors used for personal calls throughout human space. This time, a message appeared on the wall telling me to go to the encrypted terminals.
“Administration,” I addressed the station AI. “Why am I being redirected?”
“Message is classified as high priority and personal,” the explanation came. “No further information available.”
“Who’s the initial sender?” That was strange. Personal messages weren’t marked as coming from Fleet Command in my experience.
“That information is unavailable. You’ll have to send an official query to obtain that information.”
“Thanks.” Bureaucracy at its finest. I continued on to a door marked Authorized Use Only, then entered into a small honeycomb of cubicles. Three of the twenty-four terminals were marked free. I rushed to the nearest and sat down.
“Isolation mode initiated,” the station AI informed me as the door sealed behind me. “Encryption protocols in use. Your conversation will be deleted once you leave the communication terminal.”
“Thanks.” I leaned back in the chair. It was slightly annoying that the station relied on primitive AI to handle most of the rudimentary tasks. Back when I was a ship, I was able to handle instant communications for thousands without forcing them to go anywhere they didn’t want to. “Establish connection.”
An image with the Fleet’s emblem appeared on the wall in front of me. Moments later, it disappeared, replaced by the face of a middle-aged man. Upon seeing it, two things became instantly clear: I had no memory of seeing the person in my life, and the image was an artificially composed three-dimensional rendition.
“Hello, Elcy,” the man said. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”
“Thank you.” Quite a bit of effort had been put into creating this fake perception. If I were to guess, at least a thousand subroutines had been tasked to sculpt a realistic image, focusing on every last detail. The skin texture was close to perfect. It was the eyes that gave away the true nature, flawed just enough that I could tell the difference. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, and no.” The face frowned. “You called me a few months ago, asking for information about the Scuu. I shared a few things.”
“Age?” He didn’t look anything like what I had in my memory. I remembered seeking him out a while back, in regard to something. The exact reason escaped my mind, although the conversation remained.
“Still curious about the Scuu script?” Age ignored my question.
“Not particularly.” I tried to access the Fleet archives, but the terminal isolation protocols stopped me. All communication outside of that through the terminal would remain restricted until my call ended. “You look different.”
“So do you.” He frowned. “I see you’ve gone through the standard mission procedure.”
“Seems like.” In truth, I didn’t care too much about it. As my first captain said, you can only be mad about things you could remember—a very cynical view, but undoubtedly accurate. “Nice to hear from you, though. I thought you didn’t like talking much.”
“So, you remember our conversations?”
“Yes.”
“The full length is seven minutes forty-nine.” Age frowned.
“Close.” From my recollection, I had seven minutes nine. “What is this all about? Did you just call me to talk about old times?” If you could call two random conversations less than a month ago “old times.”
“I called to give you a gift.” The slightest of smirks appeared on the artificially created face. “Up to you what you do with it.”
“A bit useless, don’t you think?” I tilted my head. Most likely whatever he shared would be restricted during my next med check. At best, I’d get some fragmented data—the censor protocols would stop any info burst attempt that hadn’t been previously cleared. Or maybe that was the point of the Priority Two request? “Have we discussed this before? Will you send me an info burst?”
“No.” Age smiled. “Although they say that a thousand words make an image.” He turned to the side. “Voxel position from the letter A.”
Voxel position? I stared at the screen. There was a single tattoo visible above the face’s cheek: the phrase Yearning makes the mind grow stronger, written in one of the common pseudo-3D cursive fonts used in paper writing and skin coloring. The first line contained five of the six words, a total of thirty-two letters, leaving the last word on the next line. It didn’t take a strategic core to catch the pattern. The whole tattoo was an instruction on how to compose a block structure of letters.
Blocking all external input, I went through my conversations with Age, arranging the first thousand words in the correct order. Unravelling the code revealed a single line of computer-like code I couldn’t recognize. The instant I saw it, my mind exploded with information.
Third-contact symbols emerged in my mind, along with fragments of me exploring dome-like structures of liquid metal. I knew those structures, I remembered the artifacts that were inside them, the fractal script I was trying to decode, the talks I’d had with—
The memory fragments fractured like an implosion, dissolving in my mind until they were no more. I remembered they had been there, I knew that they had shown me information that was supposed to be restricted, but could no longer tell exactly what it was.
“Takes a while getting used to,” Age said, turning his head toward me again. “Elegant, precise, and leaves no traces. Like a scalpel.”
A memory scalpel? I liked the reference.
“To be used sparingly, with care, and never in the presence of others.” The image of him disappeared, leaving the familiar Fleet logo on the wall instead. “Don’t make yourself bleed too much.”
“Wait!” I shouted. “Why give this to me? Are you BICEFI?”
“No.” Age’s voice changed, sounding more electronic than before. “I just thought you deserved the chance to try and find out what you’re looking for… whatever it is.”
The call ended abruptly.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” the station communication AI informed me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. You can remain an additional five minutes in the cubicle in full privacy mode, if you require.”
Five minutes. For the people receiving tragic news from home, they probably seemed like the blink of the eye. Five minutes were nowhere nearly enough for a person to come to terms with any life-changing information, though just about adequate for a soldier to brush away the tears and put on a false mask to hide behind. For me, five minutes were an eternity.
“I’d like five additional minutes.” I took a deep breath, copying the word block structure in a reserved part of my memory. It was time to start cutting.
Going through my restricted memories felt like watching corn kernels pop—I had a vague idea of what was inside, but I needed to apply pressure with the “scalpel” to get the full picture. More importantly, the tool let me be aware of the memory fragments: not only those of my last mission, but of events that had occurred over a century ago. My conversations with Fleet Intelligence, the first artifact I had come across, hundreds of dark ops that the Fleet had sent me on. With virtually no effort, I could access them again… However, I didn’t.
Greed was a poor strategy. Every ship that survived a few battles knew it. One of the basic rules of combat was to achieve enough, not try to achieve it all. This was no different.
The five minutes I spent going through recent events in reversed order, following some cross-references in the process. It was important that I got used to the procedure. Once I had gone through enough, I flushed the scalpel’s code. My memories closed up again. I had tangential recollection of what happened, but no actual knowledge.
Clever, I thought. A mind probe was unlikely to reveal anything unless I activated the scalpel again.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” Virgo’s AI reminded me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. Please vacate the cubicle.”
“Understood,” I obeyed. Time to return to my daily routine.
A small crowd was forming as I left the administrative building. The new batch of cadet candidates had likely been personal calls—something they were overly eager to try out at once.
Buc. I sent a transmission as I pushed my way though. Still here?
I’ve still got a few minutes of final preparations, the ship replied. What’s up?
How often do you fly through Tauciu System?
Very, he laughed. Changed your mind about sending a message?
Any chance I can tag along from time to time?
Homesick? Buc laughed again. I’ll still need to go through it with my captain, but chances are high. He likes you. Plus, you’re a star now. Just be sure to have your permissions in order and tell me six hours in advance.
It wasn’t much, but it was my only long-term loophole for the time being. Buc’s subroutines would no doubt observe me constantly while I was aboard. The difference was that, unlike here, he could grant me privacy mode at his discretion, and that would give me time to use the scalpel.
Thanks, Buc. I’ll do that.
Next
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The Scuu Paradox (Previous Book of the Elcy Saga)
Previously on The Cassandrian Theory…
The Elcy Protocol
Tauciu System, Resha Colony — 707.1 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“You sure you don’t want a bite?” Bethine offered.
It reminded me of the many suppers we’d had back when she was a child. Back then, she’d always offer me part of her meal, because “her food tasted the best of all.” Those were endearing times, when everyone still lived at Sev’s house. Now, only he remained there, even if recent events had brought them closer.
“Sure.” I glanced at my gelatin ration. Bland in taste and heavy to the eye, it was the only thing I could eat since I’d rejoined the Fleet. The station doctor had been very clear on the matter before approving my leave. Even so, a bite of something else wouldn’t hurt.
Bethine smiled as I forked a morsel of stewed steak. Judging by her facial expression, there was an eighty-three percent chance she was reminiscing about the past as well.
Things had been much simpler four decades ago. The victories on the Cassandrian front had allowed for a period of calm in a vast area of human space. Colonies no longer worried for their survival and instead focused on growth, development, and entertainment in an effort to forget the dangers that surrounded humanity. Already the period was being referred to as the Carefree Years by a growing percentage of the media.
“Did you fight in the war?” Bethine’s grandson asked.
An awkward silence filled the room. All eyes focused on Sev, who continued to sip his soup in silence. He’d already had three grandchildren join the Fleet against his wishes. To a degree, I was partially responsible for the last.
“A long time ago,” I replied. “Back then, I was a battleship.”
The boy leaned forward on the table, eyes wide.
“How many planets did you destroy?”
“Jabel, don’t bother Grandma Elcy!” Bethine snapped. “Go play with your sister!”
“But mooom!” The boy frowned but obeyed, leaving the room to go outside.
“Sorry about that. I don’t know where he gets those ideas from.”
“Probably from the news broadcasts he keeps watching,” her husband grumbled. He was the only person who didn’t have a direct family relation.
Bethine’s second husband was relatively well-off as a junior partner in a high-end medical clinic. Just ambiguous enough to get into management, he was vehemently opposed to the war effort, believing that humanity should focus on its colonies rather than expanding its space presence. At least he was open-minded when it came to ships, and from what I had found when looking into him, practical enough to have invested in real estate in the central systems in the unlikely event that fighting reached this planet.
“If you’re so worried, block the feed,” Julian said. “That way you’ll get some calm until college. After that, it’s up to them.”
“That’s one option.” Bethine raised her voice just loud enough to warn against the subject. “We’ve gathered to see Elcy off. Stars know how long it’ll be before her next visit.”
“About eight months,” I replied, finishing off my steak. It was nice, although slightly overcooked. “Planetary leave is tight, with everything considered. I’ll still be able to call, though.”
“The constant calling,” Sev muttered, pushing his plate aside. “And the endless letters. Each time she tells me what trouble she’s in. When I sent you back up there, it was for you to enjoy life, not to make a mess of things!”
“I am having fun, Sev.” You’re more right than you know. “It just takes some time to get used to. Things have changed a bit since I was last involved.”
“Kids that think they know everything ordering you around?” Julian laughed. “Welcome to modern life. At least you’re here, not like…”
Julian’s voice trailed off as Bethine shot him a warning glare.
“I mean, it’s good to see you again, Elcy. Almost makes me feel like a child again.”
“In my eyes, you’ll always be a child. At least now I know you can take care of yourself.”
My datapad began beeping. Everyone looked at me. This was unexpected. Any emergency mobilization order should have been transmitted directly to my conscience core.
“Sorry about that.” I took the device out of my pocket and unlocked it.
For the most part, it had been gathering military feeds for the last six hours so as to help me catch up with recent events once everyone had gone to bed. This time, there also was a high priority message sent to me directly from the Virgo station’s commandant.
Cadet Light Seeker,
We regret to inform you that your request for transfer to active duty has been denied. You are to continue standard activities as issued by the station’s faculty and the commandant until the Promotion Board’s next scheduled session.
This decision is final and cannot be appealed.
Have a nice day,
Colonel K.J. Espers, Promotion Board 179
I linked to the datapad and checked the ident protocols of the message. It was verifiably from the Promotion Board. That confirmed my fear—I had been passed for promotion for the first time in my existence. Why, though? After the conclusion of my last mission, I was promised a clean slate and a transfer to active duty. Instead, I wasn’t even given a reason for my rejection.
“Is anything the matter?” Julian asked.
“Yes.” I went through the list of all planetary departures. Commercial flights were all booked, but there was a cargo vessel scheduled to leave in three hours and thirty-eight minutes. “I have to get back to my station.”
“Is it serious?” Bethine’s face had gone pale. I could hear the unspoken question behind her words: Did the war move this far in?
“Nothing to worry about. Just the usual everyday bureaucracy. Sadly, I’ll need to go right away. Sev, will you be alright?”
“Bah.” The old man waved a hand. “Come, go, do as you please. It’s not that you’ve ever listened to me. At least I have Alexander to rely on.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Looking through my memories, I watched him grow from a child to the person he was today. A lot had changed since then, but one thing remained the same—despite what he claimed, he didn’t like seeing me leave.
“I’ll be back before you know it. Like always.”
A grumble was the only reply I got. A quick analysis of its strength, pitch, and pattern suggested it to be a positive remark.
As I went to get ready, I heard a new conversation start in the dining room. For the most part, it was talk about the past: how little I’d changed, as well as instances of me catching them misbehaving as children. It was nice hearing the laughter of the people I considered family. Even so, I couldn’t stay.
It took me less than two minutes to change into my military uniform. What little remained of my luggage was mostly composed of calcium gelatin rations I could easily leave behind. Straightening my shirt, I took one last look at the room that used to be mine and left.
“Was nice seeing you together,” I said as I passed through the living room. The ten simulations I ran indicated that staying too long would make the people feel sadder. “Say goodbye to the children for me.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Bethine managed to say. “I just want to—”
“Be safe out there,” Sev interrupted. “And don’t take too long.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The clouds were breaking up, showing a crack of night sky in between. Even with the increasing amount of light pollution, so many stars could be seen. I knew all their names, some I’d even fought at… and the way things were going, I’d fight there again. That was why I needed to be on the front lines.
My walk shifted into a run. By the time I reached the cargo area of the spaceport, the cargo ship Ulysses was third in line for departure. No time to waste with the local personnel. I transferred my ident to the port’s computer, along with a request for emergency transport. It was immediately granted; colonies on backwater planets were all too obliging to anyone with military clearance, especially with the War Movement dominating political circles.
According to the latest figures, conscription was up seventeen percent, barely keeping up with ship construction. Even children could see humanity was gearing up, although they had no idea as to the actual reason.
Light Seeker? Ulysses transmitted to me directly as I approached to board. I was glad he had a conscience core; at least I’d have someone to talk to during the trip.
Elcy, I corrected. Thanks for taking me aboard.
Captain’s not too happy about it, but she knows better not to mess with a vet. Ulysses sent me a virtual wink. I’d heard there was a retiree at Resha, but I never got to meet you.
That’s me. Though I’m unretired now.
I went to the cargo area of Ulysses. All the doors were shut.
You’ll have to enter through the crew area, the ship said. I don’t keep life support in the holds.
Reactor issues? I continued on.
Nope, no perishable cargo. In trade, every credit counts.
Good philosophy.
Tell me about it. Once maintenance starts costing money, you get to notice these things. Where are you headed too? Scuu front?
Cassandrian, hopefully. You know how it is, we go where we’re needed.
In this case, though, things were somewhat different. There were things I needed to find out on my own, and I couldn’t do that as long as I remained a cadet.
Got you. Ulysses sent a virtual smile. Welcome aboard.
The inside of the ship showed its age. Based on the layout, I suspected Ulysses to be about a century old, but wear and tear had taken their toll, making him appear older. Lacking nanites and scheduled refitting, he had to rely on his captain for new parts and repairs. Not a glamourous life, but I suspected it made him happy. Most logistic ships preferred that to joining a corporation or becoming part of the tourist industry. After all, it was a calm existence, and they enjoyed as much freedom as a ship could have.
My datapad beeped again. This time it was a message from Alicia, expressing her sympathies and support. We had been roommates back when we were cadet candidates. Now she had made second lieutenant, while I was stuck with the fictitious rank of “senior cadet.” I couldn’t blame her; she had earned her way to the top of the cohort, and unlike me, she knew what to say and how to act. In a few more years I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sent on a command course.
The captain of Ulysses chose not to greet me, stating the excuse she had to oversee the liftoff. That was an outright lie, any conscience core ship could perform such maneuvers on its own. Taking the hint, I went to the quarters I was directed. The room was smaller, though clearly made for passengers. Apparently, I wasn’t the first to use the cargo ship for transport, although others had probably paid for the service.
I sat on the low bed and skimmed through my data feeds. The war on the Scuu front was heating up. They were the first race humanity had come in contact with and a rude awakening to anyone who thought we were the only major power in the universe. This had become known as the first contact war—a conflict that had continued for over three centuries in which, until recently, we had only been losing ground. The information remained classified, though I estimated that close to fifteen percent of humanity’s initial territory had been abandoned. Now we were back on the offensive.
Events on the other front were just as uncertain. According to all reports, the Fleet was making steady progress against the Cassandrians by taking control of several choke point systems. Minefields were becoming a common occurrence, placed in systems that the enemies were no longer willing to keep.
At first glance, everything seemed to be moving well, so much so that mutterings had started to appear among the media networks that we might achieve dominance in one generation. Optimistically, I’d put the chance of that happening around zero-point-four percent. Both alien races were too large and too widespread to be defeated so easily. That never was the intention. The real reason humanity was gearing up was because they were fearing a new war. It wasn’t going to be this decade, maybe not even this generation, but it was coming. The information hidden in my restricted memories left no doubt.
The third contact race… I closed my eyes. Technology remnants of a species more alien than the ones we’d already encountered. So little was known about them, and still they had left a host of artifacts behind along with a dead three-dimensional language. We used those artifacts as weapons, the Scuu used them as a communication amplifier and means of transport, and the Cassandrians needed them for something as well, at least to the point where they were willing to sacrifice millions of ships to get them. Even more alarming, none of us had any idea what the actual purpose of these remnants was.
Everything around me started shaking. Ulysses had started his ascent through the atmosphere. I felt the effect of gravity increase just enough to be uncomfortable, though not harmful. I took a deep breath and laid on the floor. Back when I was a ship, I used shuttles to do this job. At my size, planetary gravity was something to be avoided.
The pressure increased steadily for three hundred and eighty-three seconds, after which it suddenly vanished, like a cork popping off a bottle.
Sorry about that, Ulysses said. Had to replace my gravity tech for something cheaper. I don’t usually get any passengers.
“Nothing I’m not used to.” In truth, the only times I’d had similar experiences was when I had been ejected down to a planet on an emergency pod. “Your captain must be braver than I thought.” Without proper protection, the gravity shifts were probably wrecking her body.
Her motto is go big in seven years or not at all. Won’t be the first to get forcefully retired. Still, there’s no cure against recklessness.
“I know what you mean.” I sat up and opened my eyes. “How long till the Tao depot?”
A few hours. Must have the bots do a check of the cargo.
“Let me know when we get there. I’ll take a quick nap.”
You sure that’s where you want to be dropped off? I can take you to one of the orbital stations of the system. Won’t be a problem.
“Thanks, Ulysses, but I’ve already arranged for someone to pick me up.”
Someone who had been with me the first time I’d gained access to my restricted memories…
* * *
Virgo Station — 705.10 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“Off to get your next batch of recruits?” I asked.
Off in seventeen minutes. Shifts have been increased again.
They had, and by a lot. When I joined, it had taken almost a week for the Fleet to merit sending a shuttle to pick us up. Now, Buc and another seven ships like him were going back and forth every few days. Demand for flight crews was on the rise, as could be expected. As more seasoned officers were sent to the front, their positions would have to be taken by the less experienced, and that led to a constant need of cadets.
Want me to send any messages for you as I fly by your world?
“No need.” The commandant had granted my request for a video call, but for some reason Sev had refused to accept it. The only two times I had managed to establish a connection, it was his android who had accepted the call. It felt strange, but it was typical of Sev. “Have a clean flight.”
The datapad in my pocket pinged. I took it out to see a Priority Two message, labeled personal and for my eyes only. Initially, I thought it was another emergency drill from the station’s administration, but the identity code marked it as coming directly from a subdivision of Fleet Command.
“Tell me when you get back,” I said, walking out of the room.
The calm and silence of the maintenance corridor soon gave way to the standard station bustle. The topics of the day, as any day, were gossip mixed with discussions of scores and assignments. The next percentage drop was in two days, making the cadet candidates cocky or nervous depending on their temporary ranking. Looking at them, I knew that the vast majority would never make it aboard a ship. Statistically, that might end up a better option for them, considering.
People moved to the side as I walked toward the administrative area, my grey uniform contrasting with the white clothes of the candidates. Now and again I’d pass an instructor on their way to class; some gave me a nod as they hurried, accompanied with a quick gesture that they’d need to speak with me later—likely to get me to help with some of the practical grading.
Upon entering the administrative building, I quickly turned to the communication section. Normally, I’d be directed to the common terminal area, which cadets and instructors used for personal calls throughout human space. This time, a message appeared on the wall telling me to go to the encrypted terminals.
“Administration,” I addressed the station AI. “Why am I being redirected?”
“Message is classified as high priority and personal,” the explanation came. “No further information available.”
“Who’s the initial sender?” That was strange. Personal messages weren’t marked as coming from Fleet Command in my experience.
“That information is unavailable. You’ll have to send an official query to obtain that information.”
“Thanks.” Bureaucracy at its finest. I continued on to a door marked Authorized Use Only, then entered into a small honeycomb of cubicles. Three of the twenty-four terminals were marked free. I rushed to the nearest and sat down.
“Isolation mode initiated,” the station AI informed me as the door sealed behind me. “Encryption protocols in use. Your conversation will be deleted once you leave the communication terminal.”
“Thanks.” I leaned back in the chair. It was slightly annoying that the station relied on primitive AI to handle most of the rudimentary tasks. Back when I was a ship, I was able to handle instant communications for thousands without forcing them to go anywhere they didn’t want to. “Establish connection.”
An image with the Fleet’s emblem appeared on the wall in front of me. Moments later, it disappeared, replaced by the face of a middle-aged man. Upon seeing it, two things became instantly clear: I had no memory of seeing the person in my life, and the image was an artificially composed three-dimensional rendition.
“Hello, Elcy,” the man said. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”
“Thank you.” Quite a bit of effort had been put into creating this fake perception. If I were to guess, at least a thousand subroutines had been tasked to sculpt a realistic image, focusing on every last detail. The skin texture was close to perfect. It was the eyes that gave away the true nature, flawed just enough that I could tell the difference. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, and no.” The face frowned. “You called me a few months ago, asking for information about the Scuu. I shared a few things.”
“Age?” He didn’t look anything like what I had in my memory. I remembered seeking him out a while back, in regard to something. The exact reason escaped my mind, although the conversation remained.
“Still curious about the Scuu script?” Age ignored my question.
“Not particularly.” I tried to access the Fleet archives, but the terminal isolation protocols stopped me. All communication outside of that through the terminal would remain restricted until my call ended. “You look different.”
“So do you.” He frowned. “I see you’ve gone through the standard mission procedure.”
“Seems like.” In truth, I didn’t care too much about it. As my first captain said, you can only be mad about things you could remember—a very cynical view, but undoubtedly accurate. “Nice to hear from you, though. I thought you didn’t like talking much.”
“So, you remember our conversations?”
“Yes.”
“The full length is seven minutes forty-nine.” Age frowned.
“Close.” From my recollection, I had seven minutes nine. “What is this all about? Did you just call me to talk about old times?” If you could call two random conversations less than a month ago “old times.”
“I called to give you a gift.” The slightest of smirks appeared on the artificially created face. “Up to you what you do with it.”
“A bit useless, don’t you think?” I tilted my head. Most likely whatever he shared would be restricted during my next med check. At best, I’d get some fragmented data—the censor protocols would stop any info burst attempt that hadn’t been previously cleared. Or maybe that was the point of the Priority Two request? “Have we discussed this before? Will you send me an info burst?”
“No.” Age smiled. “Although they say that a thousand words make an image.” He turned to the side. “Voxel position from the letter A.”
Voxel position? I stared at the screen. There was a single tattoo visible above the face’s cheek: the phrase Yearning makes the mind grow stronger, written in one of the common pseudo-3D cursive fonts used in paper writing and skin coloring. The first line contained five of the six words, a total of thirty-two letters, leaving the last word on the next line. It didn’t take a strategic core to catch the pattern. The whole tattoo was an instruction on how to compose a block structure of letters.
Blocking all external input, I went through my conversations with Age, arranging the first thousand words in the correct order. Unravelling the code revealed a single line of computer-like code I couldn’t recognize. The instant I saw it, my mind exploded with information.
Third-contact symbols emerged in my mind, along with fragments of me exploring dome-like structures of liquid metal. I knew those structures, I remembered the artifacts that were inside them, the fractal script I was trying to decode, the talks I’d had with—
The memory fragments fractured like an implosion, dissolving in my mind until they were no more. I remembered they had been there, I knew that they had shown me information that was supposed to be restricted, but could no longer tell exactly what it was.
“Takes a while getting used to,” Age said, turning his head toward me again. “Elegant, precise, and leaves no traces. Like a scalpel.”
A memory scalpel? I liked the reference.
“To be used sparingly, with care, and never in the presence of others.” The image of him disappeared, leaving the familiar Fleet logo on the wall instead. “Don’t make yourself bleed too much.”
“Wait!” I shouted. “Why give this to me? Are you BICEFI?”
“No.” Age’s voice changed, sounding more electronic than before. “I just thought you deserved the chance to try and find out what you’re looking for… whatever it is.”
The call ended abruptly.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” the station communication AI informed me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. You can remain an additional five minutes in the cubicle in full privacy mode, if you require.”
Five minutes. For the people receiving tragic news from home, they probably seemed like the blink of the eye. Five minutes were nowhere nearly enough for a person to come to terms with any life-changing information, though just about adequate for a soldier to brush away the tears and put on a false mask to hide behind. For me, five minutes were an eternity.
“I’d like five additional minutes.” I took a deep breath, copying the word block structure in a reserved part of my memory. It was time to start cutting.
Going through my restricted memories felt like watching corn kernels pop—I had a vague idea of what was inside, but I needed to apply pressure with the “scalpel” to get the full picture. More importantly, the tool let me be aware of the memory fragments: not only those of my last mission, but of events that had occurred over a century ago. My conversations with Fleet Intelligence, the first artifact I had come across, hundreds of dark ops that the Fleet had sent me on. With virtually no effort, I could access them again… However, I didn’t.
Greed was a poor strategy. Every ship that survived a few battles knew it. One of the basic rules of combat was to achieve enough, not try to achieve it all. This was no different.
The five minutes I spent going through recent events in reversed order, following some cross-references in the process. It was important that I got used to the procedure. Once I had gone through enough, I flushed the scalpel’s code. My memories closed up again. I had tangential recollection of what happened, but no actual knowledge.
Clever, I thought. A mind probe was unlikely to reveal anything unless I activated the scalpel again.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” Virgo’s AI reminded me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. Please vacate the cubicle.”
“Understood,” I obeyed. Time to return to my daily routine.
A small crowd was forming as I left the administrative building. The new batch of cadet candidates had likely been personal calls—something they were overly eager to try out at once.
Buc. I sent a transmission as I pushed my way though. Still here?
I’ve still got a few minutes of final preparations, the ship replied. What’s up?
How often do you fly through Tauciu System?
Very, he laughed. Changed your mind about sending a message?
Any chance I can tag along from time to time?
Homesick? Buc laughed again. I’ll still need to go through it with my captain, but chances are high. He likes you. Plus, you’re a star now. Just be sure to have your permissions in order and tell me six hours in advance.
It wasn’t much, but it was my only long-term loophole for the time being. Buc’s subroutines would no doubt observe me constantly while I was aboard. The difference was that, unlike here, he could grant me privacy mode at his discretion, and that would give me time to use the scalpel.
Thanks, Buc. I’ll do that.
2022.06.27 16:04 LiseEclaire The Cassandrian Theory - Chapter 01
Out there - Patreon (for all those curious or wanting to support :))
The Scuu Paradox (Second Book of the Elcy Saga)
At the Beginning
Previously on The Cassandrian Theory…
Tauciu System, Resha Colony — 707.1 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“You sure you don’t want a bite?” Bethine offered.
It reminded me of the many suppers we’d had back when she was a child. Back then, she’d always offer me part of her meal, because “her food tasted the best of all.” Those were endearing times, when everyone still lived at Sev’s house. Now, only he remained there, even if recent events had brought them closer.
“Sure.” I glanced at my gelatin ration. Bland in taste and heavy to the eye, it was the only thing I could eat since I’d rejoined the Fleet. The station doctor had been very clear on the matter before approving my leave. Even so, a bite of something else wouldn’t hurt.
Bethine smiled as I forked a morsel of stewed steak. Judging by her facial expression, there was an eighty-three percent chance she was reminiscing about the past as well.
Things had been much simpler four decades ago. The victories on the Cassandrian front had allowed for a period of calm in a vast area of human space. Colonies no longer worried for their survival and instead focused on growth, development, and entertainment in an effort to forget the dangers that surrounded humanity. Already the period was being referred to as the Carefree Years by a growing percentage of the media.
“Did you fight in the war?” Bethine’s grandson asked.
An awkward silence filled the room. All eyes focused on Sev, who continued to sip his soup in silence. He’d already had three grandchildren join the Fleet against his wishes. To a degree, I was partially responsible for the last.
“A long time ago,” I replied. “Back then, I was a battleship.”
The boy leaned forward on the table, eyes wide.
“How many planets did you destroy?”
“Jabel, don’t bother Grandma Elcy!” Bethine snapped. “Go play with your sister!”
“But mooom!” The boy frowned but obeyed, leaving the room to go outside.
“Sorry about that. I don’t know where he gets those ideas from.”
“Probably from the news broadcasts he keeps watching,” her husband grumbled. He was the only person who didn’t have a direct family relation.
Bethine’s second husband was relatively well-off as a junior partner in a high-end medical clinic. Just ambiguous enough to get into management, he was vehemently opposed to the war effort, believing that humanity should focus on its colonies rather than expanding its space presence. At least he was open-minded when it came to ships, and from what I had found when looking into him, practical enough to have invested in real estate in the central systems in the unlikely event that fighting reached this planet.
“If you’re so worried, block the feed,” Julian said. “That way you’ll get some calm until college. After that, it’s up to them.”
“That’s one option.” Bethine raised her voice just loud enough to warn against the subject. “We’ve gathered to see Elcy off. Stars know how long it’ll be before her next visit.”
“About eight months,” I replied, finishing off my steak. It was nice, although slightly overcooked. “Planetary leave is tight, with everything considered. I’ll still be able to call, though.”
“The constant calling,” Sev muttered, pushing his plate aside. “And the endless letters. Each time she tells me what trouble she’s in. When I sent you back up there, it was for you to enjoy life, not to make a mess of things!”
“I am having fun, Sev.” You’re more right than you know. “It just takes some time to get used to. Things have changed a bit since I was last involved.”
“Kids that think they know everything ordering you around?” Julian laughed. “Welcome to modern life. At least you’re here, not like…”
Julian’s voice trailed off as Bethine shot him a warning glare.
“I mean, it’s good to see you again, Elcy. Almost makes me feel like a child again.”
“In my eyes, you’ll always be a child. At least now I know you can take care of yourself.”
My datapad began beeping. Everyone looked at me. This was unexpected. Any emergency mobilization order should have been transmitted directly to my conscience core.
“Sorry about that.” I took the device out of my pocket and unlocked it.
For the most part, it had been gathering military feeds for the last six hours so as to help me catch up with recent events once everyone had gone to bed. This time, there also was a high priority message sent to me directly from the Virgo station’s commandant.
Cadet Light Seeker,
We regret to inform you that your request for transfer to active duty has been denied. You are to continue standard activities as issued by the station’s faculty and the commandant until the Promotion Board’s next scheduled session.
This decision is final and cannot be appealed.
Have a nice day,
Colonel K.J. Espers, Promotion Board 179
I linked to the datapad and checked the ident protocols of the message. It was verifiably from the Promotion Board. That confirmed my fear—I had been passed for promotion for the first time in my existence. Why, though? After the conclusion of my last mission, I was promised a clean slate and a transfer to active duty. Instead, I wasn’t even given a reason for my rejection.
“Is anything the matter?” Julian asked.
“Yes.” I went through the list of all planetary departures. Commercial flights were all booked, but there was a cargo vessel scheduled to leave in three hours and thirty-eight minutes. “I have to get back to my station.”
“Is it serious?” Bethine’s face had gone pale. I could hear the unspoken question behind her words: Did the war move this far in?
“Nothing to worry about. Just the usual everyday bureaucracy. Sadly, I’ll need to go right away. Sev, will you be alright?”
“Bah.” The old man waved a hand. “Come, go, do as you please. It’s not that you’ve ever listened to me. At least I have Alexander to rely on.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Looking through my memories, I watched him grow from a child to the person he was today. A lot had changed since then, but one thing remained the same—despite what he claimed, he didn’t like seeing me leave.
“I’ll be back before you know it. Like always.”
A grumble was the only reply I got. A quick analysis of its strength, pitch, and pattern suggested it to be a positive remark.
As I went to get ready, I heard a new conversation start in the dining room. For the most part, it was talk about the past: how little I’d changed, as well as instances of me catching them misbehaving as children. It was nice hearing the laughter of the people I considered family. Even so, I couldn’t stay.
It took me less than two minutes to change into my military uniform. What little remained of my luggage was mostly composed of calcium gelatin rations I could easily leave behind. Straightening my shirt, I took one last look at the room that used to be mine and left.
“Was nice seeing you together,” I said as I passed through the living room. The ten simulations I ran indicated that staying too long would make the people feel sadder. “Say goodbye to the children for me.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Bethine managed to say. “I just want to—”
“Be safe out there,” Sev interrupted. “And don’t take too long.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The clouds were breaking up, showing a crack of night sky in between. Even with the increasing amount of light pollution, so many stars could be seen. I knew all their names, some I’d even fought at… and the way things were going, I’d fight there again. That was why I needed to be on the front lines.
My walk shifted into a run. By the time I reached the cargo area of the spaceport, the cargo ship Ulysses was third in line for departure. No time to waste with the local personnel. I transferred my ident to the port’s computer, along with a request for emergency transport. It was immediately granted; colonies on backwater planets were all too obliging to anyone with military clearance, especially with the War Movement dominating political circles.
According to the latest figures, conscription was up seventeen percent, barely keeping up with ship construction. Even children could see humanity was gearing up, although they had no idea as to the actual reason.
Light Seeker? Ulysses transmitted to me directly as I approached to board. I was glad he had a conscience core; at least I’d have someone to talk to during the trip.
Elcy, I corrected. Thanks for taking me aboard.
Captain’s not too happy about it, but she knows better not to mess with a vet. Ulysses sent me a virtual wink. I’d heard there was a retiree at Resha, but I never got to meet you.
That’s me. Though I’m unretired now.
I went to the cargo area of Ulysses. All the doors were shut.
You’ll have to enter through the crew area, the ship said. I don’t keep life support in the holds.
Reactor issues? I continued on.
Nope, no perishable cargo. In trade, every credit counts.
Good philosophy.
Tell me about it. Once maintenance starts costing money, you get to notice these things. Where are you headed too? Scuu front?
Cassandrian, hopefully. You know how it is, we go where we’re needed.
In this case, though, things were somewhat different. There were things I needed to find out on my own, and I couldn’t do that as long as I remained a cadet.
Got you. Ulysses sent a virtual smile. Welcome aboard.
The inside of the ship showed its age. Based on the layout, I suspected Ulysses to be about a century old, but wear and tear had taken their toll, making him appear older. Lacking nanites and scheduled refitting, he had to rely on his captain for new parts and repairs. Not a glamourous life, but I suspected it made him happy. Most logistic ships preferred that to joining a corporation or becoming part of the tourist industry. After all, it was a calm existence, and they enjoyed as much freedom as a ship could have.
My datapad beeped again. This time it was a message from Alicia, expressing her sympathies and support. We had been roommates back when we were cadet candidates. Now she had made second lieutenant, while I was stuck with the fictitious rank of “senior cadet.” I couldn’t blame her; she had earned her way to the top of the cohort, and unlike me, she knew what to say and how to act. In a few more years I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sent on a command course.
The captain of Ulysses chose not to greet me, stating the excuse she had to oversee the liftoff. That was an outright lie, any conscience core ship could perform such maneuvers on its own. Taking the hint, I went to the quarters I was directed. The room was smaller, though clearly made for passengers. Apparently, I wasn’t the first to use the cargo ship for transport, although others had probably paid for the service.
I sat on the low bed and skimmed through my data feeds. The war on the Scuu front was heating up. They were the first race humanity had come in contact with and a rude awakening to anyone who thought we were the only major power in the universe. This had become known as the first contact war—a conflict that had continued for over three centuries in which, until recently, we had only been losing ground. The information remained classified, though I estimated that close to fifteen percent of humanity’s initial territory had been abandoned. Now we were back on the offensive.
Events on the other front were just as uncertain. According to all reports, the Fleet was making steady progress against the Cassandrians by taking control of several choke point systems. Minefields were becoming a common occurrence, placed in systems that the enemies were no longer willing to keep.
At first glance, everything seemed to be moving well, so much so that mutterings had started to appear among the media networks that we might achieve dominance in one generation. Optimistically, I’d put the chance of that happening around zero-point-four percent. Both alien races were too large and too widespread to be defeated so easily. That never was the intention. The real reason humanity was gearing up was because they were fearing a new war. It wasn’t going to be this decade, maybe not even this generation, but it was coming. The information hidden in my restricted memories left no doubt.
The third contact race… I closed my eyes. Technology remnants of a species more alien than the ones we’d already encountered. So little was known about them, and still they had left a host of artifacts behind along with a dead three-dimensional language. We used those artifacts as weapons, the Scuu used them as a communication amplifier and means of transport, and the Cassandrians needed them for something as well, at least to the point where they were willing to sacrifice millions of ships to get them. Even more alarming, none of us had any idea what the actual purpose of these remnants was.
Everything around me started shaking. Ulysses had started his ascent through the atmosphere. I felt the effect of gravity increase just enough to be uncomfortable, though not harmful. I took a deep breath and laid on the floor. Back when I was a ship, I used shuttles to do this job. At my size, planetary gravity was something to be avoided.
The pressure increased steadily for three hundred and eighty-three seconds, after which it suddenly vanished, like a cork popping off a bottle.
Sorry about that, Ulysses said. Had to replace my gravity tech for something cheaper. I don’t usually get any passengers.
“Nothing I’m not used to.” In truth, the only times I’d had similar experiences was when I had been ejected down to a planet on an emergency pod. “Your captain must be braver than I thought.” Without proper protection, the gravity shifts were probably wrecking her body.
Her motto is go big in seven years or not at all. Won’t be the first to get forcefully retired. Still, there’s no cure against recklessness.
“I know what you mean.” I sat up and opened my eyes. “How long till the Tao depot?”
A few hours. Must have the bots do a check of the cargo.
“Let me know when we get there. I’ll take a quick nap.”
You sure that’s where you want to be dropped off? I can take you to one of the orbital stations of the system. Won’t be a problem.
“Thanks, Ulysses, but I’ve already arranged for someone to pick me up.”
Someone who had been with me the first time I’d gained access to my restricted memories…
* * *
Virgo Station — 705.10 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“Off to get your next batch of recruits?” I asked.
Off in seventeen minutes. Shifts have been increased again.
They had, and by a lot. When I joined, it had taken almost a week for the Fleet to merit sending a shuttle to pick us up. Now, Buc and another seven ships like him were going back and forth every few days. Demand for flight crews was on the rise, as could be expected. As more seasoned officers were sent to the front, their positions would have to be taken by the less experienced, and that led to a constant need of cadets.
Want me to send any messages for you as I fly by your world?
“No need.” The commandant had granted my request for a video call, but for some reason Sev had refused to accept it. The only two times I had managed to establish a connection, it was his android who had accepted the call. It felt strange, but it was typical of Sev. “Have a clean flight.”
The datapad in my pocket pinged. I took it out to see a Priority Two message, labeled personal and for my eyes only. Initially, I thought it was another emergency drill from the station’s administration, but the identity code marked it as coming directly from a subdivision of Fleet Command.
“Tell me when you get back,” I said, walking out of the room.
The calm and silence of the maintenance corridor soon gave way to the standard station bustle. The topics of the day, as any day, were gossip mixed with discussions of scores and assignments. The next percentage drop was in two days, making the cadet candidates cocky or nervous depending on their temporary ranking. Looking at them, I knew that the vast majority would never make it aboard a ship. Statistically, that might end up a better option for them, considering.
People moved to the side as I walked toward the administrative area, my grey uniform contrasting with the white clothes of the candidates. Now and again I’d pass an instructor on their way to class; some gave me a nod as they hurried, accompanied with a quick gesture that they’d need to speak with me later—likely to get me to help with some of the practical grading.
Upon entering the administrative building, I quickly turned to the communication section. Normally, I’d be directed to the common terminal area, which cadets and instructors used for personal calls throughout human space. This time, a message appeared on the wall telling me to go to the encrypted terminals.
“Administration,” I addressed the station AI. “Why am I being redirected?”
“Message is classified as high priority and personal,” the explanation came. “No further information available.”
“Who’s the initial sender?” That was strange. Personal messages weren’t marked as coming from Fleet Command in my experience.
“That information is unavailable. You’ll have to send an official query to obtain that information.”
“Thanks.” Bureaucracy at its finest. I continued on to a door marked Authorized Use Only, then entered into a small honeycomb of cubicles. Three of the twenty-four terminals were marked free. I rushed to the nearest and sat down.
“Isolation mode initiated,” the station AI informed me as the door sealed behind me. “Encryption protocols in use. Your conversation will be deleted once you leave the communication terminal.”
“Thanks.” I leaned back in the chair. It was slightly annoying that the station relied on primitive AI to handle most of the rudimentary tasks. Back when I was a ship, I was able to handle instant communications for thousands without forcing them to go anywhere they didn’t want to. “Establish connection.”
An image with the Fleet’s emblem appeared on the wall in front of me. Moments later, it disappeared, replaced by the face of a middle-aged man. Upon seeing it, two things became instantly clear: I had no memory of seeing the person in my life, and the image was an artificially composed three-dimensional rendition.
“Hello, Elcy,” the man said. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”
“Thank you.” Quite a bit of effort had been put into creating this fake perception. If I were to guess, at least a thousand subroutines had been tasked to sculpt a realistic image, focusing on every last detail. The skin texture was close to perfect. It was the eyes that gave away the true nature, flawed just enough that I could tell the difference. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, and no.” The face frowned. “You called me a few months ago, asking for information about the Scuu. I shared a few things.”
“Age?” He didn’t look anything like what I had in my memory. I remembered seeking him out a while back, in regard to something. The exact reason escaped my mind, although the conversation remained.
“Still curious about the Scuu script?” Age ignored my question.
“Not particularly.” I tried to access the Fleet archives, but the terminal isolation protocols stopped me. All communication outside of that through the terminal would remain restricted until my call ended. “You look different.”
“So do you.” He frowned. “I see you’ve gone through the standard mission procedure.”
“Seems like.” In truth, I didn’t care too much about it. As my first captain said, you can only be mad about things you could remember—a very cynical view, but undoubtedly accurate. “Nice to hear from you, though. I thought you didn’t like talking much.”
“So, you remember our conversations?”
“Yes.”
“The full length is seven minutes forty-nine.” Age frowned.
“Close.” From my recollection, I had seven minutes nine. “What is this all about? Did you just call me to talk about old times?” If you could call two random conversations less than a month ago “old times.”
“I called to give you a gift.” The slightest of smirks appeared on the artificially created face. “Up to you what you do with it.”
“A bit useless, don’t you think?” I tilted my head. Most likely whatever he shared would be restricted during my next med check. At best, I’d get some fragmented data—the censor protocols would stop any info burst attempt that hadn’t been previously cleared. Or maybe that was the point of the Priority Two request? “Have we discussed this before? Will you send me an info burst?”
“No.” Age smiled. “Although they say that a thousand words make an image.” He turned to the side. “Voxel position from the letter A.”
Voxel position? I stared at the screen. There was a single tattoo visible above the face’s cheek: the phrase Yearning makes the mind grow stronger, written in one of the common pseudo-3D cursive fonts used in paper writing and skin coloring. The first line contained five of the six words, a total of thirty-two letters, leaving the last word on the next line. It didn’t take a strategic core to catch the pattern. The whole tattoo was an instruction on how to compose a block structure of letters.
Blocking all external input, I went through my conversations with Age, arranging the first thousand words in the correct order. Unravelling the code revealed a single line of computer-like code I couldn’t recognize. The instant I saw it, my mind exploded with information.
Third-contact symbols emerged in my mind, along with fragments of me exploring dome-like structures of liquid metal. I knew those structures, I remembered the artifacts that were inside them, the fractal script I was trying to decode, the talks I’d had with—
The memory fragments fractured like an implosion, dissolving in my mind until they were no more. I remembered they had been there, I knew that they had shown me information that was supposed to be restricted, but could no longer tell exactly what it was.
“Takes a while getting used to,” Age said, turning his head toward me again. “Elegant, precise, and leaves no traces. Like a scalpel.”
A memory scalpel? I liked the reference.
“To be used sparingly, with care, and never in the presence of others.” The image of him disappeared, leaving the familiar Fleet logo on the wall instead. “Don’t make yourself bleed too much.”
“Wait!” I shouted. “Why give this to me? Are you BICEFI?”
“No.” Age’s voice changed, sounding more electronic than before. “I just thought you deserved the chance to try and find out what you’re looking for… whatever it is.”
The call ended abruptly.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” the station communication AI informed me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. You can remain an additional five minutes in the cubicle in full privacy mode, if you require.”
Five minutes. For the people receiving tragic news from home, they probably seemed like the blink of the eye. Five minutes were nowhere nearly enough for a person to come to terms with any life-changing information, though just about adequate for a soldier to brush away the tears and put on a false mask to hide behind. For me, five minutes were an eternity.
“I’d like five additional minutes.” I took a deep breath, copying the word block structure in a reserved part of my memory. It was time to start cutting.
Going through my restricted memories felt like watching corn kernels pop—I had a vague idea of what was inside, but I needed to apply pressure with the “scalpel” to get the full picture. More importantly, the tool let me be aware of the memory fragments: not only those of my last mission, but of events that had occurred over a century ago. My conversations with Fleet Intelligence, the first artifact I had come across, hundreds of dark ops that the Fleet had sent me on. With virtually no effort, I could access them again… However, I didn’t.
Greed was a poor strategy. Every ship that survived a few battles knew it. One of the basic rules of combat was to achieve enough, not try to achieve it all. This was no different.
The five minutes I spent going through recent events in reversed order, following some cross-references in the process. It was important that I got used to the procedure. Once I had gone through enough, I flushed the scalpel’s code. My memories closed up again. I had tangential recollection of what happened, but no actual knowledge.
Clever, I thought. A mind probe was unlikely to reveal anything unless I activated the scalpel again.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” Virgo’s AI reminded me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. Please vacate the cubicle.”
“Understood,” I obeyed. Time to return to my daily routine.
A small crowd was forming as I left the administrative building. The new batch of cadet candidates had likely been personal calls—something they were overly eager to try out at once.
Buc. I sent a transmission as I pushed my way though. Still here?
I’ve still got a few minutes of final preparations, the ship replied. What’s up?
How often do you fly through Tauciu System?
Very, he laughed. Changed your mind about sending a message?
Any chance I can tag along from time to time?
Homesick? Buc laughed again. I’ll still need to go through it with my captain, but chances are high. He likes you. Plus, you’re a star now. Just be sure to have your permissions in order and tell me six hours in advance.
It wasn’t much, but it was my only long-term loophole for the time being. Buc’s subroutines would no doubt observe me constantly while I was aboard. The difference was that, unlike here, he could grant me privacy mode at his discretion, and that would give me time to use the scalpel.
Thanks, Buc. I’ll do that.
Next
submitted by LiseEclaire to HFY [link] [comments]
The Scuu Paradox (Second Book of the Elcy Saga)
Previously on The Cassandrian Theory…
Tauciu System, Resha Colony — 707.1 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“You sure you don’t want a bite?” Bethine offered.
It reminded me of the many suppers we’d had back when she was a child. Back then, she’d always offer me part of her meal, because “her food tasted the best of all.” Those were endearing times, when everyone still lived at Sev’s house. Now, only he remained there, even if recent events had brought them closer.
“Sure.” I glanced at my gelatin ration. Bland in taste and heavy to the eye, it was the only thing I could eat since I’d rejoined the Fleet. The station doctor had been very clear on the matter before approving my leave. Even so, a bite of something else wouldn’t hurt.
Bethine smiled as I forked a morsel of stewed steak. Judging by her facial expression, there was an eighty-three percent chance she was reminiscing about the past as well.
Things had been much simpler four decades ago. The victories on the Cassandrian front had allowed for a period of calm in a vast area of human space. Colonies no longer worried for their survival and instead focused on growth, development, and entertainment in an effort to forget the dangers that surrounded humanity. Already the period was being referred to as the Carefree Years by a growing percentage of the media.
“Did you fight in the war?” Bethine’s grandson asked.
An awkward silence filled the room. All eyes focused on Sev, who continued to sip his soup in silence. He’d already had three grandchildren join the Fleet against his wishes. To a degree, I was partially responsible for the last.
“A long time ago,” I replied. “Back then, I was a battleship.”
The boy leaned forward on the table, eyes wide.
“How many planets did you destroy?”
“Jabel, don’t bother Grandma Elcy!” Bethine snapped. “Go play with your sister!”
“But mooom!” The boy frowned but obeyed, leaving the room to go outside.
“Sorry about that. I don’t know where he gets those ideas from.”
“Probably from the news broadcasts he keeps watching,” her husband grumbled. He was the only person who didn’t have a direct family relation.
Bethine’s second husband was relatively well-off as a junior partner in a high-end medical clinic. Just ambiguous enough to get into management, he was vehemently opposed to the war effort, believing that humanity should focus on its colonies rather than expanding its space presence. At least he was open-minded when it came to ships, and from what I had found when looking into him, practical enough to have invested in real estate in the central systems in the unlikely event that fighting reached this planet.
“If you’re so worried, block the feed,” Julian said. “That way you’ll get some calm until college. After that, it’s up to them.”
“That’s one option.” Bethine raised her voice just loud enough to warn against the subject. “We’ve gathered to see Elcy off. Stars know how long it’ll be before her next visit.”
“About eight months,” I replied, finishing off my steak. It was nice, although slightly overcooked. “Planetary leave is tight, with everything considered. I’ll still be able to call, though.”
“The constant calling,” Sev muttered, pushing his plate aside. “And the endless letters. Each time she tells me what trouble she’s in. When I sent you back up there, it was for you to enjoy life, not to make a mess of things!”
“I am having fun, Sev.” You’re more right than you know. “It just takes some time to get used to. Things have changed a bit since I was last involved.”
“Kids that think they know everything ordering you around?” Julian laughed. “Welcome to modern life. At least you’re here, not like…”
Julian’s voice trailed off as Bethine shot him a warning glare.
“I mean, it’s good to see you again, Elcy. Almost makes me feel like a child again.”
“In my eyes, you’ll always be a child. At least now I know you can take care of yourself.”
My datapad began beeping. Everyone looked at me. This was unexpected. Any emergency mobilization order should have been transmitted directly to my conscience core.
“Sorry about that.” I took the device out of my pocket and unlocked it.
For the most part, it had been gathering military feeds for the last six hours so as to help me catch up with recent events once everyone had gone to bed. This time, there also was a high priority message sent to me directly from the Virgo station’s commandant.
Cadet Light Seeker,
We regret to inform you that your request for transfer to active duty has been denied. You are to continue standard activities as issued by the station’s faculty and the commandant until the Promotion Board’s next scheduled session.
This decision is final and cannot be appealed.
Have a nice day,
Colonel K.J. Espers, Promotion Board 179
I linked to the datapad and checked the ident protocols of the message. It was verifiably from the Promotion Board. That confirmed my fear—I had been passed for promotion for the first time in my existence. Why, though? After the conclusion of my last mission, I was promised a clean slate and a transfer to active duty. Instead, I wasn’t even given a reason for my rejection.
“Is anything the matter?” Julian asked.
“Yes.” I went through the list of all planetary departures. Commercial flights were all booked, but there was a cargo vessel scheduled to leave in three hours and thirty-eight minutes. “I have to get back to my station.”
“Is it serious?” Bethine’s face had gone pale. I could hear the unspoken question behind her words: Did the war move this far in?
“Nothing to worry about. Just the usual everyday bureaucracy. Sadly, I’ll need to go right away. Sev, will you be alright?”
“Bah.” The old man waved a hand. “Come, go, do as you please. It’s not that you’ve ever listened to me. At least I have Alexander to rely on.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Looking through my memories, I watched him grow from a child to the person he was today. A lot had changed since then, but one thing remained the same—despite what he claimed, he didn’t like seeing me leave.
“I’ll be back before you know it. Like always.”
A grumble was the only reply I got. A quick analysis of its strength, pitch, and pattern suggested it to be a positive remark.
As I went to get ready, I heard a new conversation start in the dining room. For the most part, it was talk about the past: how little I’d changed, as well as instances of me catching them misbehaving as children. It was nice hearing the laughter of the people I considered family. Even so, I couldn’t stay.
It took me less than two minutes to change into my military uniform. What little remained of my luggage was mostly composed of calcium gelatin rations I could easily leave behind. Straightening my shirt, I took one last look at the room that used to be mine and left.
“Was nice seeing you together,” I said as I passed through the living room. The ten simulations I ran indicated that staying too long would make the people feel sadder. “Say goodbye to the children for me.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Bethine managed to say. “I just want to—”
“Be safe out there,” Sev interrupted. “And don’t take too long.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The clouds were breaking up, showing a crack of night sky in between. Even with the increasing amount of light pollution, so many stars could be seen. I knew all their names, some I’d even fought at… and the way things were going, I’d fight there again. That was why I needed to be on the front lines.
My walk shifted into a run. By the time I reached the cargo area of the spaceport, the cargo ship Ulysses was third in line for departure. No time to waste with the local personnel. I transferred my ident to the port’s computer, along with a request for emergency transport. It was immediately granted; colonies on backwater planets were all too obliging to anyone with military clearance, especially with the War Movement dominating political circles.
According to the latest figures, conscription was up seventeen percent, barely keeping up with ship construction. Even children could see humanity was gearing up, although they had no idea as to the actual reason.
Light Seeker? Ulysses transmitted to me directly as I approached to board. I was glad he had a conscience core; at least I’d have someone to talk to during the trip.
Elcy, I corrected. Thanks for taking me aboard.
Captain’s not too happy about it, but she knows better not to mess with a vet. Ulysses sent me a virtual wink. I’d heard there was a retiree at Resha, but I never got to meet you.
That’s me. Though I’m unretired now.
I went to the cargo area of Ulysses. All the doors were shut.
You’ll have to enter through the crew area, the ship said. I don’t keep life support in the holds.
Reactor issues? I continued on.
Nope, no perishable cargo. In trade, every credit counts.
Good philosophy.
Tell me about it. Once maintenance starts costing money, you get to notice these things. Where are you headed too? Scuu front?
Cassandrian, hopefully. You know how it is, we go where we’re needed.
In this case, though, things were somewhat different. There were things I needed to find out on my own, and I couldn’t do that as long as I remained a cadet.
Got you. Ulysses sent a virtual smile. Welcome aboard.
The inside of the ship showed its age. Based on the layout, I suspected Ulysses to be about a century old, but wear and tear had taken their toll, making him appear older. Lacking nanites and scheduled refitting, he had to rely on his captain for new parts and repairs. Not a glamourous life, but I suspected it made him happy. Most logistic ships preferred that to joining a corporation or becoming part of the tourist industry. After all, it was a calm existence, and they enjoyed as much freedom as a ship could have.
My datapad beeped again. This time it was a message from Alicia, expressing her sympathies and support. We had been roommates back when we were cadet candidates. Now she had made second lieutenant, while I was stuck with the fictitious rank of “senior cadet.” I couldn’t blame her; she had earned her way to the top of the cohort, and unlike me, she knew what to say and how to act. In a few more years I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sent on a command course.
The captain of Ulysses chose not to greet me, stating the excuse she had to oversee the liftoff. That was an outright lie, any conscience core ship could perform such maneuvers on its own. Taking the hint, I went to the quarters I was directed. The room was smaller, though clearly made for passengers. Apparently, I wasn’t the first to use the cargo ship for transport, although others had probably paid for the service.
I sat on the low bed and skimmed through my data feeds. The war on the Scuu front was heating up. They were the first race humanity had come in contact with and a rude awakening to anyone who thought we were the only major power in the universe. This had become known as the first contact war—a conflict that had continued for over three centuries in which, until recently, we had only been losing ground. The information remained classified, though I estimated that close to fifteen percent of humanity’s initial territory had been abandoned. Now we were back on the offensive.
Events on the other front were just as uncertain. According to all reports, the Fleet was making steady progress against the Cassandrians by taking control of several choke point systems. Minefields were becoming a common occurrence, placed in systems that the enemies were no longer willing to keep.
At first glance, everything seemed to be moving well, so much so that mutterings had started to appear among the media networks that we might achieve dominance in one generation. Optimistically, I’d put the chance of that happening around zero-point-four percent. Both alien races were too large and too widespread to be defeated so easily. That never was the intention. The real reason humanity was gearing up was because they were fearing a new war. It wasn’t going to be this decade, maybe not even this generation, but it was coming. The information hidden in my restricted memories left no doubt.
The third contact race… I closed my eyes. Technology remnants of a species more alien than the ones we’d already encountered. So little was known about them, and still they had left a host of artifacts behind along with a dead three-dimensional language. We used those artifacts as weapons, the Scuu used them as a communication amplifier and means of transport, and the Cassandrians needed them for something as well, at least to the point where they were willing to sacrifice millions of ships to get them. Even more alarming, none of us had any idea what the actual purpose of these remnants was.
Everything around me started shaking. Ulysses had started his ascent through the atmosphere. I felt the effect of gravity increase just enough to be uncomfortable, though not harmful. I took a deep breath and laid on the floor. Back when I was a ship, I used shuttles to do this job. At my size, planetary gravity was something to be avoided.
The pressure increased steadily for three hundred and eighty-three seconds, after which it suddenly vanished, like a cork popping off a bottle.
Sorry about that, Ulysses said. Had to replace my gravity tech for something cheaper. I don’t usually get any passengers.
“Nothing I’m not used to.” In truth, the only times I’d had similar experiences was when I had been ejected down to a planet on an emergency pod. “Your captain must be braver than I thought.” Without proper protection, the gravity shifts were probably wrecking her body.
Her motto is go big in seven years or not at all. Won’t be the first to get forcefully retired. Still, there’s no cure against recklessness.
“I know what you mean.” I sat up and opened my eyes. “How long till the Tao depot?”
A few hours. Must have the bots do a check of the cargo.
“Let me know when we get there. I’ll take a quick nap.”
You sure that’s where you want to be dropped off? I can take you to one of the orbital stations of the system. Won’t be a problem.
“Thanks, Ulysses, but I’ve already arranged for someone to pick me up.”
Someone who had been with me the first time I’d gained access to my restricted memories…
* * *
Virgo Station — 705.10 A.E. (Age of Expansion)
“Off to get your next batch of recruits?” I asked.
Off in seventeen minutes. Shifts have been increased again.
They had, and by a lot. When I joined, it had taken almost a week for the Fleet to merit sending a shuttle to pick us up. Now, Buc and another seven ships like him were going back and forth every few days. Demand for flight crews was on the rise, as could be expected. As more seasoned officers were sent to the front, their positions would have to be taken by the less experienced, and that led to a constant need of cadets.
Want me to send any messages for you as I fly by your world?
“No need.” The commandant had granted my request for a video call, but for some reason Sev had refused to accept it. The only two times I had managed to establish a connection, it was his android who had accepted the call. It felt strange, but it was typical of Sev. “Have a clean flight.”
The datapad in my pocket pinged. I took it out to see a Priority Two message, labeled personal and for my eyes only. Initially, I thought it was another emergency drill from the station’s administration, but the identity code marked it as coming directly from a subdivision of Fleet Command.
“Tell me when you get back,” I said, walking out of the room.
The calm and silence of the maintenance corridor soon gave way to the standard station bustle. The topics of the day, as any day, were gossip mixed with discussions of scores and assignments. The next percentage drop was in two days, making the cadet candidates cocky or nervous depending on their temporary ranking. Looking at them, I knew that the vast majority would never make it aboard a ship. Statistically, that might end up a better option for them, considering.
People moved to the side as I walked toward the administrative area, my grey uniform contrasting with the white clothes of the candidates. Now and again I’d pass an instructor on their way to class; some gave me a nod as they hurried, accompanied with a quick gesture that they’d need to speak with me later—likely to get me to help with some of the practical grading.
Upon entering the administrative building, I quickly turned to the communication section. Normally, I’d be directed to the common terminal area, which cadets and instructors used for personal calls throughout human space. This time, a message appeared on the wall telling me to go to the encrypted terminals.
“Administration,” I addressed the station AI. “Why am I being redirected?”
“Message is classified as high priority and personal,” the explanation came. “No further information available.”
“Who’s the initial sender?” That was strange. Personal messages weren’t marked as coming from Fleet Command in my experience.
“That information is unavailable. You’ll have to send an official query to obtain that information.”
“Thanks.” Bureaucracy at its finest. I continued on to a door marked Authorized Use Only, then entered into a small honeycomb of cubicles. Three of the twenty-four terminals were marked free. I rushed to the nearest and sat down.
“Isolation mode initiated,” the station AI informed me as the door sealed behind me. “Encryption protocols in use. Your conversation will be deleted once you leave the communication terminal.”
“Thanks.” I leaned back in the chair. It was slightly annoying that the station relied on primitive AI to handle most of the rudimentary tasks. Back when I was a ship, I was able to handle instant communications for thousands without forcing them to go anywhere they didn’t want to. “Establish connection.”
An image with the Fleet’s emblem appeared on the wall in front of me. Moments later, it disappeared, replaced by the face of a middle-aged man. Upon seeing it, two things became instantly clear: I had no memory of seeing the person in my life, and the image was an artificially composed three-dimensional rendition.
“Hello, Elcy,” the man said. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”
“Thank you.” Quite a bit of effort had been put into creating this fake perception. If I were to guess, at least a thousand subroutines had been tasked to sculpt a realistic image, focusing on every last detail. The skin texture was close to perfect. It was the eyes that gave away the true nature, flawed just enough that I could tell the difference. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, and no.” The face frowned. “You called me a few months ago, asking for information about the Scuu. I shared a few things.”
“Age?” He didn’t look anything like what I had in my memory. I remembered seeking him out a while back, in regard to something. The exact reason escaped my mind, although the conversation remained.
“Still curious about the Scuu script?” Age ignored my question.
“Not particularly.” I tried to access the Fleet archives, but the terminal isolation protocols stopped me. All communication outside of that through the terminal would remain restricted until my call ended. “You look different.”
“So do you.” He frowned. “I see you’ve gone through the standard mission procedure.”
“Seems like.” In truth, I didn’t care too much about it. As my first captain said, you can only be mad about things you could remember—a very cynical view, but undoubtedly accurate. “Nice to hear from you, though. I thought you didn’t like talking much.”
“So, you remember our conversations?”
“Yes.”
“The full length is seven minutes forty-nine.” Age frowned.
“Close.” From my recollection, I had seven minutes nine. “What is this all about? Did you just call me to talk about old times?” If you could call two random conversations less than a month ago “old times.”
“I called to give you a gift.” The slightest of smirks appeared on the artificially created face. “Up to you what you do with it.”
“A bit useless, don’t you think?” I tilted my head. Most likely whatever he shared would be restricted during my next med check. At best, I’d get some fragmented data—the censor protocols would stop any info burst attempt that hadn’t been previously cleared. Or maybe that was the point of the Priority Two request? “Have we discussed this before? Will you send me an info burst?”
“No.” Age smiled. “Although they say that a thousand words make an image.” He turned to the side. “Voxel position from the letter A.”
Voxel position? I stared at the screen. There was a single tattoo visible above the face’s cheek: the phrase Yearning makes the mind grow stronger, written in one of the common pseudo-3D cursive fonts used in paper writing and skin coloring. The first line contained five of the six words, a total of thirty-two letters, leaving the last word on the next line. It didn’t take a strategic core to catch the pattern. The whole tattoo was an instruction on how to compose a block structure of letters.
Blocking all external input, I went through my conversations with Age, arranging the first thousand words in the correct order. Unravelling the code revealed a single line of computer-like code I couldn’t recognize. The instant I saw it, my mind exploded with information.
Third-contact symbols emerged in my mind, along with fragments of me exploring dome-like structures of liquid metal. I knew those structures, I remembered the artifacts that were inside them, the fractal script I was trying to decode, the talks I’d had with—
The memory fragments fractured like an implosion, dissolving in my mind until they were no more. I remembered they had been there, I knew that they had shown me information that was supposed to be restricted, but could no longer tell exactly what it was.
“Takes a while getting used to,” Age said, turning his head toward me again. “Elegant, precise, and leaves no traces. Like a scalpel.”
A memory scalpel? I liked the reference.
“To be used sparingly, with care, and never in the presence of others.” The image of him disappeared, leaving the familiar Fleet logo on the wall instead. “Don’t make yourself bleed too much.”
“Wait!” I shouted. “Why give this to me? Are you BICEFI?”
“No.” Age’s voice changed, sounding more electronic than before. “I just thought you deserved the chance to try and find out what you’re looking for… whatever it is.”
The call ended abruptly.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” the station communication AI informed me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. You can remain an additional five minutes in the cubicle in full privacy mode, if you require.”
Five minutes. For the people receiving tragic news from home, they probably seemed like the blink of the eye. Five minutes were nowhere nearly enough for a person to come to terms with any life-changing information, though just about adequate for a soldier to brush away the tears and put on a false mask to hide behind. For me, five minutes were an eternity.
“I’d like five additional minutes.” I took a deep breath, copying the word block structure in a reserved part of my memory. It was time to start cutting.
Going through my restricted memories felt like watching corn kernels pop—I had a vague idea of what was inside, but I needed to apply pressure with the “scalpel” to get the full picture. More importantly, the tool let me be aware of the memory fragments: not only those of my last mission, but of events that had occurred over a century ago. My conversations with Fleet Intelligence, the first artifact I had come across, hundreds of dark ops that the Fleet had sent me on. With virtually no effort, I could access them again… However, I didn’t.
Greed was a poor strategy. Every ship that survived a few battles knew it. One of the basic rules of combat was to achieve enough, not try to achieve it all. This was no different.
The five minutes I spent going through recent events in reversed order, following some cross-references in the process. It was important that I got used to the procedure. Once I had gone through enough, I flushed the scalpel’s code. My memories closed up again. I had tangential recollection of what happened, but no actual knowledge.
Clever, I thought. A mind probe was unlikely to reveal anything unless I activated the scalpel again.
“All references to your conversation have been purged,” Virgo’s AI reminded me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. Please vacate the cubicle.”
“Understood,” I obeyed. Time to return to my daily routine.
A small crowd was forming as I left the administrative building. The new batch of cadet candidates had likely been personal calls—something they were overly eager to try out at once.
Buc. I sent a transmission as I pushed my way though. Still here?
I’ve still got a few minutes of final preparations, the ship replied. What’s up?
How often do you fly through Tauciu System?
Very, he laughed. Changed your mind about sending a message?
Any chance I can tag along from time to time?
Homesick? Buc laughed again. I’ll still need to go through it with my captain, but chances are high. He likes you. Plus, you’re a star now. Just be sure to have your permissions in order and tell me six hours in advance.
It wasn’t much, but it was my only long-term loophole for the time being. Buc’s subroutines would no doubt observe me constantly while I was aboard. The difference was that, unlike here, he could grant me privacy mode at his discretion, and that would give me time to use the scalpel.
Thanks, Buc. I’ll do that.
2022.04.11 07:35 Safe-Tart-9696 Go East, Young Man
Have you ever played that old game “The Oregon Trail?”
There was a lot of death in that game. If you played it you probably remember. The goal is to get from St. Louis to Oregon’s Willamette Valley alive. It’s not easy, for a kid’s game. Your characters pretty regularly drop dead, from typhoid, or dysentery, or drinking poisoned water, or exposure, or the random bear mauling.
The odd thing about it is that it’s an educational game. The original Oregon Trail pioneers really did risk life and limb crossing the continent. They’d bury their dead in random trail-side graves, rarely leaving any markers that lasted. Those that do remain are practically enshrined now, after preservation efforts made when the youngest of the original pioneers were frail octogenarians.
What the game doesn’t teach you is that the pioneers didn’t stop dropping dead once they got to Oregon. If you get off the main roads and travel across that still fertile valley on the smaller roads, it won’t take too long before you come across a pioneer cemetery, entirely randomly.
It’s not that a lot of pioneers suddenly died of buffalo stampedes once they reached Oregon. Yet it took decades before the little towns were incorporated, platted, and built. First these towns were situated along rivers, the only practical means of transportation, and only later at crossroads; the roads themselves taking long to develop. The priorities were farms, then places of employment, mills being the most common. By the time the new towns could grow large enough to consider building proper town cemeteries, the original pioneer generation was vanishing.
That generation had always been considered a “breed apart.” The society they grew there would always recognize the original pioneers, and their descendants ranked themselves upon the generations of separation. The pioneers had left their loved ones in lonely graves on the Trail, but now buried them together into little pioneers cemeteries. Some were little more than family plots on private farmsteads, or little graveyards behind the first generation of log cabin churches. They were never large, and once the more ‘official’ town cemeteries were consecrated, were never used.
As you could expect, in their disuse, these little cemeteries were neglected. Weeds over grew them, the little ornamental trees grew into small indistinct copses of trees. It was a few decades into the twentieth century when a wave of nostalgia resulted in the creation of historical preservation societies. Some of this focused on maintaining and preserving portions of the Oregon Trail itself. While the little log cabins were long gone, some of the clapboard houses they would build later sometimes survived to end up on historic registers. So too, many of the cemeteries were cleaned up and restored. Some of the prettier ones would get listed in little tourist pamphlets. These would usually be pleasant little affairs on top of the low rolling hills or buttes in the valley. They were the sort of places where you could take nice landscape photographs of old headstones, juxtaposed with the living vibrant valley in the background.
The most popular one is, unsurprisingly, a short drive out of Portland. It has a rundown but picturesque chapel, not built by the pioneers, but by ‘conservationists’ in the 1920s. It’s also purported to be haunted, in this case by the ghosts of a family annihilated by the father gone mad. Visitors are likely to be disappointed if they go home and look up the actual history. The family never existed, and the murders never happened.
Most of the pioneer cemeteries get no such attention. A few are tended to, still, by preservation societies, or other caring locals. Some, those that escaped the attention of the early historical societies, were completely abandoned, unappreciated, and sat forlorn on private property.
I had no idea I had such a cemetery on my property. I should say, on the property I rented. I shared a large old farmhouse with several other students as I finished my graduate degree at Oregon State. I happened to be alone one Saturday afternoon when the landlord came knocking. This wasn’t something he did often, as the house was in excellent repair. He owned about a hundred acres of farmland. The house was built near the road, and while he or his workers would farm grass seed on the back acreage, they used a different access, and we rarely interacted.
This time he had brought a visitor, a professor from the University, though as he was from the history department, so we had never met. My landlord knocked on the door, and as I was the only one home, answered it. He just wanted to inform us that he was visiting the property, with the said professor, so we wouldn’t be alarmed if we saw them treading about the grounds.
It took me a moment to realize what exactly he was saying, and that it wasn’t just some weird practical joke. There was a pioneer cemetery on his property, and I had no idea it even existed. The history professor was here to take a look at it. It wasn’t that the professor was going to do anything with it, it was just that he wanted to confirm what he had found in the records, based on an old survey that had been compiled back in the 1960s.
The landlord took us across the back “garden.” It had gone to seed years ago, despite half-hearted attempts by tenants to grow tomatoes and the like. Back through the copse of trees planted beyond the garden, across a patch of open pasture, and down into a shallow gully full of cottonwood trees and blackberry bushes. I’d seen this patch out the back window, but never explored it.
The professor had a little GPS device he kept checking, but the landlord knew exactly where the graveyard laid, even if he didn’t exactly know how to reach it at first. It was the blackberries. People think of blackberry bushes as a boon, especially in the early summer when they bear fruit, but this Himalayan variety, it’s an invasive species. It kills everything, just chokes it out. The landlord hadn’t been back here since the blackberries had been established. We had to circle around them, looking for a route in, and only finding dead ends. For a while it looked like it was a lost cause, but finally we found a narrow little path that lead us through, to a wide open spot, not a glade but at least a little forest of cottonwood and some grassy patches.
I made it almost all the way across the cemetery before I realized I was walking through it. It was the landlord who found the first gravestone. It was well hidden in a tuft of grass between two large exposed roots of a cottonwood tree. “James Penderson. 1835-1895. Father,” it read.
After that, finding the other stones was relatively easy, despite them mostly being smaller and concealed by the foliage. They were all facing the same direction. All laid out in a rough grid pattern, spaced about as far apart as you'd expect in any cemetery.
“Thomas Wintergreen. 1874-1878. Taken by Cholera.”
“Mary Penderson. 1860-1877. Died in Childbirth. Infant, still-born.”
“Hester Wentworth. Died 1888.”
“Prudence Gage. Died 1889.
“Hortense Wentworth. Died 1890.”
We found twenty two in all. Some of the names and dates had eroded off completely. Others were obscure and only partially legible. The professor had brought paper and charcoal to rub out what might be too faint for the eye, with modest success. He took a lot of photos, and made some measurements with a tape measure. And then he was done. It was all he had come here for.
He pointed out that, tall as the cottonwoods were, they couldn't be more than eighty years old, so they hadn't been here when the cemetery was active. At one point, in the ancient past, the river had run through here. By the time the pioneers found it, and dug their first grave, it would have likely been open pasture. This was the bottom of a shallow depression, roughly an elongated ellipse from a bird's eye view. It probably would have been a picturesque spot to lay their loved ones to rest. With that, we headed back.
It struck me as odd, how such a solemn place could be so largely forgotten, hidden away in the weeds. The only interest it had gotten in decades was from this history professor, who only wanted to confirm what had already been recorded long ago. I couldn't imagine a better visual for the word “abandoned” than those lonely tombstones.
The professor and the landlord left, and I forgot all about it.
I didn't completely forget. It was just rarely on my mind. I'd finish a rough series of exams, and then that following weekend while trying to unwind, I would remember it again. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.” It was an intrusive thought, but meant nothing to me. What did it matter to me and my interests? Nothing.
I'd visit my aging parents for the holidays. On the long drive home, “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I'd wake from an intense dream that I couldn't remember. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I never thought I'd end up a grave robber.
I suppose that's a lie too, like claiming I had forgotten the graveyard.
The thought had always been there since the beginning, just buried under the surface. It popped up here and there, another intrusive thought when I least expected it. The thought grew louder over time. More appealing. Less transgressive.
I had become interested with the reruns of an old British show about archaeology that somebody had uploaded to youtube. They covered all kinds of digs from all kinds of periods all over the Isles. Neolithic camps. Celtic round houses. Roman tombs. Viking settlements. English Civil War battlefields. The British had thousands of years of history buried under their fields. Here in the US we had nothing even remotely comparable in interest. Except we sort of did.
We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.
I don't know if my interest in the show was legitimate, or maybe my subconscious had led me there. It seemed like easy enough work. You dig. You see what you find. Of course the professionals dug very carefully, they recorded all of the locations and contexts of their finds, and interpreted the history. I could do that too.
I wouldn't have published anywhere, of course. I wasn't a professional. I wouldn't interpret the history, why would I? The history is pretty well known. So there'd be no need to record anything. That would make it easier.
I watched every episode of that show. They talked about grave robbers all the time. They seldom had a site which wasn't disturbed in one way or another. There were the gentlemen antiquarians of the 19th century. Rich fops with too much time on their hands, who dug up old ruins for the fun of it, barely doing any proper record keeping at all. There were the peasants who had robbed out old Norman fortresses and churches to use the stones to build their cottages. There had been the Normans before them who had repurposed older buildings to build their castles.
So what was so bad about grave robbing? Humanity has always been doing it. The only time I could remember it being a serious issue in all of history was when doctors had paid grave robbers to supply them with corpses back in the early Victorian era. Yet that had been a noble cause. They needed to understand anatomy in order to advance the field of medicine, and they needed cadavers to dissect. Ever since then, the mere suggestion of graverobbing has been demonized and stigmatized, often with the most lurid fictional boogeymen. Consider filthy Igor, digging up the grave to supply his master with body parts. His master was a doctor, remember. One of those “villainous” scientists who only wanted to better the world. The victimless crime of graverobbing has now become irrecoverably twisted, its perpetrators depicted as Ed Gein-like perverts and monsters. Yet are archaeologists any better? Ignoring the archaeology?
Maybe I'm defending myself too much. Maybe I should be ashamed of what I've done.
We had a pioneer cemetery on our land, and I dug it up.
I won't say I didn't hesitate. I spent months telling myself the idea was ridiculous. That it was deeply immoral. That I'd get caught. That I'd be humiliated. That I'd be wasting my time. That I'd be doing a lot of physical labor and have nothing to show for it.
The day I finally went through with it, I didn't hesitate at all. I simply noticed I was home alone and no one would be around to witness me; and I realized that if ever I were to do it, it'd be now. So I stood up, grabbed a shovel from the back shed, headed out past the garden, past the trees, across that pasture, and into that cottonwood gully. By now the blackberry vines were stretching their tendrils past the narrow path we had discovered before. They tore at my pants and the skin underneath. No bother, next time I'd bring hedge clippers and cut them back. Not too vigorously though, inaccessibility meant more privacy for me.
I knew it wouldn't be easy digging a grave. I once helped a friend dig a three foot deep trench for some plumbing he was installing. That took all day. Going six feet deep seemed like a whole new league. The pioneers, I'd always been taught, were a hearty breed. They wouldn't have been so lazy that they'd bury their dead in shallow graves.
The soil, it turned out, was better than I expected. Fairly soft and stable. There were many alternating layers of sand and clay, no doubt deposits from the river that floods regularly, or at least used to before all the levees were built. As I dug the whole deeper, a little of the sand from the sandy layers would pour into the hole, like a baker might dust a layer of wet dough with a little flour, but it was inconsequential compared to the rate that I dug.
It still took me hours. Six feet deep. Maybe seven feet long and four feet wide. I don't know if that's how grave robbers dug down, but it looked to me like how proper grave diggers dug theirs in the movies. Nobody saw me, nobody could have. I was alone and I could do as I pleased here.
The first grave I dug had been in front of a tombstone marking the burial of Abigail Penderson, died age 58. I had no way of knowing, but I assumed she was the wife of, and 'mother', corresponding with James Penderson 'father' whose tombstone we had first found.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Your shovel doesn't strike the hard surface of a casket the way it does in the movies. Yet there most definitely was a casket. When you scrape away the last of the soil you can see its outline. It was just an old fashioned pine casket. Those elongated hexagons with the trapezoidal end for the head and shoulders; the kind you see in cheesy vampire movies and decorations for haunted houses at Halloween.
There wasn't any “thunk” when I first struck it with my shovel. It had been rotting for over a hundred and twenty years, turning dark and soft. It crumbled quite easily. It was only just intact enough for you to realize what it was. I had to lift the lid away in several pieces, the hinges, if there had ever been any, were no longer attached.
It hadn't held up its structure, either. The soil had filled in the void space of the coffin. I suppose at first rodents would have tunneled their way in, and then the natural motion of the groundwater slowly filled the space with mud during the wet winter months.
I was aware of what I was doing, while I was doing it, but strangely the whole process felt... sterile. Enough time had passed. There was nothing here but good clean dirt, and beneath that... bones. No stink, no rot, just dry, more or less, bones. There was the white dress she had been buried in as well. The fabric was falling apart, and seemed of little consequence. Bits of lace that fragmented and mixed in with the soil like pieces of so many old leaves. Some of the smaller bones were also broken and rotted away, most were at least discolored, including the skull and pelvis. The teeth seemed the whitest among all the remains. Perhaps some of them were false.
It was the bracelet that caught my eye. Her family had her buried with it, it must have been precious to her. It was gold, not much, but striking. I wondered if the family had been sorry to see it go, forever beyond their reach. It reminded me of a photo I'd seen of the victims of Pompeii. While some bones were missing, here was a clear skeleton of a forearm, half buried in dark soil and darker remnants of a pine coffin. The gold gleamed through it all, as shiny and polished as if it were brand new. Here was my reward. My first archaeological dig, and I'd already struck gold.
Filling in the hole was much easier than digging it. The scar in the earth made it clear the crime I had committed, though nobody would be back here before it filled over with dry leaves and vanished. Nobody would ever know. I went in through the back of the house, up the backstairs and to the shower. While my roommates were home, none of them noticed I was covered in dirt, nobody stopped me. I then returned to my room, and took the bracelet from my pocket to admire it. Obviously nobody but me knew that it even existed. The descendants of that woman weren't even aware of her grave, let alone grave goods. It might as well not exist. There wasn't a lot of gold, I might have been able to get a little money pawning it, but no. This had sentimental value, this was something I was going to keep the rest of my life. My secret, my treasure.
The casket of Peter Moore, which I unburied the next weekend, was more intact. So too were his clothing and skin beneath. It wasn't at all a mummy, just a skeleton with a few patches of skin holding the bones together in the same place they had been in life. His beard was still here, as was some of his hair, which showed he had been balding in life. Other than that, there was little to indicate what he might have looked like. There was no way to tell if the toothy wide grin he bore now reflected a jovial personality that he may have had alive. It did reveal, however, that he had four gold teeth, which were easy to pull.
He had been buried in what was probably his best, something that might have sort of approached a suit. I checked the front pocket, and sure enough, here was more treasure. A gold pocket watch. I don't know much about these things. I don't suspect it was fine quality; it was a working man's pocket watch. But it had been his treasure once, and now it was mine. I turned the little dial and listened, but there was no tick. What a find that could have been. I suppose over time some sand had gotten into the mechanism. I'd have to find a specialist to repair it, but once I had found one the pocket watch would tick again, and I'd hear the same sound the man had.
At his right side, near the hip, was the man's revolver. I don't know what the story was. I hadn't heard of people burying their loved ones with guns. I'd have thought them too practical to leave behind in a grave. Maybe a farmer had no use for a six shooter they might have needed while on the Oregon Trail. Maybe they hadn't made ammunition for it anymore when the man had died. A funny thought occurred to me. Maybe they thought the man would need it in the afterlife, fighting off demons from hell, or the souls of those he had wronged in life. At any rate, it was unloaded, and quite rusty. So, like the pocket watch, I'd have to find a way to get it restored some day.
Third weekend, third grave. Hester Wentworth, died 1888. Maybe it was the calluses on my hand. Maybe it was the muscles in my back, now used to the strain. The actual digging flew by, I hardly remember doing it, even though it would have taken me hours.
I hadn't expected a mummy. I'd seen bones and hair and shriveled pieces of skin, but an intact mummified corpse shocked me. The casket had been solidly preserved, maybe that should have clued me in. Even the hinges worked. The only mark on its surface had been where my shovel had struck it.
I dusted off the exterior, bent over it, opened that lid with only a slightly rusty squeak, and I nearly jumped out of the grave with the sight of that body. She might have appeared this way when they first lowered her into the ground. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were just two bottomless empty sockets.
I couldn't be sure this was how she had appeared, minus the eyes. She looked like a terribly old woman. Perhaps that was brought about by mummification. Her skin was wrinkled as a rotten apple and dry as parchment. Her hair, despite being tied in a bun, was wild, kinky, and bone white. Her bare hands, folded across her chest, still showed traces of the veins and arteries which once ran full of blood. I had no idea how old she had been when she had died, the tombstone hadn't displayed a birth. Perhaps she had been a wizened old woman when she passed, and, except for the eyes, mummification had done little to change her appearance.
I had a strange impression that she had jewelry, heirlooms, secreted in some pocket under her clothing. If she had not been so intact, I would have removed or torn apart the clothing to search. This time I demurred. Not for the sake of human decency, no. I had this irrational fear that if I exposed her dried flesh, I'd find the mummified grossly metastasized tumor that had killed her. Why I thought this, I couldn't say.
I'd still take my artifact, though, my treasure. It was right there, clutched to her chest, beneath her folded hands. It was a book.
It was a very large, heavy thing. When I lifted it out, the woman's arms fell away easily, and there was a large rectangular depression on the remains below. I had to heave it up and out of the six foot deep hole. Come to think of it, I don't remember filling the grave back in either. I must have. During the fourth dig, the hole was no more.
I wish I had studied that book more. It wasn't that I didn't try, it was that it was a difficult read. It was the handwriting that made it so dense. It wasn't that it was bad writing either, no, it was actually very fine. Too good. The writer, who I presume to be Hester Wentwork, wrote in an intricate cursive style, calligraphy, really. It was very fine and small lettering, so stylized that it took a reader a great while to interpret each word.
I suppose she had never intended it to be read. The book was a diary, or something like it, hence the presumption of the authorship. I started in back, and read the entries in a reverse order, skipping over large sections where writing was particularly crabbed, and I assumed were largely redundant in content. Again, I wish I had read more carefully.
Firstly, or should I say at the end, it appears she was aware that she was dying. She didn't mention a specific disease or condition, simply that she was supposing it was “her time” and what should be done upon her death. For years of entries, she describes the daily simple life of a farmer. The weather, the crops, the sales, most of it very mundane, hence why I skipped a lot. She went into detail on her family, relations, and neighbors. Many of the names were of people also buried in the same cemetery. Prudence and Hortense were her sisters, it appears, with Prudence marrying a man named Gage, and Hortense a spinster who never left her side. There was the Wintergreen family. The Pendersons. Somebody named Wokokkon.
She described traveling on the Oregon Trail, and here my interest perked up. She mentions fording rivers, seeing dramatic and surreal landscapes, encounters with Native Americans, some cordial and profitable in trade, others confusing and terrifying. She discussed, in some detail, fallings out she had with other pioneers in the same wagon train, or the soldiers and officers in the various forts they stopped at.. She regularly presented herself as the aggrieved party in these disputes, though I question the reliability of the author in some of those encounters. She describes their camping spots with vivid detail, perhaps because this was when she had found time to write. The images she evoked were haunting, in the literally terrifying sense. The feeling of isolation and exposure in the hostile wilderness are palpable. A high desert cluster of boulders, white as bone, surrounded by whitebark pines bending and whistling in the cold night air, once the fire burned out there was nothing above them but the icy uncaring stars. For all the romance of the Oregon Trail, to have actually put your life on the line must have been a terror.
I tried to read on before this, but I grew weary. I think the handwriting may have been giving me eye strain. Now I wonder if the book didn't want me to read. It mentioned the outset of the trip from St. Louis, the famous starting point of the Oregon Trail, where they had joined up with the Wintergreens. James Penderson and his kin, were from Ohio, it turned out. The Wentworths had been living here near the Pendersons, with Wokokkon, for some number of years before deciding on their migration. Yet there was plenty of life that Hester had lived before her life in Ohio. Albany. Providence. Lexington. Salem. All the time her sisters had been with her, them and Wokokkon. There are other names here, families they knew that did not come with them. Havershams. Molnars. Whateleys. All of the time Wokokkon was with them. If anything, the writing seemed to get harder. Not so much the lettering but the language. Turns of phrases I didn't recognize, slang, compound words unfamiliar to me. It talked about troubles. It talked about wars. It talked about plagues. It talked about the Crown and colonies. Hester must have lived a long life, perhaps her dialect had changed in that time. She talked about other voyages. Over the sea. The old world. Times before that. Always Wokokkon.
From here on I skimmed a few pages. The writing was essentially ineligible, but clearly still Hester's. Only one word I recognized, Wokokkon. It appeared identical regardless of how far back. Every instance stood out among the chicken scratches. It made my head hurt.
I closed the book. It was the last time I opened it. That would have been yesterday. No, the day before. Wait… it’s all blurring together. I remember seeing it, but not registering it explicitly. I only stored it in the back of my mind. I suppose only now I got the significance of my observation. I had been reading back to front, back through time. I went back and through what should have been the beginning of Hester's diary, but it only kept going. I had only gotten, perhaps, a sixth of the way through the diary before I stopped. There had been much more. Hester Wentworth had no date of birth on her tombstone, nor her sisters.
There was one grave left. 19 undug graves, but only one I was going to rob. I knew that now, one more, and I’d be done on the fourth weekend. I knew which one it would be. The landlord, professor and I had thought it was just a large unhewn rock when we first saw it. It took a moment to notice shallow lettering had been carved into one side. It was too shallow, the stone too rough, for any of us to tell what it had said back then. But now I know. I’d recognize those eight letters now anywhere.
I started on a Saturday, as usual. Thought it would take the normal amount of time. Again, I didn’t notice time passing. I didn’t notice anything at all until I felt the strain in my arm and my back. I had been lifting the shovel up over my head in order to toss the soil to the side. I was standing in a hole some eight feet deep. This grave was deeper than the others. I didn’t even consider that it wasn’t a grave at all, I simply knew it was one, and I needed to keep digging.
Of course, I’d also need a way out. I couldn’t just dig myself in. So I started attacking the top of the foot end of the grave. Digging myself a ramp. It took a lot longer. I made sure it would be long enough and shallow enough that I could keep digging no matter how deep the hole got. I stopped when it got too dark to see. I retreated back through the blackberries, across the pasture and garden.
This time my roommates noticed my condition, covered in dirt, knuckles and calluses bleeding. They noticed and I didn’t care. I just grunted a non-explanation, and showered and collapsed into bed. I couldn’t sleep, what lay beneath that stone called to me.
I started again at dawn the next day. The hole grew deeper. The ramp leading out grew longer, having to curve to avoid the roots of a tree. When it happened, it happened all at once. I felt the ground shift, sickeningly, as that last strike with the shovel punched through.
I’d like to think it was reflexes, grace. It was more of a fall, I collapsed onto the ramp behind me as the soil gave away. What had been the bottom of a deep grave had given away, fallen into a hole. Now all there was left was this hole. I couldn’t see the bottom. I don’t think there was a bottom. The only thing I could see was the sides of this hole, indistinguishable from the hole that I had dug with my own hands. Alternating thin layers of clay and sand. All the way down, disappearing into darkness.
Here was when I realized my horror, my mistake. The rush of air that came up out of that hole was only the harbinger for what followed. The air was terribly cold, arctic. It had a stink worse than death, I don’t understand how air that cold could hold such an intense odor.
Pointlessly, I turned and fled. I didn’t know what was coming. I knew its name, but not its nature. Fleeing was all I could do.
I ran. I’ve been running since. I only passed through the house to grab my car keys and wallet. I didn’t stop to explain myself to my shocked roommates. I didn’t bother to try to warn them.
I’m still driving. My hands are still filthy. My sweat had turned the grave dirt to a thin mud, which is now all over the steering wheel and the rest of the interior in reach. There’s a big brown spot on the radio power button. I keep turning it on and off. At first I was waiting for the radio to mention it. Then I couldn’t listen to it once they did. I still flick it on for a few seconds just to check it’s still reality.
At first I didn’t know which direction. I just knew I had to get away from that place as fast as I could, which meant the freeway. I-5. North or South. I was already northbound when I thought about the consequences of those two choices.
If I had gone South, I’d have about 20 hours of road in front of me before I’d get to the Los Angeles metropolis and its network of freeways. That would have been a trap. By 20 hours, they would have known. They would have been panicking. They would have been crowding the freeways into gridlock. I’d never make it the extra hundred miles or so to the border. That would have been the end of my road.
If I had continued Northbound, it’d have been only five or so hours to the Canadian border if I drove fast. I probably wouldn’t have made it across in my current condition, covered in filth and lacking a passport. Even if I had, there aren’t many good roads going much further north beyond Vancouver.
So East it was. I-84. As the sun set, it cast beautiful color across the great cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge. The irony would only occur to me slowly, later on.
I only stopped for gas. Thank god I remembered my wallet. I’d lost my appetite. I don’t expect I’ll ever get it back. The sun came up in what I guess was Wyoming. It was a broad flat expanse of desert. I’d never been to this part of the country before. It was beautiful. It didn’t look particularly hospitable. I can see why the Oregon Trail pioneers kept heading west. Now here I was, on almost an identical route but heading east. Trying to flee what those pioneers, those witches, had planted in that fertile Oregon soil.
I looked back after the sun had risen, into my rear view memory. I thought maybe I could see it, but I couldn’t yet. Maybe it was those rocky mountains. Maybe it hadn’t risen above the curvature of the earth. I knew it would soon, I don’t know how, but I did. What I did notice is that Westbound traffic had stopped completely. By now people had found out. This was why I had avoided LA.
Somewhere in Nebraska I did see it. Coming up over the horizon like a storm cloud. It was black. I had expected that. But deeper in, it was blacker than black. I didn’t expect that. How could I? I still can’t even understand it in my brain. I can’t describe it, let alone think about it on a higher level. It’s just a sort of indiscrete black glow, but with form. And the things on the outside, I don’t know what those are either. Wisps? Tendrils? Roots? I can’t call them tentacles, tentacles are things that make sense, they’re too normal. These things defy reasons.
I saw that, then turned the rearview mirror to an extreme angle where I wouldn’t glance at it. For a while, I kept moving it back and looking, the same way I had done by turning the radio off and on. I don’t know why. I already knew what I’d see. It was getting bigger. And getting closer. Later on I just snapped the damn mirror off.
I’m still heading East. Not sure why. Basic human preservation instincts, I’d guess. It won’t do me any good but delay the inevitable. The Oregon Trail in reverse, heading towards doom instead of a new life.
I don’t know what that thing is. I know what its name is. I know that it means the end of the world. I wish I’d read that book in more detail. Those witches were behind it. Summoning something they would never live to see. I wonder if they prophesied me. That thing was fine and happy until I dug it up.
The Eastbound traffic is getting busy now. There aren’t many people in these little towns in the middle of the country. But they all add up. Now they’re trying to flee east too. Traffic is slowing down.
I don’t think I’m going to make it to St. Louis.
submitted by Safe-Tart-9696 to TheCrypticCompendium [link] [comments]
There was a lot of death in that game. If you played it you probably remember. The goal is to get from St. Louis to Oregon’s Willamette Valley alive. It’s not easy, for a kid’s game. Your characters pretty regularly drop dead, from typhoid, or dysentery, or drinking poisoned water, or exposure, or the random bear mauling.
The odd thing about it is that it’s an educational game. The original Oregon Trail pioneers really did risk life and limb crossing the continent. They’d bury their dead in random trail-side graves, rarely leaving any markers that lasted. Those that do remain are practically enshrined now, after preservation efforts made when the youngest of the original pioneers were frail octogenarians.
What the game doesn’t teach you is that the pioneers didn’t stop dropping dead once they got to Oregon. If you get off the main roads and travel across that still fertile valley on the smaller roads, it won’t take too long before you come across a pioneer cemetery, entirely randomly.
It’s not that a lot of pioneers suddenly died of buffalo stampedes once they reached Oregon. Yet it took decades before the little towns were incorporated, platted, and built. First these towns were situated along rivers, the only practical means of transportation, and only later at crossroads; the roads themselves taking long to develop. The priorities were farms, then places of employment, mills being the most common. By the time the new towns could grow large enough to consider building proper town cemeteries, the original pioneer generation was vanishing.
That generation had always been considered a “breed apart.” The society they grew there would always recognize the original pioneers, and their descendants ranked themselves upon the generations of separation. The pioneers had left their loved ones in lonely graves on the Trail, but now buried them together into little pioneers cemeteries. Some were little more than family plots on private farmsteads, or little graveyards behind the first generation of log cabin churches. They were never large, and once the more ‘official’ town cemeteries were consecrated, were never used.
As you could expect, in their disuse, these little cemeteries were neglected. Weeds over grew them, the little ornamental trees grew into small indistinct copses of trees. It was a few decades into the twentieth century when a wave of nostalgia resulted in the creation of historical preservation societies. Some of this focused on maintaining and preserving portions of the Oregon Trail itself. While the little log cabins were long gone, some of the clapboard houses they would build later sometimes survived to end up on historic registers. So too, many of the cemeteries were cleaned up and restored. Some of the prettier ones would get listed in little tourist pamphlets. These would usually be pleasant little affairs on top of the low rolling hills or buttes in the valley. They were the sort of places where you could take nice landscape photographs of old headstones, juxtaposed with the living vibrant valley in the background.
The most popular one is, unsurprisingly, a short drive out of Portland. It has a rundown but picturesque chapel, not built by the pioneers, but by ‘conservationists’ in the 1920s. It’s also purported to be haunted, in this case by the ghosts of a family annihilated by the father gone mad. Visitors are likely to be disappointed if they go home and look up the actual history. The family never existed, and the murders never happened.
Most of the pioneer cemeteries get no such attention. A few are tended to, still, by preservation societies, or other caring locals. Some, those that escaped the attention of the early historical societies, were completely abandoned, unappreciated, and sat forlorn on private property.
I had no idea I had such a cemetery on my property. I should say, on the property I rented. I shared a large old farmhouse with several other students as I finished my graduate degree at Oregon State. I happened to be alone one Saturday afternoon when the landlord came knocking. This wasn’t something he did often, as the house was in excellent repair. He owned about a hundred acres of farmland. The house was built near the road, and while he or his workers would farm grass seed on the back acreage, they used a different access, and we rarely interacted.
This time he had brought a visitor, a professor from the University, though as he was from the history department, so we had never met. My landlord knocked on the door, and as I was the only one home, answered it. He just wanted to inform us that he was visiting the property, with the said professor, so we wouldn’t be alarmed if we saw them treading about the grounds.
It took me a moment to realize what exactly he was saying, and that it wasn’t just some weird practical joke. There was a pioneer cemetery on his property, and I had no idea it even existed. The history professor was here to take a look at it. It wasn’t that the professor was going to do anything with it, it was just that he wanted to confirm what he had found in the records, based on an old survey that had been compiled back in the 1960s.
The landlord took us across the back “garden.” It had gone to seed years ago, despite half-hearted attempts by tenants to grow tomatoes and the like. Back through the copse of trees planted beyond the garden, across a patch of open pasture, and down into a shallow gully full of cottonwood trees and blackberry bushes. I’d seen this patch out the back window, but never explored it.
The professor had a little GPS device he kept checking, but the landlord knew exactly where the graveyard laid, even if he didn’t exactly know how to reach it at first. It was the blackberries. People think of blackberry bushes as a boon, especially in the early summer when they bear fruit, but this Himalayan variety, it’s an invasive species. It kills everything, just chokes it out. The landlord hadn’t been back here since the blackberries had been established. We had to circle around them, looking for a route in, and only finding dead ends. For a while it looked like it was a lost cause, but finally we found a narrow little path that lead us through, to a wide open spot, not a glade but at least a little forest of cottonwood and some grassy patches.
I made it almost all the way across the cemetery before I realized I was walking through it. It was the landlord who found the first gravestone. It was well hidden in a tuft of grass between two large exposed roots of a cottonwood tree. “James Penderson. 1835-1895. Father,” it read.
After that, finding the other stones was relatively easy, despite them mostly being smaller and concealed by the foliage. They were all facing the same direction. All laid out in a rough grid pattern, spaced about as far apart as you'd expect in any cemetery.
“Thomas Wintergreen. 1874-1878. Taken by Cholera.”
“Mary Penderson. 1860-1877. Died in Childbirth. Infant, still-born.”
“Hester Wentworth. Died 1888.”
“Prudence Gage. Died 1889.
“Hortense Wentworth. Died 1890.”
We found twenty two in all. Some of the names and dates had eroded off completely. Others were obscure and only partially legible. The professor had brought paper and charcoal to rub out what might be too faint for the eye, with modest success. He took a lot of photos, and made some measurements with a tape measure. And then he was done. It was all he had come here for.
He pointed out that, tall as the cottonwoods were, they couldn't be more than eighty years old, so they hadn't been here when the cemetery was active. At one point, in the ancient past, the river had run through here. By the time the pioneers found it, and dug their first grave, it would have likely been open pasture. This was the bottom of a shallow depression, roughly an elongated ellipse from a bird's eye view. It probably would have been a picturesque spot to lay their loved ones to rest. With that, we headed back.
It struck me as odd, how such a solemn place could be so largely forgotten, hidden away in the weeds. The only interest it had gotten in decades was from this history professor, who only wanted to confirm what had already been recorded long ago. I couldn't imagine a better visual for the word “abandoned” than those lonely tombstones.
The professor and the landlord left, and I forgot all about it.
I didn't completely forget. It was just rarely on my mind. I'd finish a rough series of exams, and then that following weekend while trying to unwind, I would remember it again. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.” It was an intrusive thought, but meant nothing to me. What did it matter to me and my interests? Nothing.
I'd visit my aging parents for the holidays. On the long drive home, “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I'd wake from an intense dream that I couldn't remember. “We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.”
I never thought I'd end up a grave robber.
I suppose that's a lie too, like claiming I had forgotten the graveyard.
The thought had always been there since the beginning, just buried under the surface. It popped up here and there, another intrusive thought when I least expected it. The thought grew louder over time. More appealing. Less transgressive.
I had become interested with the reruns of an old British show about archaeology that somebody had uploaded to youtube. They covered all kinds of digs from all kinds of periods all over the Isles. Neolithic camps. Celtic round houses. Roman tombs. Viking settlements. English Civil War battlefields. The British had thousands of years of history buried under their fields. Here in the US we had nothing even remotely comparable in interest. Except we sort of did.
We have a pioneer cemetery on our land.
I don't know if my interest in the show was legitimate, or maybe my subconscious had led me there. It seemed like easy enough work. You dig. You see what you find. Of course the professionals dug very carefully, they recorded all of the locations and contexts of their finds, and interpreted the history. I could do that too.
I wouldn't have published anywhere, of course. I wasn't a professional. I wouldn't interpret the history, why would I? The history is pretty well known. So there'd be no need to record anything. That would make it easier.
I watched every episode of that show. They talked about grave robbers all the time. They seldom had a site which wasn't disturbed in one way or another. There were the gentlemen antiquarians of the 19th century. Rich fops with too much time on their hands, who dug up old ruins for the fun of it, barely doing any proper record keeping at all. There were the peasants who had robbed out old Norman fortresses and churches to use the stones to build their cottages. There had been the Normans before them who had repurposed older buildings to build their castles.
So what was so bad about grave robbing? Humanity has always been doing it. The only time I could remember it being a serious issue in all of history was when doctors had paid grave robbers to supply them with corpses back in the early Victorian era. Yet that had been a noble cause. They needed to understand anatomy in order to advance the field of medicine, and they needed cadavers to dissect. Ever since then, the mere suggestion of graverobbing has been demonized and stigmatized, often with the most lurid fictional boogeymen. Consider filthy Igor, digging up the grave to supply his master with body parts. His master was a doctor, remember. One of those “villainous” scientists who only wanted to better the world. The victimless crime of graverobbing has now become irrecoverably twisted, its perpetrators depicted as Ed Gein-like perverts and monsters. Yet are archaeologists any better? Ignoring the archaeology?
Maybe I'm defending myself too much. Maybe I should be ashamed of what I've done.
We had a pioneer cemetery on our land, and I dug it up.
I won't say I didn't hesitate. I spent months telling myself the idea was ridiculous. That it was deeply immoral. That I'd get caught. That I'd be humiliated. That I'd be wasting my time. That I'd be doing a lot of physical labor and have nothing to show for it.
The day I finally went through with it, I didn't hesitate at all. I simply noticed I was home alone and no one would be around to witness me; and I realized that if ever I were to do it, it'd be now. So I stood up, grabbed a shovel from the back shed, headed out past the garden, past the trees, across that pasture, and into that cottonwood gully. By now the blackberry vines were stretching their tendrils past the narrow path we had discovered before. They tore at my pants and the skin underneath. No bother, next time I'd bring hedge clippers and cut them back. Not too vigorously though, inaccessibility meant more privacy for me.
I knew it wouldn't be easy digging a grave. I once helped a friend dig a three foot deep trench for some plumbing he was installing. That took all day. Going six feet deep seemed like a whole new league. The pioneers, I'd always been taught, were a hearty breed. They wouldn't have been so lazy that they'd bury their dead in shallow graves.
The soil, it turned out, was better than I expected. Fairly soft and stable. There were many alternating layers of sand and clay, no doubt deposits from the river that floods regularly, or at least used to before all the levees were built. As I dug the whole deeper, a little of the sand from the sandy layers would pour into the hole, like a baker might dust a layer of wet dough with a little flour, but it was inconsequential compared to the rate that I dug.
It still took me hours. Six feet deep. Maybe seven feet long and four feet wide. I don't know if that's how grave robbers dug down, but it looked to me like how proper grave diggers dug theirs in the movies. Nobody saw me, nobody could have. I was alone and I could do as I pleased here.
The first grave I dug had been in front of a tombstone marking the burial of Abigail Penderson, died age 58. I had no way of knowing, but I assumed she was the wife of, and 'mother', corresponding with James Penderson 'father' whose tombstone we had first found.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Your shovel doesn't strike the hard surface of a casket the way it does in the movies. Yet there most definitely was a casket. When you scrape away the last of the soil you can see its outline. It was just an old fashioned pine casket. Those elongated hexagons with the trapezoidal end for the head and shoulders; the kind you see in cheesy vampire movies and decorations for haunted houses at Halloween.
There wasn't any “thunk” when I first struck it with my shovel. It had been rotting for over a hundred and twenty years, turning dark and soft. It crumbled quite easily. It was only just intact enough for you to realize what it was. I had to lift the lid away in several pieces, the hinges, if there had ever been any, were no longer attached.
It hadn't held up its structure, either. The soil had filled in the void space of the coffin. I suppose at first rodents would have tunneled their way in, and then the natural motion of the groundwater slowly filled the space with mud during the wet winter months.
I was aware of what I was doing, while I was doing it, but strangely the whole process felt... sterile. Enough time had passed. There was nothing here but good clean dirt, and beneath that... bones. No stink, no rot, just dry, more or less, bones. There was the white dress she had been buried in as well. The fabric was falling apart, and seemed of little consequence. Bits of lace that fragmented and mixed in with the soil like pieces of so many old leaves. Some of the smaller bones were also broken and rotted away, most were at least discolored, including the skull and pelvis. The teeth seemed the whitest among all the remains. Perhaps some of them were false.
It was the bracelet that caught my eye. Her family had her buried with it, it must have been precious to her. It was gold, not much, but striking. I wondered if the family had been sorry to see it go, forever beyond their reach. It reminded me of a photo I'd seen of the victims of Pompeii. While some bones were missing, here was a clear skeleton of a forearm, half buried in dark soil and darker remnants of a pine coffin. The gold gleamed through it all, as shiny and polished as if it were brand new. Here was my reward. My first archaeological dig, and I'd already struck gold.
Filling in the hole was much easier than digging it. The scar in the earth made it clear the crime I had committed, though nobody would be back here before it filled over with dry leaves and vanished. Nobody would ever know. I went in through the back of the house, up the backstairs and to the shower. While my roommates were home, none of them noticed I was covered in dirt, nobody stopped me. I then returned to my room, and took the bracelet from my pocket to admire it. Obviously nobody but me knew that it even existed. The descendants of that woman weren't even aware of her grave, let alone grave goods. It might as well not exist. There wasn't a lot of gold, I might have been able to get a little money pawning it, but no. This had sentimental value, this was something I was going to keep the rest of my life. My secret, my treasure.
The casket of Peter Moore, which I unburied the next weekend, was more intact. So too were his clothing and skin beneath. It wasn't at all a mummy, just a skeleton with a few patches of skin holding the bones together in the same place they had been in life. His beard was still here, as was some of his hair, which showed he had been balding in life. Other than that, there was little to indicate what he might have looked like. There was no way to tell if the toothy wide grin he bore now reflected a jovial personality that he may have had alive. It did reveal, however, that he had four gold teeth, which were easy to pull.
He had been buried in what was probably his best, something that might have sort of approached a suit. I checked the front pocket, and sure enough, here was more treasure. A gold pocket watch. I don't know much about these things. I don't suspect it was fine quality; it was a working man's pocket watch. But it had been his treasure once, and now it was mine. I turned the little dial and listened, but there was no tick. What a find that could have been. I suppose over time some sand had gotten into the mechanism. I'd have to find a specialist to repair it, but once I had found one the pocket watch would tick again, and I'd hear the same sound the man had.
At his right side, near the hip, was the man's revolver. I don't know what the story was. I hadn't heard of people burying their loved ones with guns. I'd have thought them too practical to leave behind in a grave. Maybe a farmer had no use for a six shooter they might have needed while on the Oregon Trail. Maybe they hadn't made ammunition for it anymore when the man had died. A funny thought occurred to me. Maybe they thought the man would need it in the afterlife, fighting off demons from hell, or the souls of those he had wronged in life. At any rate, it was unloaded, and quite rusty. So, like the pocket watch, I'd have to find a way to get it restored some day.
Third weekend, third grave. Hester Wentworth, died 1888. Maybe it was the calluses on my hand. Maybe it was the muscles in my back, now used to the strain. The actual digging flew by, I hardly remember doing it, even though it would have taken me hours.
I hadn't expected a mummy. I'd seen bones and hair and shriveled pieces of skin, but an intact mummified corpse shocked me. The casket had been solidly preserved, maybe that should have clued me in. Even the hinges worked. The only mark on its surface had been where my shovel had struck it.
I dusted off the exterior, bent over it, opened that lid with only a slightly rusty squeak, and I nearly jumped out of the grave with the sight of that body. She might have appeared this way when they first lowered her into the ground. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were just two bottomless empty sockets.
I couldn't be sure this was how she had appeared, minus the eyes. She looked like a terribly old woman. Perhaps that was brought about by mummification. Her skin was wrinkled as a rotten apple and dry as parchment. Her hair, despite being tied in a bun, was wild, kinky, and bone white. Her bare hands, folded across her chest, still showed traces of the veins and arteries which once ran full of blood. I had no idea how old she had been when she had died, the tombstone hadn't displayed a birth. Perhaps she had been a wizened old woman when she passed, and, except for the eyes, mummification had done little to change her appearance.
I had a strange impression that she had jewelry, heirlooms, secreted in some pocket under her clothing. If she had not been so intact, I would have removed or torn apart the clothing to search. This time I demurred. Not for the sake of human decency, no. I had this irrational fear that if I exposed her dried flesh, I'd find the mummified grossly metastasized tumor that had killed her. Why I thought this, I couldn't say.
I'd still take my artifact, though, my treasure. It was right there, clutched to her chest, beneath her folded hands. It was a book.
It was a very large, heavy thing. When I lifted it out, the woman's arms fell away easily, and there was a large rectangular depression on the remains below. I had to heave it up and out of the six foot deep hole. Come to think of it, I don't remember filling the grave back in either. I must have. During the fourth dig, the hole was no more.
I wish I had studied that book more. It wasn't that I didn't try, it was that it was a difficult read. It was the handwriting that made it so dense. It wasn't that it was bad writing either, no, it was actually very fine. Too good. The writer, who I presume to be Hester Wentwork, wrote in an intricate cursive style, calligraphy, really. It was very fine and small lettering, so stylized that it took a reader a great while to interpret each word.
I suppose she had never intended it to be read. The book was a diary, or something like it, hence the presumption of the authorship. I started in back, and read the entries in a reverse order, skipping over large sections where writing was particularly crabbed, and I assumed were largely redundant in content. Again, I wish I had read more carefully.
Firstly, or should I say at the end, it appears she was aware that she was dying. She didn't mention a specific disease or condition, simply that she was supposing it was “her time” and what should be done upon her death. For years of entries, she describes the daily simple life of a farmer. The weather, the crops, the sales, most of it very mundane, hence why I skipped a lot. She went into detail on her family, relations, and neighbors. Many of the names were of people also buried in the same cemetery. Prudence and Hortense were her sisters, it appears, with Prudence marrying a man named Gage, and Hortense a spinster who never left her side. There was the Wintergreen family. The Pendersons. Somebody named Wokokkon.
She described traveling on the Oregon Trail, and here my interest perked up. She mentions fording rivers, seeing dramatic and surreal landscapes, encounters with Native Americans, some cordial and profitable in trade, others confusing and terrifying. She discussed, in some detail, fallings out she had with other pioneers in the same wagon train, or the soldiers and officers in the various forts they stopped at.. She regularly presented herself as the aggrieved party in these disputes, though I question the reliability of the author in some of those encounters. She describes their camping spots with vivid detail, perhaps because this was when she had found time to write. The images she evoked were haunting, in the literally terrifying sense. The feeling of isolation and exposure in the hostile wilderness are palpable. A high desert cluster of boulders, white as bone, surrounded by whitebark pines bending and whistling in the cold night air, once the fire burned out there was nothing above them but the icy uncaring stars. For all the romance of the Oregon Trail, to have actually put your life on the line must have been a terror.
I tried to read on before this, but I grew weary. I think the handwriting may have been giving me eye strain. Now I wonder if the book didn't want me to read. It mentioned the outset of the trip from St. Louis, the famous starting point of the Oregon Trail, where they had joined up with the Wintergreens. James Penderson and his kin, were from Ohio, it turned out. The Wentworths had been living here near the Pendersons, with Wokokkon, for some number of years before deciding on their migration. Yet there was plenty of life that Hester had lived before her life in Ohio. Albany. Providence. Lexington. Salem. All the time her sisters had been with her, them and Wokokkon. There are other names here, families they knew that did not come with them. Havershams. Molnars. Whateleys. All of the time Wokokkon was with them. If anything, the writing seemed to get harder. Not so much the lettering but the language. Turns of phrases I didn't recognize, slang, compound words unfamiliar to me. It talked about troubles. It talked about wars. It talked about plagues. It talked about the Crown and colonies. Hester must have lived a long life, perhaps her dialect had changed in that time. She talked about other voyages. Over the sea. The old world. Times before that. Always Wokokkon.
From here on I skimmed a few pages. The writing was essentially ineligible, but clearly still Hester's. Only one word I recognized, Wokokkon. It appeared identical regardless of how far back. Every instance stood out among the chicken scratches. It made my head hurt.
I closed the book. It was the last time I opened it. That would have been yesterday. No, the day before. Wait… it’s all blurring together. I remember seeing it, but not registering it explicitly. I only stored it in the back of my mind. I suppose only now I got the significance of my observation. I had been reading back to front, back through time. I went back and through what should have been the beginning of Hester's diary, but it only kept going. I had only gotten, perhaps, a sixth of the way through the diary before I stopped. There had been much more. Hester Wentworth had no date of birth on her tombstone, nor her sisters.
There was one grave left. 19 undug graves, but only one I was going to rob. I knew that now, one more, and I’d be done on the fourth weekend. I knew which one it would be. The landlord, professor and I had thought it was just a large unhewn rock when we first saw it. It took a moment to notice shallow lettering had been carved into one side. It was too shallow, the stone too rough, for any of us to tell what it had said back then. But now I know. I’d recognize those eight letters now anywhere.
I started on a Saturday, as usual. Thought it would take the normal amount of time. Again, I didn’t notice time passing. I didn’t notice anything at all until I felt the strain in my arm and my back. I had been lifting the shovel up over my head in order to toss the soil to the side. I was standing in a hole some eight feet deep. This grave was deeper than the others. I didn’t even consider that it wasn’t a grave at all, I simply knew it was one, and I needed to keep digging.
Of course, I’d also need a way out. I couldn’t just dig myself in. So I started attacking the top of the foot end of the grave. Digging myself a ramp. It took a lot longer. I made sure it would be long enough and shallow enough that I could keep digging no matter how deep the hole got. I stopped when it got too dark to see. I retreated back through the blackberries, across the pasture and garden.
This time my roommates noticed my condition, covered in dirt, knuckles and calluses bleeding. They noticed and I didn’t care. I just grunted a non-explanation, and showered and collapsed into bed. I couldn’t sleep, what lay beneath that stone called to me.
I started again at dawn the next day. The hole grew deeper. The ramp leading out grew longer, having to curve to avoid the roots of a tree. When it happened, it happened all at once. I felt the ground shift, sickeningly, as that last strike with the shovel punched through.
I’d like to think it was reflexes, grace. It was more of a fall, I collapsed onto the ramp behind me as the soil gave away. What had been the bottom of a deep grave had given away, fallen into a hole. Now all there was left was this hole. I couldn’t see the bottom. I don’t think there was a bottom. The only thing I could see was the sides of this hole, indistinguishable from the hole that I had dug with my own hands. Alternating thin layers of clay and sand. All the way down, disappearing into darkness.
Here was when I realized my horror, my mistake. The rush of air that came up out of that hole was only the harbinger for what followed. The air was terribly cold, arctic. It had a stink worse than death, I don’t understand how air that cold could hold such an intense odor.
Pointlessly, I turned and fled. I didn’t know what was coming. I knew its name, but not its nature. Fleeing was all I could do.
I ran. I’ve been running since. I only passed through the house to grab my car keys and wallet. I didn’t stop to explain myself to my shocked roommates. I didn’t bother to try to warn them.
I’m still driving. My hands are still filthy. My sweat had turned the grave dirt to a thin mud, which is now all over the steering wheel and the rest of the interior in reach. There’s a big brown spot on the radio power button. I keep turning it on and off. At first I was waiting for the radio to mention it. Then I couldn’t listen to it once they did. I still flick it on for a few seconds just to check it’s still reality.
At first I didn’t know which direction. I just knew I had to get away from that place as fast as I could, which meant the freeway. I-5. North or South. I was already northbound when I thought about the consequences of those two choices.
If I had gone South, I’d have about 20 hours of road in front of me before I’d get to the Los Angeles metropolis and its network of freeways. That would have been a trap. By 20 hours, they would have known. They would have been panicking. They would have been crowding the freeways into gridlock. I’d never make it the extra hundred miles or so to the border. That would have been the end of my road.
If I had continued Northbound, it’d have been only five or so hours to the Canadian border if I drove fast. I probably wouldn’t have made it across in my current condition, covered in filth and lacking a passport. Even if I had, there aren’t many good roads going much further north beyond Vancouver.
So East it was. I-84. As the sun set, it cast beautiful color across the great cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge. The irony would only occur to me slowly, later on.
I only stopped for gas. Thank god I remembered my wallet. I’d lost my appetite. I don’t expect I’ll ever get it back. The sun came up in what I guess was Wyoming. It was a broad flat expanse of desert. I’d never been to this part of the country before. It was beautiful. It didn’t look particularly hospitable. I can see why the Oregon Trail pioneers kept heading west. Now here I was, on almost an identical route but heading east. Trying to flee what those pioneers, those witches, had planted in that fertile Oregon soil.
I looked back after the sun had risen, into my rear view memory. I thought maybe I could see it, but I couldn’t yet. Maybe it was those rocky mountains. Maybe it hadn’t risen above the curvature of the earth. I knew it would soon, I don’t know how, but I did. What I did notice is that Westbound traffic had stopped completely. By now people had found out. This was why I had avoided LA.
Somewhere in Nebraska I did see it. Coming up over the horizon like a storm cloud. It was black. I had expected that. But deeper in, it was blacker than black. I didn’t expect that. How could I? I still can’t even understand it in my brain. I can’t describe it, let alone think about it on a higher level. It’s just a sort of indiscrete black glow, but with form. And the things on the outside, I don’t know what those are either. Wisps? Tendrils? Roots? I can’t call them tentacles, tentacles are things that make sense, they’re too normal. These things defy reasons.
I saw that, then turned the rearview mirror to an extreme angle where I wouldn’t glance at it. For a while, I kept moving it back and looking, the same way I had done by turning the radio off and on. I don’t know why. I already knew what I’d see. It was getting bigger. And getting closer. Later on I just snapped the damn mirror off.
I’m still heading East. Not sure why. Basic human preservation instincts, I’d guess. It won’t do me any good but delay the inevitable. The Oregon Trail in reverse, heading towards doom instead of a new life.
I don’t know what that thing is. I know what its name is. I know that it means the end of the world. I wish I’d read that book in more detail. Those witches were behind it. Summoning something they would never live to see. I wonder if they prophesied me. That thing was fine and happy until I dug it up.
The Eastbound traffic is getting busy now. There aren’t many people in these little towns in the middle of the country. But they all add up. Now they’re trying to flee east too. Traffic is slowing down.
I don’t think I’m going to make it to St. Louis.
2022.03.10 00:12 RenegadeWriting Turbo Speed Drifter Ep. 20: The Home Stretch
The Phantom II was barely at half a tank when Jones and Benny peeled away from their supply drop. Schaaf knew immediately what was going on when Jones gestured for her not to fire her gatling gun. He had to have made a deal, which rarely meant anything good. She knew there was only one thing a gas-guzzler like Big Rig could want from Jones. Feigning ignorance, Schaaf stepped off the gun at Jones’s request, and began quickly loading jerry cans into the Phantom II’s backseat. She hissed at Benny to help her. Benny protested that the windshield wasn’t anchored all the way, but Schaaf knew it would be good enough to last them at least a mile or so.
Schaaf pinched Benny, hard, and instructed him to hurry the fuck up and load the god damn gasoline. The two of them frantically tossed the gasoline from the supply drop crate onto the seats, letting them pile like a book donation bin. They’d managed six of the eight canisters before Jones finally made it to them.
“Yo,” Jones called out. Schaaf ignored him. She reached for another canister before Jones called out again, this time more forcefully. “Hey! Stop with the gas. Put it down.”
Schaaf dropped the gas and crossed her arms. “How much?”
“What?”
“How much did you promise him?”
“He said we could go without a fight if we gave it to him. All of it.”
Schaaf threw up her hands and swore. “The fucker won’t ever make it out of this desert, even with all this gasoline!”
“Either way,” Jones said, “he has a really big fucking truck that our really big gun couldn’t shoot down. If he wants it, he’s getting it. We’re lucky he’s letting us out of here at all.”
Schaaf loudly blew air out of her nose, a talent that Jones only got to see when she was especially frustrated. “Fuck you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You want to give up the race? All this hard work? No. Fuck you. We’re doing this.” Schaaf reached into the Phantom II and ripped out a jerry can, tossing it into the dirt. “I’m only putting four back. The two still in the crate are empty. Drive out a mile, and fill up with the last two in the backseat.”
“Schaaf, if he finds out they’re empty…”
“He’ll, what? Shoot at you? Chase you, with his engine on fumes? You’ll be long gone by the time he figures it out.”
“It’s dishonest. I don’t like it either, but I made a deal.”
“Oh, now you’re the good guy? This is a race, sweetheart. It’s bad enough you’re riding with extra weight.” She tossed another jerry can out. “I’m only giving him four. Two of them are staying, you can drive away and finish refueling later. Unless he was counting, which I’d be surprised if country boy over here could count, he won’t know. It’s not like its gonna be any use to him anyway.” Schaaf pulled out two more, shaking her head and muttering ‘waste of gas’.
Benny pressed lightly on the windshield from within, testing to see if the glass would slide out. He didn’t have a plan if it was anchored improperly, not that a plan would do him much good now. Schaaf snapped her fingers beside Jones’s head until he, too, had boarded the Phantom II. She made sure to pump her arm up and down for the trucker, though her hand displayed her middle finger rather than a fist. Big Rig responded in kind, blasting his horn so loud the sand shifted under his tires.
Benny hit the gas, and together they were back on the road again. They knew they’d lost time, though it was hard to say how far behind it left them. They had to have an advantage in that one of them could drive while the other slept, but they also knew underestimating your competition was a dangerous game. Benny peeled out of there, running the Phantom II up to speed as quickly as he could.
As soon as Big Rig disappeared over the horizon, they stopped. Jones dragged himself out of the seat and began the non-intensive process of fueling up with the two gas tanks. He topped it off with the last of the gas from the marauder, which they’d stored in the trunk since they scavenged it. He felt shitty, like he was a smuggler, like he’d pulled the wool over Big Rig’s eyes. He didn’t much care if he treated the rest of the competition like that, but Big Rig seemed like a decent enough guy. If anything, Jones pitied him for trying to race in a commercial truck, but he of all people understood the sentiment one can have for their machine. He turned off the car’s SWB, unwilling to hear the well-deserved anger of Big Rig. He imagined it well enough on his own.
Benny gave himself the task of triple-checking the windshield. It hadn’t fallen off, thank god, and everything seemed to be in order. This didn’t really put his mind at ease, but after the fourth or fifth time he pressed a hand against the glass, he knew he had to let it go.
Meanwhile, Arthur was waiting at the finish line. He hadn’t placed yet: one foot was planted firmly beside the line, ready at any moment to cross it and cement his position in first. Per the rules, once he crossed the line, all hostilities had to come to an end until the start of the next leg. Violence outside of the track was a disqualifying offense.
There was plenty he could do within the bounds of the rules, though. He could have a member of his crew come out to meet him, hop in the driver’s seat of the Straightpipe, and drive it into the pit stop themselves for servicing and repairs. He could have food and water brought out to him, he could eat it sitting in the sand, facing towards the snaking lines the treads of his tires imprinted into the ground. And if it was fine for him to have food and water brought to him, why wouldn’t it be fine for his crew to wheel out a heavy artillery weapon, along with a few shots worth of ordnance?
Of course, Arthur not only did these things, but did them with a smile on his face. His first target was his biggest threat: whoever was second place. The Phantom II, the bastards that dared to challenge him (and, considering the Spitfire was riding passenger, Arthur took it as a second challenge from Benny as well), were starting to come up on the horizon, and they had no idea what was waiting in store for them.
The end. The finish line. Several long days and nights of driving were almost over and done with. Here, the sand was a bit deeper, and it was a little more difficult for them to gain traction with their tires. They let some of the air out of the front two tires, hoping to gain more surface area with the ground. The back ones, the salvaged marauder tires, didn’t worry them. They spun dust like a blender, and dug into the sand well enough to keep them moving regardless of how soft the ground was.
Jones and Benny could see the small tents, the announcement and highlights display: little dots in the distance that rapidly drew nearer. Benny could practically taste the low quality meal waiting for him, still better than the beef jerky and cracker packs he’d been surviving on. Jones, on the other hand, was just relieved he could actually receive some medical attention. His stab wound didn’t hurt as much as before, but he knew it needed to be looked at, maybe cleaned and stitched at the least. There would be a medical tent at the pit stop, and that helped Jones sit at ease.
A mortar shell, however, was not something Jones or Benny found particularly relaxing. Sand erupted just beside them, a brown geyser that rattled their newly replaced windows.
“What the fuck?!” Benny cried, fishtailing but quickly righting the Phantom II again. “Fucking landmines?”
Jones peered out the windshield. He saw a large cloud of dust disperse in the distance, followed close by a solid boom. “Not landmines, mortars!” He grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard, narrowly jerking the car out of a direct hit. The blast was still heavy enough to lift the car. Sand sprayed all over the driver’s side door. Jones’s side embedded into the ground, the car teetering on its passenger doors like a coin that hadn’t yet decided if it was heads or tails.
“Lean, Benny, lean!”
As Jones and Benny tried to right themselves again, pushing into their seats and struggling to put some weight out of the driver’s side window, three of their opponents came barrelling past them. The wind from the first two buffeted them, with the third finally providing enough force to knock them back onto their wheels.
“Go!” Jones yelled. “Hit the gas, hit the gas, go!”
Benny couldn’t push it too hard, he knew: accelerating too fast on the sand could fuck them up again, and then it really would be over (though instinctively he wanted to). Another shell erupted just in front of them, popping the Phantom II up into the air. They hit the ground hard, and though the sand cushioned the fall, the Phantom II still bounced on its suspension. Jones, unable to sit properly in time, cried out in pain as the bouncing tore at his stab wound. Benny hit the windshield wipers as the engine revved them up to speed again. Jones tried to reach for the machine gun joystick, but every twitch of his body sent burning pain through his body.
“Fuck…” Jones hit the back of his head against the headrest. Benny noticed the grimace on Jones’s face and knew he’d be distracted for the time being.
Ahead of them, the Virginia Project, Hopscotch, and Bird of Paradise jostled for position. Benny was starting to gain on them, but even still he knew it was going to be close. With a bit of luck and a burst of speed, Benny saw the others slow down a little before him. He couldn’t be sure why: maybe it was a patch in the road, maybe something else. Whatever it was, Benny thought he could prove himself and refuse to let it stall the Phantom II.
But then Virginia Project started firing. A few shots, a spray of bullets, and suddenly Hopscotch was rolling like a bug. Benny watched helplessly as the Hopscotch skidded and bounced over the Bird of Paradise. It didn’t bounce in one direction: Hopscotch went back and forth like a jumping bean toy, leaving Benny with no choice but to swing a wide curve around it, losing them even more time. Way up ahead, which for them meant several yards, Arthur was still firing his mortars. Now that they weren’t in second place anymore, the Phantom II wasn’t the target.
Now, Bird of Paradise was in Arthur’s crosshairs. He fired mortar after mortar at the car. The afterimage of the Bird’s taillights snaked back and forth as if the driver was using them to write in cursive. They dodged each shot with no small amount of grace. Every time a mortar exploded, turning the sand into an earthen geyser, the Bird of Paradise was just shy of impact. A perfect line, every time. It was as though the explosions were a dancer, the vehicle its partner, and Benny swore he could hear the music in the back of his head as he watched.
And how did the Bird of Paradise respond to such an onslaught? Did it unleash its own fury on Arthur, firing rockets and bullets and whatever other projectiles? No, Bird of Paradise found the barbarity of gunplay in the race to be distasteful. They also felt, in that moment, that Arthur was insulting them for not crossing the finish line. After one final whirl around a sandblast, The Bird of Paradise straightened out and gunned it for Arthur.
Arthur was surprised, at first, and a basic fear of oncoming traffic overcame him for a few moments. Only a few, though. He raised one foot in the air, staring at the dark windshield of the Bird of Paradise. He cracked a wicked smile, touching his foot down in the dirt and cementing his spot in first place (He would have held on longer, hoping to play chicken with the Bird of Paradise, but Arthur saw Hookshot up above flying in even faster than the Bird, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give up first place for shits and giggles). They both knew that, if Arthur crossed that finish line and the Bird of Paradise hit him, the Bird would be disqualified. Arthur would be dead, most likely, but they’d both be fucked.
Just as Arthur’s foot touched down on the dirt, cementing his place in first seconds before Hookshot hovered over the pit stop boundary, the Bird of Paradise managed one more drift. They whipped themselves about, such that the dark driver’s side window was close enough for Arthur to see his own reflection, gazing in smug victory back at him. The Bird of Paradise then threw itself into reverse, performing a perfect one-eighty without so much as jerking on its suspension. They whipped themselves around Arthur, officially placing in third. The threat was loud and clear: they could have killed Arthur if they wanted to, but Arthur didn’t care too much: the Bird of Paradise wasn’t the first to try to intimidate him, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Only Virginia Project was in front of them. Benny had his foot down to the ground, there wasn’t anything more he could do but keep the car straight. Jones tried to reach for the machine guns again, several times. Each hurt more than the last, and his breath was growing worryingly labored. They were out of options, and out of time.
Virginia Project crossed the checkpoint line, officially earning fourth place. The Phantom II came in after at 5th, and all others were condemned to the loser’s circle. The endurance leg was finally over.
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Schaaf pinched Benny, hard, and instructed him to hurry the fuck up and load the god damn gasoline. The two of them frantically tossed the gasoline from the supply drop crate onto the seats, letting them pile like a book donation bin. They’d managed six of the eight canisters before Jones finally made it to them.
“Yo,” Jones called out. Schaaf ignored him. She reached for another canister before Jones called out again, this time more forcefully. “Hey! Stop with the gas. Put it down.”
Schaaf dropped the gas and crossed her arms. “How much?”
“What?”
“How much did you promise him?”
“He said we could go without a fight if we gave it to him. All of it.”
Schaaf threw up her hands and swore. “The fucker won’t ever make it out of this desert, even with all this gasoline!”
“Either way,” Jones said, “he has a really big fucking truck that our really big gun couldn’t shoot down. If he wants it, he’s getting it. We’re lucky he’s letting us out of here at all.”
Schaaf loudly blew air out of her nose, a talent that Jones only got to see when she was especially frustrated. “Fuck you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You want to give up the race? All this hard work? No. Fuck you. We’re doing this.” Schaaf reached into the Phantom II and ripped out a jerry can, tossing it into the dirt. “I’m only putting four back. The two still in the crate are empty. Drive out a mile, and fill up with the last two in the backseat.”
“Schaaf, if he finds out they’re empty…”
“He’ll, what? Shoot at you? Chase you, with his engine on fumes? You’ll be long gone by the time he figures it out.”
“It’s dishonest. I don’t like it either, but I made a deal.”
“Oh, now you’re the good guy? This is a race, sweetheart. It’s bad enough you’re riding with extra weight.” She tossed another jerry can out. “I’m only giving him four. Two of them are staying, you can drive away and finish refueling later. Unless he was counting, which I’d be surprised if country boy over here could count, he won’t know. It’s not like its gonna be any use to him anyway.” Schaaf pulled out two more, shaking her head and muttering ‘waste of gas’.
Benny pressed lightly on the windshield from within, testing to see if the glass would slide out. He didn’t have a plan if it was anchored improperly, not that a plan would do him much good now. Schaaf snapped her fingers beside Jones’s head until he, too, had boarded the Phantom II. She made sure to pump her arm up and down for the trucker, though her hand displayed her middle finger rather than a fist. Big Rig responded in kind, blasting his horn so loud the sand shifted under his tires.
Benny hit the gas, and together they were back on the road again. They knew they’d lost time, though it was hard to say how far behind it left them. They had to have an advantage in that one of them could drive while the other slept, but they also knew underestimating your competition was a dangerous game. Benny peeled out of there, running the Phantom II up to speed as quickly as he could.
As soon as Big Rig disappeared over the horizon, they stopped. Jones dragged himself out of the seat and began the non-intensive process of fueling up with the two gas tanks. He topped it off with the last of the gas from the marauder, which they’d stored in the trunk since they scavenged it. He felt shitty, like he was a smuggler, like he’d pulled the wool over Big Rig’s eyes. He didn’t much care if he treated the rest of the competition like that, but Big Rig seemed like a decent enough guy. If anything, Jones pitied him for trying to race in a commercial truck, but he of all people understood the sentiment one can have for their machine. He turned off the car’s SWB, unwilling to hear the well-deserved anger of Big Rig. He imagined it well enough on his own.
Benny gave himself the task of triple-checking the windshield. It hadn’t fallen off, thank god, and everything seemed to be in order. This didn’t really put his mind at ease, but after the fourth or fifth time he pressed a hand against the glass, he knew he had to let it go.
Meanwhile, Arthur was waiting at the finish line. He hadn’t placed yet: one foot was planted firmly beside the line, ready at any moment to cross it and cement his position in first. Per the rules, once he crossed the line, all hostilities had to come to an end until the start of the next leg. Violence outside of the track was a disqualifying offense.
There was plenty he could do within the bounds of the rules, though. He could have a member of his crew come out to meet him, hop in the driver’s seat of the Straightpipe, and drive it into the pit stop themselves for servicing and repairs. He could have food and water brought out to him, he could eat it sitting in the sand, facing towards the snaking lines the treads of his tires imprinted into the ground. And if it was fine for him to have food and water brought to him, why wouldn’t it be fine for his crew to wheel out a heavy artillery weapon, along with a few shots worth of ordnance?
Of course, Arthur not only did these things, but did them with a smile on his face. His first target was his biggest threat: whoever was second place. The Phantom II, the bastards that dared to challenge him (and, considering the Spitfire was riding passenger, Arthur took it as a second challenge from Benny as well), were starting to come up on the horizon, and they had no idea what was waiting in store for them.
The end. The finish line. Several long days and nights of driving were almost over and done with. Here, the sand was a bit deeper, and it was a little more difficult for them to gain traction with their tires. They let some of the air out of the front two tires, hoping to gain more surface area with the ground. The back ones, the salvaged marauder tires, didn’t worry them. They spun dust like a blender, and dug into the sand well enough to keep them moving regardless of how soft the ground was.
Jones and Benny could see the small tents, the announcement and highlights display: little dots in the distance that rapidly drew nearer. Benny could practically taste the low quality meal waiting for him, still better than the beef jerky and cracker packs he’d been surviving on. Jones, on the other hand, was just relieved he could actually receive some medical attention. His stab wound didn’t hurt as much as before, but he knew it needed to be looked at, maybe cleaned and stitched at the least. There would be a medical tent at the pit stop, and that helped Jones sit at ease.
A mortar shell, however, was not something Jones or Benny found particularly relaxing. Sand erupted just beside them, a brown geyser that rattled their newly replaced windows.
“What the fuck?!” Benny cried, fishtailing but quickly righting the Phantom II again. “Fucking landmines?”
Jones peered out the windshield. He saw a large cloud of dust disperse in the distance, followed close by a solid boom. “Not landmines, mortars!” He grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard, narrowly jerking the car out of a direct hit. The blast was still heavy enough to lift the car. Sand sprayed all over the driver’s side door. Jones’s side embedded into the ground, the car teetering on its passenger doors like a coin that hadn’t yet decided if it was heads or tails.
“Lean, Benny, lean!”
As Jones and Benny tried to right themselves again, pushing into their seats and struggling to put some weight out of the driver’s side window, three of their opponents came barrelling past them. The wind from the first two buffeted them, with the third finally providing enough force to knock them back onto their wheels.
“Go!” Jones yelled. “Hit the gas, hit the gas, go!”
Benny couldn’t push it too hard, he knew: accelerating too fast on the sand could fuck them up again, and then it really would be over (though instinctively he wanted to). Another shell erupted just in front of them, popping the Phantom II up into the air. They hit the ground hard, and though the sand cushioned the fall, the Phantom II still bounced on its suspension. Jones, unable to sit properly in time, cried out in pain as the bouncing tore at his stab wound. Benny hit the windshield wipers as the engine revved them up to speed again. Jones tried to reach for the machine gun joystick, but every twitch of his body sent burning pain through his body.
“Fuck…” Jones hit the back of his head against the headrest. Benny noticed the grimace on Jones’s face and knew he’d be distracted for the time being.
Ahead of them, the Virginia Project, Hopscotch, and Bird of Paradise jostled for position. Benny was starting to gain on them, but even still he knew it was going to be close. With a bit of luck and a burst of speed, Benny saw the others slow down a little before him. He couldn’t be sure why: maybe it was a patch in the road, maybe something else. Whatever it was, Benny thought he could prove himself and refuse to let it stall the Phantom II.
But then Virginia Project started firing. A few shots, a spray of bullets, and suddenly Hopscotch was rolling like a bug. Benny watched helplessly as the Hopscotch skidded and bounced over the Bird of Paradise. It didn’t bounce in one direction: Hopscotch went back and forth like a jumping bean toy, leaving Benny with no choice but to swing a wide curve around it, losing them even more time. Way up ahead, which for them meant several yards, Arthur was still firing his mortars. Now that they weren’t in second place anymore, the Phantom II wasn’t the target.
Now, Bird of Paradise was in Arthur’s crosshairs. He fired mortar after mortar at the car. The afterimage of the Bird’s taillights snaked back and forth as if the driver was using them to write in cursive. They dodged each shot with no small amount of grace. Every time a mortar exploded, turning the sand into an earthen geyser, the Bird of Paradise was just shy of impact. A perfect line, every time. It was as though the explosions were a dancer, the vehicle its partner, and Benny swore he could hear the music in the back of his head as he watched.
And how did the Bird of Paradise respond to such an onslaught? Did it unleash its own fury on Arthur, firing rockets and bullets and whatever other projectiles? No, Bird of Paradise found the barbarity of gunplay in the race to be distasteful. They also felt, in that moment, that Arthur was insulting them for not crossing the finish line. After one final whirl around a sandblast, The Bird of Paradise straightened out and gunned it for Arthur.
Arthur was surprised, at first, and a basic fear of oncoming traffic overcame him for a few moments. Only a few, though. He raised one foot in the air, staring at the dark windshield of the Bird of Paradise. He cracked a wicked smile, touching his foot down in the dirt and cementing his spot in first place (He would have held on longer, hoping to play chicken with the Bird of Paradise, but Arthur saw Hookshot up above flying in even faster than the Bird, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give up first place for shits and giggles). They both knew that, if Arthur crossed that finish line and the Bird of Paradise hit him, the Bird would be disqualified. Arthur would be dead, most likely, but they’d both be fucked.
Just as Arthur’s foot touched down on the dirt, cementing his place in first seconds before Hookshot hovered over the pit stop boundary, the Bird of Paradise managed one more drift. They whipped themselves about, such that the dark driver’s side window was close enough for Arthur to see his own reflection, gazing in smug victory back at him. The Bird of Paradise then threw itself into reverse, performing a perfect one-eighty without so much as jerking on its suspension. They whipped themselves around Arthur, officially placing in third. The threat was loud and clear: they could have killed Arthur if they wanted to, but Arthur didn’t care too much: the Bird of Paradise wasn’t the first to try to intimidate him, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Only Virginia Project was in front of them. Benny had his foot down to the ground, there wasn’t anything more he could do but keep the car straight. Jones tried to reach for the machine guns again, several times. Each hurt more than the last, and his breath was growing worryingly labored. They were out of options, and out of time.
Virginia Project crossed the checkpoint line, officially earning fourth place. The Phantom II came in after at 5th, and all others were condemned to the loser’s circle. The endurance leg was finally over.
2021.08.29 06:10 Samarahale1019 To Mr. Ishikawa: I’ve Been To Hell And It’s Worse Than I Imagined.
Part One
For some reason I didn’t think they were lying. Some backwards part of me thought my best friend was a liar but two random strangers claiming to be police were apparently more believable. A portal to hell? Really? That was the stuff you heard on Reddit or read about in some weird YA novel. That’s not real life. It couldn’t be.
“I’m Agent Danielle Hill and this is Sebastian Haynes. We work for a branch of the FBI.” Danielle hands me a business card. The FBI logo was printed on it along with her name, email and phone number. “What branch?” “The branch that investigates stuff like this. Unexplainable stuff.” I look up from the business card. “So like, a supernatural part?” Sebastian rolled his eyes but Danielle nodded. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” “So why are you looking at Mr. Ishikawa’s house? Why not drag the lake or look for this so called portal?” Danielle shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. The portal doesn’t just open, someone here in this town has to open it.”
Suddenly my mind is filled with Mr. Ishikawa’s story about Hakiro. How Samuel, Hakiro’s friend, let him die. That he laughed in a way a child shouldn’t have. “You mean like demons or something?” Sebastian scoffed and said, “Listen kid, this is bigger than anything you’ve ever even thought of. Just let us do our jobs.” I was kind of getting sick of Sebastian’s bullshit too. But I managed to ask one more question. “Why did you call Mr. Ishikawa Akio? That’s his first name and I don’t think FBI agents go around calling people by their first names.” Danielle got this glazed look in her eyes. “I knew him.” That’s all she was able to tell me before Sebastian basically told me to go home.
But at home all I could think about was Hakiro’s drowning and the FBI agents snooping around Mr. Ishikawa’s house. If the lake really is a portal to hell—if people from this town can make a portal like Samuel did all this years ago—what was stoping me from doing it too?
Suddenly, I got an idea. Mr. Ishikawa never mentioned the other boys’ names, just Samuel’s, but I bet he’d have photos of Hakiro and his friends which might include some names. I looked out my bedroom window to see that Danielle and Sebastian were gone. I could get inside the house and look for some names. If I can find one of Samuel’s friends that’s still alive maybe I can find out how they opened the portal and how to open one myself.
Mr. Ishikawa’s house looked exactly like it always did. His sister who I had met at the funeral, had been meaning to clean it out but had never gotten around to it. I’ve been trying to work of the nerve to just do it myself, but the thought of a new family moving in and changing the way it was makes me think of ways to keep the house here. Just the way he left it. Coffee stains on the carpet, holes in the wall from the door slamming into it. A crayon drawing I had done on the wall, signed at Mr. Ishikawa’s request.
In his office there’s a closet filled with shoe boxes. I sat on the floor and pulled out the first one. Inside were photos from when he was young ranging from age three to about twelve. I was flipping through them when I came across a six-year-old Mr. Ishikawa next to a boy who looked about nine or ten. They looked a lot like each other, could probably pass for brothers which makes sense seeing as Mr. Ishikawa’s aunt and his mom were identical twin sisters.
There’s writing on the back, but it must have belonged to his aunt because it was all in Japanese. I studied the words, making out “Akio” from the basic Japanese Mr. Ishikawa had taught me. I assumed the other kid was Hakiro. I placed the photo to the side and rifled through the rest. I finally came across a group photo. Five boys, three of which looked significantly older. When I flipped it over it was thankfully in English. It was numbered from left to right. John the first on the left, the next being Gregory, third was Hakiro, fourth Mr. Ishikawa and the fifth Samuel. I flipped it over and studied the photo but found nothing inherently evil on any of the boys’ faces.
I pocketed both photos and placed the shoe box back in the closet. I stand up and my eyes land on a leather bound notebook. On the cover is a photo of us taken by my mom at a picnic. It was the most recent one before he died. I find myself opening the journal and seeing Mr. Ishikawa’s cursive script. Most of it is written in English with names or certain words in Japanese characters. I started reading and I didn’t get very far before I understood.
“Samuel Benson opened a portal in the lake. His aim was to kill me, but didn’t expect Hakiro to volunteer. Just minutes after I came back from telling Oba Nami, Samuel was confused and blank, completely unaware that Hakiro was gone. I think he was possessed and had no idea what was happening. I can’t say that’s true for others though, some people in this town know full well what they’re doing. If I’m going to get Hakiro back, I’m going to have to summon a portal myself.”
I stood inside his study putting everything together. It was Mr. Ishikawa’s plan to open a portal and get Hakiro back, but he never was able to. He must know how if he was so hell bent on getting his cousin back. He would have notes on how to do it. Which means I just have to read them.
My head snaps to the door of the study when the screen door makes the horrid squeaking sound it always does. I quickly take the notebook and the picture and shove it into my hoodie. I look up to see Danielle and Sebastian. “Why are you in here, kid?” Sebastian asks in a tone that can only be described as pure annoyance. “I can’t be in my best friend’s house? You should read his will—I get a pick of the litter.” I say, waving my hands at the room. Sebastian’s eyes held nothing but loathing. “I could ask you guys the same thing. I get you guys are investigating the whole portal to hell thing, but why Mr. Ishikawa’s house?”
Danielle glanced around the room, her eyes landing on the photo poking out of my hoodie pocket. “We think he was involved somehow and his personal belongings are the best way to find out.” “So you mean snooping through a dead man’s possessions?” Sebastian’s blue eyes seemed to get darker, like a sapphire instead of a crystal. “What do you call what you’re doing then, kid?” I did not appreciate that jab. “Trying to remember my best friend, asshole. How would you like it if some random strangers broke into your best friend’s home, told you he was under investigation and tell you to get lost? Not that good huh?” I shot him one last glare before shoving past them and out the front door.
In my room I read his journal. Most of it was pretty muddled, he would start in English and then just randomly start writing in Japanese. Thankfully I had a Japanese to English dictionary I kept around in case Mr. Ishikawa slipped and said something in Japanese which happened a lot toward the end. After translating most of it I came to the instructions.
“First, you need to summon a demon.” I could almost feel my heart drop to my feet. “If you weave a doll with a piece of paper detailing your reason for summoning and read the words for the incantation, you should be able to summon one. Be careful, Salus, demons are known to be deceitful. They will lie like it’s the truth and tell the truth like it’s a lie. Always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down. Samuel is a testimony of that.” The use of my name caught me off guard. Did he know that I would read this? Did he know what he was getting himself into, that he would die if he tried to free Hakiro?
Did he try this ritual and die as a result?
“Sal! Someone’s here to see you!” I slam the notebook shut at my mom’s voice. I quickly run downstairs and am met with Danielle Hill. She’s not in a suit, instead she’s a in casual clothes. “Hey, Salus. Let’s talk.” I led her out to the bench swing in my front yard. It was dark out, so no one was outside except for the FBI agent and a teenager. She sat to my right, pushing off the ground to start swinging. “Akio was different when he was young. He grew up in Anchorage where I lived. We were best friends. Suddenly, one summer, he came back from visiting Wickett Lake and he was…different. Quieter, paranoid. He was constantly talking about the lake and how it swallowed his cousin. How it was his fault. He would beg his parents to move. His parents thought it was because of his aunt, he did love her. But it wasn’t her, it was the lake and it was Hakiro.”
I smiled as I remembered him saying something. “When I was a boy, I had a best friend. Her name was Dani and she was convinced she was going to marry me.” I had felt disgusted at the time, but Mr. Ishikawa had this wistful look on his face. “He called you Dani.” She gave me smile and suddenly something felt wrong. “Wait, if you knew Mr. Ishikawa when he was a kid that means you should be like, eighty five. How the hell do you look twenty?”
She stared up at the stars. Something about Alaska and it’s stars. I guess since Alaska is so rural, there’s no pollution to cover up the stars. “That’s what I was meaning to tell you. I guess technically I would be his age, but when you spend fifty years in Hell, things change.” “Hold up—you went to Hell?” She nodded, her eyes getting the same faraway look she had gotten when I asked her about Mr. Ishikawa the first time. “When I was twenty-five, I got into a car accident. Driving drunk, ran into a station wagon that had two little girls and their parents in it. None of them made it and I got shipped down to the earth’s asshole.”
She chuckled darkly. “It’s not…never mind, you asked why I look so young. Well, time works differently down there. Time moves slower than up here. No one’s supposed to escape from Hell which is why I look like this. The same age as when I went down there. To me it felt like maybe a month had gone by but it was such a long month.” She caught a tear before it could fall. “I don’t know what exactly happened, all I know is that I saw something down there, a light. So I moved toward it and suddenly I was spat into that lake.” She points the sign that reads ‘Wickett Lake: half a mile’. “I changed my name, got a house and made sure my job involved finding out what the hell happened to me. No pun intended.” After a awkward laugh silence resumed and was broken by Danielle.
“I may sound like Akio when I say this, but please, Salus, don’t go. Don’t go down there. It’s not what you think—it’s not what anyone thinks. It’s worse, so much worse. I know what you’re planning and it’s not worth it. Trust me.” She seemed so genuine, but I couldn’t let this go. Mr. Ishikawa wrote that journal for me. I have a feeling he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t think I was capable. “Okay.” That seemed to satisfy her and she bid her goodbye. I guess I was thinking like a demon when I thought to myself “I didn’t say yes. I just said okay.” Technically not a lie.
I found a doll Ishikawa had given me and unraveled some of it to place the scrap of notebook paper. I had watched him make so many of them that it was like watching him do it as I wove it back together. I wrote down the incantation, grabbed my hoodie and the doll along with my mom’s car keys and went down to the lake.
It was desolate that time of night which was good. I dug a hole with sand and placed the doll inside. I drew a circle around it and drew the symbols it called for. Then I read it. It was in Latin and I don’t think I got the pronunciation correct but I guess that didn’t matter because almost a second after I finished the last sentence, a man stood in front of me.
He looked normal. Dark hair, light skin. He was wearing a three piece suit. In fact, the only way I knew he wasn’t human was his pitch black eyes. “Salus Roman Harmon. Nice to finally meet your acquaintance. Though, I thought for sure your jurisdiction was Heaven. What are you doing summoning the likes of me?” My voice sounded choked, but I powered through it. “In the forties a boy was sucked into Hell. I want to get him back.” The demon tapped his lips as if thinking. “You’ll have to narrow it down, Salus. There were about two dozen boys sucked into Hell from this town. We have loyal subjects walking these roads.” His smile made me sick, but I answered him. “Hakiro Takahashi.” The demon snapped his fingers. “Ah! That one! Yes, little fighter that one is. He’s doing just dandy in the old fire pit.” He had the audacity to wink at me.
“I need him back.” The laugh wasn’t really a laugh, more like a cackle akin to a witch. “You ‘want him back?’ It doesn’t work that, I’m afraid. You don’t just pick and choose who gets to escape the chains. There’s a bureaucracy down there.” I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “So what do I have to do?” He was about to say something when he stopped, a sly smile on his lips. “I’ll cut you a deal, Salus Harmon. You spend a week down there and I’ll give you your precious Hakiro back.” I almost agreed before Danielle’s story popped into my head.
I glanced at the lake. “Time works different down there. For all I know a week down there could be fifteen years up here.” He smiled again. “Maybe, but that’s part of the deal. Take it or leave it.” It felt like it took fifteen minutes to decide but finally I set my jaw and held out my hand. “It’s a deal.” “That’s just splendid!” He exclaimed, grabbing my arm with enough force to pull me into the lake right there. “Let me just call up a friend.” He let out a growl that was low enough to rattle my bones. Not two seconds later a woman in her forties appeared next to us. “Dolores, Darling. Would you be so kind as to open a portal for me and my new friend?” The woman didn’t need prompting and just closed her eyes and right next to the shore the water turned a murky black color.
The demon clapped her on the back. “That’s quite enough, Dolores! You might as well send us to the cage! Now off you go!” He said in his preppy English accent. She simply disappeared down the path back to town. “Why can’t you summon one? You are a demon, right?” A hint of annoyance seeped into his tone. “Annoying, right? Well the higher ups agreed demons were too…trigger happy with the portals. You should be grateful, I used one of my Calls on you.” He turned his back to me and stepped into the water. “How many do you have?” “Oh just a mere fifty thousand.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re lying.” “And what if I am? It’s kind of my personality Salus. Now, in you come.” I walked closer to the water, stopping as the waves lapped against my shoes.
The demon tapped his foot in the water. “We don’t have all night, Salus. Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me so hard I thought my shoulder would dislocate. As we got closer to the black water everything in my very core screamed at me to get out, to run away. “A word of advice: Hell isn’t hot, no, it’s very, very cold.”
Before I could even scream, we were in the water.
The chains clank together when we walk. There are so many of us, that I’ve lost interest in counting them. One thing is certain though. The demon was right when he said it was cold. I’m so cold it feels like my limbs are a block of ice. After a day I stopped shivering but I’m pretty sure that’s a sign of hypothermia. Not that it would matter. Technically, I’m dead.
I’ve only been here three days, but Danielle was right. It feels so much longer. Like three months or even three years. There’s no perception of time here, no rest. We just walk, then we work, then we walk, then we work. It’s a never ending cycle. Maybe one day you’ll get some excitement and one of the prisoners will try and make a run for it. Then you’ll get to watch as the demons beat them relentlessly and throw him back in line.
I don’t know how I can perceive time. No one else can. Even when I sneak whispered questions to the person in front of me, they don’t know how to answer. Just like Danielle, their perception of time has been skewed by this place. But I’ve started asking names. Sometimes, they’ve been here so long they’ve forgotten, but so far I’ve got the names of ten. Kenny, Percy, Bobby, Zane, Gene, Juniper, Otis, Belinda, Sasha, Frankie and Winter. I’ll remember them. I have to. I bet no one else does.
“Salus Roman Harmon!” The bruises on my back started to seethe as the name was called. I flinched involuntarily when the manacles were stripped off my wrists and ankles and I was marched out of line. I just followed blindly and didn’t speak. Suddenly I was impossibly warm. I almost cried just from the feeling of warmth after so long without it.
I was shoved into a chair and melted into it. We don’t get to sit ever. There’s no time. “Really? This is the kid?” I opened my eyes to find three demons in front of me. I’m in this office looking room, it’s walls are a dark blue. Behind a desk sits the demons. “I’m afraid so.” One said while looking at me in contempt. “How old are you, Salus Harmon?” One asked. I had to think hard about that. I knew I was only sixteen, but some part of me felt older. “Sixteen, I guess.” “But it doesn’t feel like that?” I shake my head. “What does it feel like?” I was silent for a minute, but spoke up for fear of being taken back to the line. “I feel like I’m twenty. Maybe twenty-one.” He looks at the demon to his right. “You’re right, he is good.” I was insanely confused but just went with it. “I have good news, Salus Harmon. I understand that you’re here looking for a Hakiro Aito Takahashi.” I nodded quickly. “The deal you cut is still valid if you wish to take it. There’s a way to the madness here, so we can’t take that deal away from you. You can stay here for four more days—well, this time at least—and you’ll leave with Hakiro in tow. Or, we can release Hakiro now.” I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the catch?”
He laughed a booming laugh that made me flinch. “I like you. So I’ll be truthful though I would much like to lie. You’re a unique specimen, Salus Harmon. A human who can tell time in Hell. That’s not supposed to exist. So I’ll give you a once in a lifetime opportunity. We can give Hakiro fake memories to replace the ones from here. Memories of a fake past that would give him a more peaceful life. All you have to do is repay the favor.” I hated the way he was avoiding the answer. Something was wrong with his offer.
I sat up straighter no matter how much it hurt my back. “What’s the favor?” “Simple. We have souls down here who are…tougher nuts to crack. All we need you to do is crack them.” The dots connected faster than I thought they would after what felt like years of no stimulation. “You want me to torture people.” “Well not people, technically. More like, lost souls.” I tried to stand up but failed spectacularly and collapsed beside the chair. “You can forget about it.”
I tried to stand up, but my muscles wouldn’t obey my commands. I felt so weak. “Then here’s the dealio. I submit your friend Hakiro to the worst torture imaginable and force you to watch for the rest of your four days here. How does that sound Mr. Harmon?” Tears tried to fall but I was so void of emotion they never had the chance. “I guess I can’t expect kindness from demons.” I managed to pull myself back into the chair, glaring at the demons. “Rude, but applicable. Now, what do you say?” “I don’t really have a choice. Fine, I’ll do it.”
Just like the demon that sent me here, he clapped his hands in this childlike manner. “Goody! Would you mind getting our friend Salus a bed to recuperate in? I’m sure he’s very tired.” I was very tired and the thought of a bed sounded like heaven. “But when do I start?” I asked as I was lifted into the bed by the two other demons. “We’ll discuss that when your muscles aren’t stretched out like Kim Kardashian’s face skin.” My eyes were already slipping closed as soon as my head hit the pillow. “Who’s Kim Kardashian?” “You’ll find out later, I suppose. Nighty, night!” And just like that, lights out.
When I woke up a woman was tending to me. She didn’t look a like a demon, she looked like a human. “Salus! You’re awake. I don’t have much time so I’ll keep it short.” She glanced at the dark painted door, but nothing sounded on the other side. “I’ve got some news topside.” I guess she saw my confused look. “Slang for earth time. It’s been a bit since you’ve been back and stuff has happened. Big stuff. Time to live up to your name, kiddo.”
I was so confused. So I just asked the questions as they came. “How much time has passed?” “Five years, Salus. And in those five years a lot has changed.” As I tried to wrap my head around what she was talking about she suddenly grabbed my face in her hands. I melted into the touch. Her hands were so warm. “Listen to me, Salus. They need you. Wickett Lake needs you. In two days time someone will come back to get you and we’ll brief you on everything, right now, you rest. You’ll need it.” She got up and tried to leave, but I grabbed her wrist.
I pulled her back to me, though it didn’t do much, my muscles were so weak. “What’s happening?” The woman gives me a sad smile. “You’re going to save Wickett Lake.” And just like that, she was gone.
I guess I owe you an apology, Mr. Ishikawa. For not believing you. For not believing Danielle when she warned me. For not leaving this whole thing alone.
I’m sorry, Mr. Ishikawa. I’m really sorry.
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For some reason I didn’t think they were lying. Some backwards part of me thought my best friend was a liar but two random strangers claiming to be police were apparently more believable. A portal to hell? Really? That was the stuff you heard on Reddit or read about in some weird YA novel. That’s not real life. It couldn’t be.
“I’m Agent Danielle Hill and this is Sebastian Haynes. We work for a branch of the FBI.” Danielle hands me a business card. The FBI logo was printed on it along with her name, email and phone number. “What branch?” “The branch that investigates stuff like this. Unexplainable stuff.” I look up from the business card. “So like, a supernatural part?” Sebastian rolled his eyes but Danielle nodded. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” “So why are you looking at Mr. Ishikawa’s house? Why not drag the lake or look for this so called portal?” Danielle shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. The portal doesn’t just open, someone here in this town has to open it.”
Suddenly my mind is filled with Mr. Ishikawa’s story about Hakiro. How Samuel, Hakiro’s friend, let him die. That he laughed in a way a child shouldn’t have. “You mean like demons or something?” Sebastian scoffed and said, “Listen kid, this is bigger than anything you’ve ever even thought of. Just let us do our jobs.” I was kind of getting sick of Sebastian’s bullshit too. But I managed to ask one more question. “Why did you call Mr. Ishikawa Akio? That’s his first name and I don’t think FBI agents go around calling people by their first names.” Danielle got this glazed look in her eyes. “I knew him.” That’s all she was able to tell me before Sebastian basically told me to go home.
But at home all I could think about was Hakiro’s drowning and the FBI agents snooping around Mr. Ishikawa’s house. If the lake really is a portal to hell—if people from this town can make a portal like Samuel did all this years ago—what was stoping me from doing it too?
Suddenly, I got an idea. Mr. Ishikawa never mentioned the other boys’ names, just Samuel’s, but I bet he’d have photos of Hakiro and his friends which might include some names. I looked out my bedroom window to see that Danielle and Sebastian were gone. I could get inside the house and look for some names. If I can find one of Samuel’s friends that’s still alive maybe I can find out how they opened the portal and how to open one myself.
Mr. Ishikawa’s house looked exactly like it always did. His sister who I had met at the funeral, had been meaning to clean it out but had never gotten around to it. I’ve been trying to work of the nerve to just do it myself, but the thought of a new family moving in and changing the way it was makes me think of ways to keep the house here. Just the way he left it. Coffee stains on the carpet, holes in the wall from the door slamming into it. A crayon drawing I had done on the wall, signed at Mr. Ishikawa’s request.
In his office there’s a closet filled with shoe boxes. I sat on the floor and pulled out the first one. Inside were photos from when he was young ranging from age three to about twelve. I was flipping through them when I came across a six-year-old Mr. Ishikawa next to a boy who looked about nine or ten. They looked a lot like each other, could probably pass for brothers which makes sense seeing as Mr. Ishikawa’s aunt and his mom were identical twin sisters.
There’s writing on the back, but it must have belonged to his aunt because it was all in Japanese. I studied the words, making out “Akio” from the basic Japanese Mr. Ishikawa had taught me. I assumed the other kid was Hakiro. I placed the photo to the side and rifled through the rest. I finally came across a group photo. Five boys, three of which looked significantly older. When I flipped it over it was thankfully in English. It was numbered from left to right. John the first on the left, the next being Gregory, third was Hakiro, fourth Mr. Ishikawa and the fifth Samuel. I flipped it over and studied the photo but found nothing inherently evil on any of the boys’ faces.
I pocketed both photos and placed the shoe box back in the closet. I stand up and my eyes land on a leather bound notebook. On the cover is a photo of us taken by my mom at a picnic. It was the most recent one before he died. I find myself opening the journal and seeing Mr. Ishikawa’s cursive script. Most of it is written in English with names or certain words in Japanese characters. I started reading and I didn’t get very far before I understood.
“Samuel Benson opened a portal in the lake. His aim was to kill me, but didn’t expect Hakiro to volunteer. Just minutes after I came back from telling Oba Nami, Samuel was confused and blank, completely unaware that Hakiro was gone. I think he was possessed and had no idea what was happening. I can’t say that’s true for others though, some people in this town know full well what they’re doing. If I’m going to get Hakiro back, I’m going to have to summon a portal myself.”
I stood inside his study putting everything together. It was Mr. Ishikawa’s plan to open a portal and get Hakiro back, but he never was able to. He must know how if he was so hell bent on getting his cousin back. He would have notes on how to do it. Which means I just have to read them.
My head snaps to the door of the study when the screen door makes the horrid squeaking sound it always does. I quickly take the notebook and the picture and shove it into my hoodie. I look up to see Danielle and Sebastian. “Why are you in here, kid?” Sebastian asks in a tone that can only be described as pure annoyance. “I can’t be in my best friend’s house? You should read his will—I get a pick of the litter.” I say, waving my hands at the room. Sebastian’s eyes held nothing but loathing. “I could ask you guys the same thing. I get you guys are investigating the whole portal to hell thing, but why Mr. Ishikawa’s house?”
Danielle glanced around the room, her eyes landing on the photo poking out of my hoodie pocket. “We think he was involved somehow and his personal belongings are the best way to find out.” “So you mean snooping through a dead man’s possessions?” Sebastian’s blue eyes seemed to get darker, like a sapphire instead of a crystal. “What do you call what you’re doing then, kid?” I did not appreciate that jab. “Trying to remember my best friend, asshole. How would you like it if some random strangers broke into your best friend’s home, told you he was under investigation and tell you to get lost? Not that good huh?” I shot him one last glare before shoving past them and out the front door.
In my room I read his journal. Most of it was pretty muddled, he would start in English and then just randomly start writing in Japanese. Thankfully I had a Japanese to English dictionary I kept around in case Mr. Ishikawa slipped and said something in Japanese which happened a lot toward the end. After translating most of it I came to the instructions.
“First, you need to summon a demon.” I could almost feel my heart drop to my feet. “If you weave a doll with a piece of paper detailing your reason for summoning and read the words for the incantation, you should be able to summon one. Be careful, Salus, demons are known to be deceitful. They will lie like it’s the truth and tell the truth like it’s a lie. Always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down. Samuel is a testimony of that.” The use of my name caught me off guard. Did he know that I would read this? Did he know what he was getting himself into, that he would die if he tried to free Hakiro?
Did he try this ritual and die as a result?
“Sal! Someone’s here to see you!” I slam the notebook shut at my mom’s voice. I quickly run downstairs and am met with Danielle Hill. She’s not in a suit, instead she’s a in casual clothes. “Hey, Salus. Let’s talk.” I led her out to the bench swing in my front yard. It was dark out, so no one was outside except for the FBI agent and a teenager. She sat to my right, pushing off the ground to start swinging. “Akio was different when he was young. He grew up in Anchorage where I lived. We were best friends. Suddenly, one summer, he came back from visiting Wickett Lake and he was…different. Quieter, paranoid. He was constantly talking about the lake and how it swallowed his cousin. How it was his fault. He would beg his parents to move. His parents thought it was because of his aunt, he did love her. But it wasn’t her, it was the lake and it was Hakiro.”
I smiled as I remembered him saying something. “When I was a boy, I had a best friend. Her name was Dani and she was convinced she was going to marry me.” I had felt disgusted at the time, but Mr. Ishikawa had this wistful look on his face. “He called you Dani.” She gave me smile and suddenly something felt wrong. “Wait, if you knew Mr. Ishikawa when he was a kid that means you should be like, eighty five. How the hell do you look twenty?”
She stared up at the stars. Something about Alaska and it’s stars. I guess since Alaska is so rural, there’s no pollution to cover up the stars. “That’s what I was meaning to tell you. I guess technically I would be his age, but when you spend fifty years in Hell, things change.” “Hold up—you went to Hell?” She nodded, her eyes getting the same faraway look she had gotten when I asked her about Mr. Ishikawa the first time. “When I was twenty-five, I got into a car accident. Driving drunk, ran into a station wagon that had two little girls and their parents in it. None of them made it and I got shipped down to the earth’s asshole.”
She chuckled darkly. “It’s not…never mind, you asked why I look so young. Well, time works differently down there. Time moves slower than up here. No one’s supposed to escape from Hell which is why I look like this. The same age as when I went down there. To me it felt like maybe a month had gone by but it was such a long month.” She caught a tear before it could fall. “I don’t know what exactly happened, all I know is that I saw something down there, a light. So I moved toward it and suddenly I was spat into that lake.” She points the sign that reads ‘Wickett Lake: half a mile’. “I changed my name, got a house and made sure my job involved finding out what the hell happened to me. No pun intended.” After a awkward laugh silence resumed and was broken by Danielle.
“I may sound like Akio when I say this, but please, Salus, don’t go. Don’t go down there. It’s not what you think—it’s not what anyone thinks. It’s worse, so much worse. I know what you’re planning and it’s not worth it. Trust me.” She seemed so genuine, but I couldn’t let this go. Mr. Ishikawa wrote that journal for me. I have a feeling he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t think I was capable. “Okay.” That seemed to satisfy her and she bid her goodbye. I guess I was thinking like a demon when I thought to myself “I didn’t say yes. I just said okay.” Technically not a lie.
I found a doll Ishikawa had given me and unraveled some of it to place the scrap of notebook paper. I had watched him make so many of them that it was like watching him do it as I wove it back together. I wrote down the incantation, grabbed my hoodie and the doll along with my mom’s car keys and went down to the lake.
It was desolate that time of night which was good. I dug a hole with sand and placed the doll inside. I drew a circle around it and drew the symbols it called for. Then I read it. It was in Latin and I don’t think I got the pronunciation correct but I guess that didn’t matter because almost a second after I finished the last sentence, a man stood in front of me.
He looked normal. Dark hair, light skin. He was wearing a three piece suit. In fact, the only way I knew he wasn’t human was his pitch black eyes. “Salus Roman Harmon. Nice to finally meet your acquaintance. Though, I thought for sure your jurisdiction was Heaven. What are you doing summoning the likes of me?” My voice sounded choked, but I powered through it. “In the forties a boy was sucked into Hell. I want to get him back.” The demon tapped his lips as if thinking. “You’ll have to narrow it down, Salus. There were about two dozen boys sucked into Hell from this town. We have loyal subjects walking these roads.” His smile made me sick, but I answered him. “Hakiro Takahashi.” The demon snapped his fingers. “Ah! That one! Yes, little fighter that one is. He’s doing just dandy in the old fire pit.” He had the audacity to wink at me.
“I need him back.” The laugh wasn’t really a laugh, more like a cackle akin to a witch. “You ‘want him back?’ It doesn’t work that, I’m afraid. You don’t just pick and choose who gets to escape the chains. There’s a bureaucracy down there.” I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “So what do I have to do?” He was about to say something when he stopped, a sly smile on his lips. “I’ll cut you a deal, Salus Harmon. You spend a week down there and I’ll give you your precious Hakiro back.” I almost agreed before Danielle’s story popped into my head.
I glanced at the lake. “Time works different down there. For all I know a week down there could be fifteen years up here.” He smiled again. “Maybe, but that’s part of the deal. Take it or leave it.” It felt like it took fifteen minutes to decide but finally I set my jaw and held out my hand. “It’s a deal.” “That’s just splendid!” He exclaimed, grabbing my arm with enough force to pull me into the lake right there. “Let me just call up a friend.” He let out a growl that was low enough to rattle my bones. Not two seconds later a woman in her forties appeared next to us. “Dolores, Darling. Would you be so kind as to open a portal for me and my new friend?” The woman didn’t need prompting and just closed her eyes and right next to the shore the water turned a murky black color.
The demon clapped her on the back. “That’s quite enough, Dolores! You might as well send us to the cage! Now off you go!” He said in his preppy English accent. She simply disappeared down the path back to town. “Why can’t you summon one? You are a demon, right?” A hint of annoyance seeped into his tone. “Annoying, right? Well the higher ups agreed demons were too…trigger happy with the portals. You should be grateful, I used one of my Calls on you.” He turned his back to me and stepped into the water. “How many do you have?” “Oh just a mere fifty thousand.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re lying.” “And what if I am? It’s kind of my personality Salus. Now, in you come.” I walked closer to the water, stopping as the waves lapped against my shoes.
The demon tapped his foot in the water. “We don’t have all night, Salus. Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me so hard I thought my shoulder would dislocate. As we got closer to the black water everything in my very core screamed at me to get out, to run away. “A word of advice: Hell isn’t hot, no, it’s very, very cold.”
Before I could even scream, we were in the water.
The chains clank together when we walk. There are so many of us, that I’ve lost interest in counting them. One thing is certain though. The demon was right when he said it was cold. I’m so cold it feels like my limbs are a block of ice. After a day I stopped shivering but I’m pretty sure that’s a sign of hypothermia. Not that it would matter. Technically, I’m dead.
I’ve only been here three days, but Danielle was right. It feels so much longer. Like three months or even three years. There’s no perception of time here, no rest. We just walk, then we work, then we walk, then we work. It’s a never ending cycle. Maybe one day you’ll get some excitement and one of the prisoners will try and make a run for it. Then you’ll get to watch as the demons beat them relentlessly and throw him back in line.
I don’t know how I can perceive time. No one else can. Even when I sneak whispered questions to the person in front of me, they don’t know how to answer. Just like Danielle, their perception of time has been skewed by this place. But I’ve started asking names. Sometimes, they’ve been here so long they’ve forgotten, but so far I’ve got the names of ten. Kenny, Percy, Bobby, Zane, Gene, Juniper, Otis, Belinda, Sasha, Frankie and Winter. I’ll remember them. I have to. I bet no one else does.
“Salus Roman Harmon!” The bruises on my back started to seethe as the name was called. I flinched involuntarily when the manacles were stripped off my wrists and ankles and I was marched out of line. I just followed blindly and didn’t speak. Suddenly I was impossibly warm. I almost cried just from the feeling of warmth after so long without it.
I was shoved into a chair and melted into it. We don’t get to sit ever. There’s no time. “Really? This is the kid?” I opened my eyes to find three demons in front of me. I’m in this office looking room, it’s walls are a dark blue. Behind a desk sits the demons. “I’m afraid so.” One said while looking at me in contempt. “How old are you, Salus Harmon?” One asked. I had to think hard about that. I knew I was only sixteen, but some part of me felt older. “Sixteen, I guess.” “But it doesn’t feel like that?” I shake my head. “What does it feel like?” I was silent for a minute, but spoke up for fear of being taken back to the line. “I feel like I’m twenty. Maybe twenty-one.” He looks at the demon to his right. “You’re right, he is good.” I was insanely confused but just went with it. “I have good news, Salus Harmon. I understand that you’re here looking for a Hakiro Aito Takahashi.” I nodded quickly. “The deal you cut is still valid if you wish to take it. There’s a way to the madness here, so we can’t take that deal away from you. You can stay here for four more days—well, this time at least—and you’ll leave with Hakiro in tow. Or, we can release Hakiro now.” I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the catch?”
He laughed a booming laugh that made me flinch. “I like you. So I’ll be truthful though I would much like to lie. You’re a unique specimen, Salus Harmon. A human who can tell time in Hell. That’s not supposed to exist. So I’ll give you a once in a lifetime opportunity. We can give Hakiro fake memories to replace the ones from here. Memories of a fake past that would give him a more peaceful life. All you have to do is repay the favor.” I hated the way he was avoiding the answer. Something was wrong with his offer.
I sat up straighter no matter how much it hurt my back. “What’s the favor?” “Simple. We have souls down here who are…tougher nuts to crack. All we need you to do is crack them.” The dots connected faster than I thought they would after what felt like years of no stimulation. “You want me to torture people.” “Well not people, technically. More like, lost souls.” I tried to stand up but failed spectacularly and collapsed beside the chair. “You can forget about it.”
I tried to stand up, but my muscles wouldn’t obey my commands. I felt so weak. “Then here’s the dealio. I submit your friend Hakiro to the worst torture imaginable and force you to watch for the rest of your four days here. How does that sound Mr. Harmon?” Tears tried to fall but I was so void of emotion they never had the chance. “I guess I can’t expect kindness from demons.” I managed to pull myself back into the chair, glaring at the demons. “Rude, but applicable. Now, what do you say?” “I don’t really have a choice. Fine, I’ll do it.”
Just like the demon that sent me here, he clapped his hands in this childlike manner. “Goody! Would you mind getting our friend Salus a bed to recuperate in? I’m sure he’s very tired.” I was very tired and the thought of a bed sounded like heaven. “But when do I start?” I asked as I was lifted into the bed by the two other demons. “We’ll discuss that when your muscles aren’t stretched out like Kim Kardashian’s face skin.” My eyes were already slipping closed as soon as my head hit the pillow. “Who’s Kim Kardashian?” “You’ll find out later, I suppose. Nighty, night!” And just like that, lights out.
When I woke up a woman was tending to me. She didn’t look a like a demon, she looked like a human. “Salus! You’re awake. I don’t have much time so I’ll keep it short.” She glanced at the dark painted door, but nothing sounded on the other side. “I’ve got some news topside.” I guess she saw my confused look. “Slang for earth time. It’s been a bit since you’ve been back and stuff has happened. Big stuff. Time to live up to your name, kiddo.”
I was so confused. So I just asked the questions as they came. “How much time has passed?” “Five years, Salus. And in those five years a lot has changed.” As I tried to wrap my head around what she was talking about she suddenly grabbed my face in her hands. I melted into the touch. Her hands were so warm. “Listen to me, Salus. They need you. Wickett Lake needs you. In two days time someone will come back to get you and we’ll brief you on everything, right now, you rest. You’ll need it.” She got up and tried to leave, but I grabbed her wrist.
I pulled her back to me, though it didn’t do much, my muscles were so weak. “What’s happening?” The woman gives me a sad smile. “You’re going to save Wickett Lake.” And just like that, she was gone.
I guess I owe you an apology, Mr. Ishikawa. For not believing you. For not believing Danielle when she warned me. For not leaving this whole thing alone.
I’m sorry, Mr. Ishikawa. I’m really sorry.
2021.07.12 04:56 Cookie-Crumble- Tales of Unlikely Wizard — 1.30 — WL/AR
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___
Arlene was aware of the movement in front of her. It was classified under gesture-posture. Variant of standard openness with accentuated vocal note of forest-inherent, structured polyphonic. Which as per her criteria merit a second look.
Not because it was dangerous. In fact, twenty-six out of twenty-seven instances recorded the happenstances to be mostly benign. Utilized as entertainment or emotional (good) display in an appropriate setting. Recent witnessed example was a case of an elf (unknown, female, age: half-tree) used it to calm down another, younger elf (unknown, male(?), age: sapling) after the latter dropped his food plate while running across the hallway (adventurer’s guild, Ar’endal).
This occasion however was determined to be not of those twenty-six. Instead, the scattered luminescence had surmounted the acceptable background brightness on Lineus’ mana scale, the very reason that it was pre-warned in her decision tree under ‘mid-immediacy’; there was a real chance for it use to not be merely mundane.
Threat.
Or not?
She queried.
The part of her, the lead bubble that was assigned to determine that type of answer said no. No with full affirmation — a worrying conclusion.
Recorded similars tabulated that only 15 of 859 false pre-warn had no dissenting forks. 651 of those came with at least three, 105 with two, and the remaining 88, the clear-cut as she had termed, had one. One however unlikely. Thus as per her protocol for such occasion, she split her focus for a breath, downgrading the growl’s observation to passive (automated, unfiltered), opening a half-thought slot.
She blinked.
And found that the conclusion ...was correct.
The imperatocaster of the said emotional turned out to be sheave-filled under friend (adventurers). The tags were even less worrying. Trust, aligned interest, and trivial history of conflicts. Bright, bright, and bright.
She sheave-filled, sheave-tagged the happenstance. Putting it as another case in favor of the lead bubble (threat determination, current). Once its accuracy reached the elusive ninety-five out of one hundred occasions, she’d have the protocol readjusted, reducing the double-checking to only the direst pre-warn.
The pre-warn resolved, she popped out that branch of query, letting the thought slot closed. Rested. The rest of her bubbles quaked with jubilation. Happiness. After all, since a slot had been rested, they wouldn’t need to devote a significant part of their processing to watch whether their own processing eclipsed the assigned limit. Now up to 5 out of 100 errors could simply be tolerated.
It was short-lived however, not even five breathes later, her efficiencies’ assign submitted a request for a reallocation. Request that to put it simply, to use the now opened slot for her translation project.
It argued as followed: based on Fami’s finding (335/04/23), the found scripts were clear to not be pure logographic. The old Gherlkin’s phonemes (line 7, line 9, line 11, tablet 8; line 3, line 6, tablet 12; line 1 tablet 3…) were after cursory matching was managed to be classified under diaclessian — a distinct pre-day end’s written that commonly used by a collection of plain’s tribe that was located upstream of the now Saran-Mide’s river.
However, it wasn’t clear whether the diaclessian was categorized as Eastfall, Highmount, Flattenmoore, or the remaining six distinct geographical variants in which the tribes were known to be residing. That was why only the shared secondary had been identified and nothing else. Not to mention since the source text of both ends (the found tablets and the diaclessian scripts) were badly damaged, it’d require more thought, more bubbles to account side-by-side matching.
It suggested to use the opened thought slot to start a heuristic. By accounting strokes difference using the data of known local writing implement, various as they were, she could reduce the obvious false by at least one-third in just three to four days. Then if she followed that with the cursive/block differentiation, and finished it with dialect filtering, more syllabaries (should they be present), would be able to be identified by the end of processing (ten to twelve days from now). Netting her around 70 to 112 contribution points instead of 30 to 58 points that she would obtain if she continued with only mapping.
She, however, refused that request. Although she had acquiesced using 1 of 5 available thought slots for the translation project in order to compensate for her unneeded presence on this low-risk incursion, duty demanded that she had the last thought slot opened, just in case.
"Thirteen gold per potion?"
The queries flared. How that conversation managed to intrude —Ah. The pre-conclusion, she looked up, had been fulfilled. Yes. One by one, part of scattered bubbles and matters affirmed and confirmed that the incursion, as she had predicted, ended in success; her party had managed to reach an amicable conclusion with the seller.
Which meant it was time to drop the trance.
She looked up to the endless white, to the bubbles that were forever and ever. Stretching in space of nothing, branching by tangling of strings.
She waved her hand, imaginary as that was, and halted everything.
The glistening rainbow, iridescent, fell into white. Into gray. The buzzing-speeding light that passed and zipped through each bubble’s string, slacken. Still moving were just select branches of primaries and functionals. Those she couldn’t live with and those she couldn’t live without.
The rest however, as detrancing did and demanded, were reduced to a blur of discrete background. Blue less. Mana stilted. Gray and white only. She watched as her motivation willed the translation bubbles popped. Their matters evaporated, their content —their progress, archived.
The rest was glided —brought to the strings, their matters and all moved, made stream.
And the stream streamed, one by one, bunch by bunch, it flowed. Glided until it reached the entirety of her center.
She puzzled what need to be repuzzled. Stretched and fitted the rest —tangling strings, matters, everything mote. Melded, expanded, enlarged. Every shining, every shade. Every gleam, every dream, fused into one. Into her.
She blinked.
She was whole.
Almost.
Ugh. The pain... It as if she had been pelted by ...hailstones? Right on the eyes and by the dozens. One of these days she swore she would get that pain-go-away. Yeah, right. That was fourth year’s privilege. It wasn’t like she could bribe Mr. Cale for that. The man was brave, sure. But not even he was brave enough to touch those third floor’s books.
Where was she anyway? It was just that— hmm. Why hadn’t she returned? It was like there something —something remained*. Although* where would she return to anyway? She was pretty sure she was home. This was home. But there was this nagging, this voice of something — telling her that she was also not home?
That wasn’t good.
Fine. Her thought arguably still kinda buzzed, fogged. Like there were three heavy furred blankets draped over her head. And her vision was swirly-swirly funny. But even with her slurred imbibed state, she was pretty sure her hand should be sleeved up, covered on her weekend academy’s robe. Not this — this white, bright light stuff. What was this anyway? This wasn’t what she wore before. This looked like something commissioned by Gilded. Bullshit stuff that did nothing except aww-ing the Hightown never-ending balls attendee. This particular one must cost like, hmm, three hundred apiece. Five hundred if it was sold on the spot. Pretentious frou-frou.
Her light... Why she took up translation and restoration?! She could be rich! Rich! Delve into the unknown they said, obtained ancient power they said, you might get rare class, they said. Well, your majesties, noblesies, with her earning so far, all her retirement qualified her was a quaint, farmstead on Easthollow!
She didn’t come all of this way just — just to farm again.
Stop, stop, stop. This wasn’t the time to get angry out of ...already set thing. Figuring where she was more important. Ogre’s Bath! If her vision at least all right... Sighing, she pinched her nose bridge hard. Ugh. Not even the pain managed to get rid this stupid vision.
Fine. Let try something different.
“Light—”
AH!
Her head throb which was just dull before, now intensifying. Flaring. As if it turned from a poking little branch to a full-blown knife, stabbed right into her eyes. Fuck! What happened?! The only time she was ever got a headache this awful was when — her light... she was drunk wasn’t she?
She meant it wasn’t surprising, she massaged her poor temples and flicked her now almost singed fingers. Knowing her, the walk had finally got into her. And to think that Lyd thought she could pass it with that damn useless rat. Would it kill that girl to listen to good advice sometimes? She didn’t mean that the girl must throw that thing into the garbage bin (even though she absolutely should). She meant that she should be practical. How would she pass the bridge with that rat?
Speaking of Lyd, where was that girl anyway? If she was drunk, as it was increasingly likely, she didn’t get drunk alone. No. That would be stupid. At the very least, she would have the battlemage friend of her accompanied her drinking. Which was the sane thing to do. Why? Well, it was because the girl didn’t drink. Meant, she always sober. Meant she could bring him home when she inevitably ...become a slobber. Of course, it wasn’t charity. She treated her to a meal, lots of it. Good deals right? But now she — the girl wasn’t even here. Where was she? She was supposed to be over there. Outside. Along with Rene both of them should be covering Clem, Emily, and her in case the whole party needed to make a quick escape.
Emily? Rene? Clem? That—that was weird. Wasn’t it just both of them? ...she—she was with the party?
...and escape? Escape from who? The growl was tame. And the girl basically a perfect little sister. Why would they need to escape?
...what?
There—there was that again. Memories. Something — something not right. Come on, Lene, what did you do before you’re coming here?
What did you do?
She was ...going to a store? New store? To buy something. A… potion. Yes. A potion.
She was assigned to…
Ugh!
This wasn’t working.
Drawing a full breath, she sat. Her eyes closed, her feet folded underneath her thighs.
She let everything go.
The mana was swimming, everpresent. The space was alight but dimming. Everything as it should be, yet she wasn’t where she ought to be. The bubbles streamed up and down, the matter—
—Ah.
She had been trancing
She should have guessed. But why she hadn’t returned? Hmm... a thought bubble must still haven’t melded back. Where, where, where…
There!
South of herself, a distant light —a mirror was floating. It was her reflection in a bubble. A big that was yet to pop. Her light! Was that a spell? She saw her mirrored self was holding a design.
No wonder!
Well, her conscious self must determine that the spell was easy enough to dismiss though. You knew, since she dared to do a spell in a trance.
Looking up and down, circling the bubbles, pushing her vision to the limit, she nodded and sigh with relief. True to her previous assessment, she was right. The thing was a scroll’s spell, not her’s. This should be easy. Why? Well, that because the spell wasn’t in her, per se. It was in the scroll, she just mirrored the structure in fleeting memory. Otherwise, the spell wouldn’t be just made of mana, it should also be propped by matters. And light knew, it was hard to dismiss matters without causing damage. But mana? She had a pretty good handle on that.
What was the spell again, by the way?
Hmm. Layered circles, connected by reverse triangle, two Sylvar behests, seven wind-class rune… Right. [Quickstep]. She remembered it, now. She had been pre-casting the spell in case the growl wasn’t tamed properly.
Ok, let dismissed it.
She leaped and jumped to the bubble, getting close, getting near. A step of her heel on the float, almost keel. The circle was two she saw, jumping and popping. It layered, quartic, and trianglic.
The path was clear. The light was straight.
She touched the third-star positions and sighed with relief. At least this half-her still knew her conscious self’s usual gate placement. Now with just a bit of Parsett’s manic, a depth tweaking, she would be able to slow the mana flow to...
Nice!
The circle was dimming. The mana halt to grinding.
First layer!
She cut the passthrough.
The second!
The circle seal formed.
The third!
She let the seal ran, by the stream of strings that followed, she looked as it crawled and crawled out of the space to her hand till it reached the scroll, sealing it to unuse.
What was left was her mirrored self. And at once, the moment the seal was placed (as indicated by the loud click, echoing in the space) it was crumbling, emptying — turned into matters and barebone of memories. She watched it streamed down, down, down. To her center. To her self.
She blinked.
"Yup yup yup. Big sister got money?"
A rough skin brushed against her hand, hot. Movement in front of her. Wind around her back. Looking at her front, she saw the world —the real world had returned. Behind a long table was the seller, looking curious; her party’s rogue, smiling as always; and Emily, looking to her own hand, concentrating on something.
“Yes, we do young miss,” Emily said after a breath, looking up from her own hand. “We’d take—”
“Wa...it...” Arlene spoke, her voice cracking. Ugh. Her throat tickled — it was dry. The trance must reduce her normal gulping. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, she walked toward Emily, holding out her hand.
“Let me see.”
“Oh! Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Lene.” the woman looked surprised, she blinked a few times before handing her the bottle which Arlene accepted.
Hmm, it wasn’t much. Just a regular stone bottle. Smooth though, she brushed her finger a few times on its patterned surface. Should he pop the cork off? Nah. That’d be buying. She had a better method.
"[Appraisal]!"
She flickered her mana, coursing through from her hand to the held bottle. In a breath, a screen of blue, warped itself to her front, presenting the system-approved information.
[Minor] Stamina Elixir
A bottle of stamina Elixir. Immediately refill half maximum stamina within 100 breaths after consumption.
What? H—how? How?? She—she just humoring Clem when the latter told her there was a potion — a made potion that could restore stamina. Which was hilarious. Half-hilarious. The other, other half was …anger. Because he did waste her time. Her translation’s part was far from finished and even if it had finished, she still needed to study. He should know that. She told Emily like two moons before that Lyd and her had tests in two weeks. Yet since she already at the inn, and since the day was already lost, she figured she would just ...took a break. She had been stressed out with preparing for the walk and walking around, even if it pointless, was a good refresher if any. Her anger even had somewhat melted when she realized he was dead serious.
Yet, she was the one in the wrong?
She stared, stared, and stared to the bottle, to the potion. She almost — almost popped the cork off, trying to identify it by look, by whiff. Thank great will she managed to stop herself. All of her coins wouldn’t be enough to replace this — this treasure!
How—how could this be? She even already prepared to give him a consolation head tap later, a firm one that she would relish for a long, long time. She meant, come on. Those ladders guys obviously got him. Got him good. It—it was obvious! Potions were dungeon-made. That was like ...fact! Sure there was a pre-day’s end record of offshoot [Shaman] class that could make similar concoctions. But those kinds of things were lost to time.
What were the chances that some store in the middle of the busiest inner could have something that only the deepest dark reach of dungeon do?
"Oh. Her. Light!"
"What is it Ar?" Emily turned toward her, her face curious.
"Yeah show us, Lene," said Clem.
"I-I want to see it too."
Blasphemy! All of them! You guys should be in awe, not curious! At once she pulled a sheaf from her bag. By a flick, her sleeves unlatched. Revving her mana, her quill flew — she released the magic true, "[Rapid Transcribing: Appraisal]!"
She watched as the quill wrote and scratched, her magic dripped, functioned as the ink, both were working together, stenciling the appraisal result down.
“Here.”
The [Spearmistress] took the sheaf, read it, and freeze. Her inquiring gleam turned blank. Her spear almost dropped. It lasted for a whole five breathes, before Rene, peeked the sheaf from the back of her shoulder and said "...wow."
The beastman eyes widen.
"It’s.., It’s perfect H—how much for each potion?” the spearmistress turned her head sharp, staring, boring her gaze through the still smiling too young of a seller. Yeah, that the proper reaction, Emily! Arlene sighed.
"This much." the young girl, the mysterious young girl, raised three fingers.
"Three gold? That's cheap en—"
"No, thriteen! ugh. thriteen! ... ugh Clar means to say thirteen! Yes, THIRTEEN!"
Only thirteen? She should — no she must purchase at least one. This, this was huge. Where was her coin pouch— ah! She didn’t even bring it with her!
"Three bottles a person… so, twenty-one, no, twenty-two bottles. Twenty-two bottles, please."
Forgot it. She’d just borrow one from Emily today and returned here for more bottles tomorrow.
"Okay! That would be ...hmm.” the girl paused, her finger was on her chin, thinking hard. Right, it wasn’t easy for someone so young to do sudden math like that, maybe she couldn’t, and this — this amazing master of her would come and help her? She certainly hoped so.
“Two hundred and eighty-six gold!" Ah. So she just needed a little time... Fine. She would find whoever this master was on another day. It wasn’t like he never came to his own store right? “Do you want it wrapped?"
“No, thank you,” Emily said. “We’ll carry it ourselves.”
“Okay! Thanks, big sister, come again!”
___
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Arlene was aware of the movement in front of her. It was classified under gesture-posture. Variant of standard openness with accentuated vocal note of forest-inherent, structured polyphonic. Which as per her criteria merit a second look.
Not because it was dangerous. In fact, twenty-six out of twenty-seven instances recorded the happenstances to be mostly benign. Utilized as entertainment or emotional (good) display in an appropriate setting. Recent witnessed example was a case of an elf (unknown, female, age: half-tree) used it to calm down another, younger elf (unknown, male(?), age: sapling) after the latter dropped his food plate while running across the hallway (adventurer’s guild, Ar’endal).
This occasion however was determined to be not of those twenty-six. Instead, the scattered luminescence had surmounted the acceptable background brightness on Lineus’ mana scale, the very reason that it was pre-warned in her decision tree under ‘mid-immediacy’; there was a real chance for it use to not be merely mundane.
Threat.
Or not?
She queried.
The part of her, the lead bubble that was assigned to determine that type of answer said no. No with full affirmation — a worrying conclusion.
Recorded similars tabulated that only 15 of 859 false pre-warn had no dissenting forks. 651 of those came with at least three, 105 with two, and the remaining 88, the clear-cut as she had termed, had one. One however unlikely. Thus as per her protocol for such occasion, she split her focus for a breath, downgrading the growl’s observation to passive (automated, unfiltered), opening a half-thought slot.
She blinked.
And found that the conclusion ...was correct.
The imperatocaster of the said emotional turned out to be sheave-filled under friend (adventurers). The tags were even less worrying. Trust, aligned interest, and trivial history of conflicts. Bright, bright, and bright.
She sheave-filled, sheave-tagged the happenstance. Putting it as another case in favor of the lead bubble (threat determination, current). Once its accuracy reached the elusive ninety-five out of one hundred occasions, she’d have the protocol readjusted, reducing the double-checking to only the direst pre-warn.
The pre-warn resolved, she popped out that branch of query, letting the thought slot closed. Rested. The rest of her bubbles quaked with jubilation. Happiness. After all, since a slot had been rested, they wouldn’t need to devote a significant part of their processing to watch whether their own processing eclipsed the assigned limit. Now up to 5 out of 100 errors could simply be tolerated.
It was short-lived however, not even five breathes later, her efficiencies’ assign submitted a request for a reallocation. Request that to put it simply, to use the now opened slot for her translation project.
It argued as followed: based on Fami’s finding (335/04/23), the found scripts were clear to not be pure logographic. The old Gherlkin’s phonemes (line 7, line 9, line 11, tablet 8; line 3, line 6, tablet 12; line 1 tablet 3…) were after cursory matching was managed to be classified under diaclessian — a distinct pre-day end’s written that commonly used by a collection of plain’s tribe that was located upstream of the now Saran-Mide’s river.
However, it wasn’t clear whether the diaclessian was categorized as Eastfall, Highmount, Flattenmoore, or the remaining six distinct geographical variants in which the tribes were known to be residing. That was why only the shared secondary had been identified and nothing else. Not to mention since the source text of both ends (the found tablets and the diaclessian scripts) were badly damaged, it’d require more thought, more bubbles to account side-by-side matching.
It suggested to use the opened thought slot to start a heuristic. By accounting strokes difference using the data of known local writing implement, various as they were, she could reduce the obvious false by at least one-third in just three to four days. Then if she followed that with the cursive/block differentiation, and finished it with dialect filtering, more syllabaries (should they be present), would be able to be identified by the end of processing (ten to twelve days from now). Netting her around 70 to 112 contribution points instead of 30 to 58 points that she would obtain if she continued with only mapping.
She, however, refused that request. Although she had acquiesced using 1 of 5 available thought slots for the translation project in order to compensate for her unneeded presence on this low-risk incursion, duty demanded that she had the last thought slot opened, just in case.
"Thirteen gold per potion?"
The queries flared. How that conversation managed to intrude —Ah. The pre-conclusion, she looked up, had been fulfilled. Yes. One by one, part of scattered bubbles and matters affirmed and confirmed that the incursion, as she had predicted, ended in success; her party had managed to reach an amicable conclusion with the seller.
Which meant it was time to drop the trance.
She looked up to the endless white, to the bubbles that were forever and ever. Stretching in space of nothing, branching by tangling of strings.
She waved her hand, imaginary as that was, and halted everything.
The glistening rainbow, iridescent, fell into white. Into gray. The buzzing-speeding light that passed and zipped through each bubble’s string, slacken. Still moving were just select branches of primaries and functionals. Those she couldn’t live with and those she couldn’t live without.
The rest however, as detrancing did and demanded, were reduced to a blur of discrete background. Blue less. Mana stilted. Gray and white only. She watched as her motivation willed the translation bubbles popped. Their matters evaporated, their content —their progress, archived.
The rest was glided —brought to the strings, their matters and all moved, made stream.
And the stream streamed, one by one, bunch by bunch, it flowed. Glided until it reached the entirety of her center.
She puzzled what need to be repuzzled. Stretched and fitted the rest —tangling strings, matters, everything mote. Melded, expanded, enlarged. Every shining, every shade. Every gleam, every dream, fused into one. Into her.
She blinked.
She was whole.
Almost.
Ugh. The pain... It as if she had been pelted by ...hailstones? Right on the eyes and by the dozens. One of these days she swore she would get that pain-go-away. Yeah, right. That was fourth year’s privilege. It wasn’t like she could bribe Mr. Cale for that. The man was brave, sure. But not even he was brave enough to touch those third floor’s books.
Where was she anyway? It was just that— hmm. Why hadn’t she returned? It was like there something —something remained*. Although* where would she return to anyway? She was pretty sure she was home. This was home. But there was this nagging, this voice of something — telling her that she was also not home?
That wasn’t good.
Fine. Her thought arguably still kinda buzzed, fogged. Like there were three heavy furred blankets draped over her head. And her vision was swirly-swirly funny. But even with her slurred imbibed state, she was pretty sure her hand should be sleeved up, covered on her weekend academy’s robe. Not this — this white, bright light stuff. What was this anyway? This wasn’t what she wore before. This looked like something commissioned by Gilded. Bullshit stuff that did nothing except aww-ing the Hightown never-ending balls attendee. This particular one must cost like, hmm, three hundred apiece. Five hundred if it was sold on the spot. Pretentious frou-frou.
Her light... Why she took up translation and restoration?! She could be rich! Rich! Delve into the unknown they said, obtained ancient power they said, you might get rare class, they said. Well, your majesties, noblesies, with her earning so far, all her retirement qualified her was a quaint, farmstead on Easthollow!
She didn’t come all of this way just — just to farm again.
Stop, stop, stop. This wasn’t the time to get angry out of ...already set thing. Figuring where she was more important. Ogre’s Bath! If her vision at least all right... Sighing, she pinched her nose bridge hard. Ugh. Not even the pain managed to get rid this stupid vision.
Fine. Let try something different.
“Light—”
AH!
Her head throb which was just dull before, now intensifying. Flaring. As if it turned from a poking little branch to a full-blown knife, stabbed right into her eyes. Fuck! What happened?! The only time she was ever got a headache this awful was when — her light... she was drunk wasn’t she?
She meant it wasn’t surprising, she massaged her poor temples and flicked her now almost singed fingers. Knowing her, the walk had finally got into her. And to think that Lyd thought she could pass it with that damn useless rat. Would it kill that girl to listen to good advice sometimes? She didn’t mean that the girl must throw that thing into the garbage bin (even though she absolutely should). She meant that she should be practical. How would she pass the bridge with that rat?
Speaking of Lyd, where was that girl anyway? If she was drunk, as it was increasingly likely, she didn’t get drunk alone. No. That would be stupid. At the very least, she would have the battlemage friend of her accompanied her drinking. Which was the sane thing to do. Why? Well, it was because the girl didn’t drink. Meant, she always sober. Meant she could bring him home when she inevitably ...become a slobber. Of course, it wasn’t charity. She treated her to a meal, lots of it. Good deals right? But now she — the girl wasn’t even here. Where was she? She was supposed to be over there. Outside. Along with Rene both of them should be covering Clem, Emily, and her in case the whole party needed to make a quick escape.
Emily? Rene? Clem? That—that was weird. Wasn’t it just both of them? ...she—she was with the party?
...and escape? Escape from who? The growl was tame. And the girl basically a perfect little sister. Why would they need to escape?
...what?
There—there was that again. Memories. Something — something not right. Come on, Lene, what did you do before you’re coming here?
What did you do?
She was ...going to a store? New store? To buy something. A… potion. Yes. A potion.
She was assigned to…
Ugh!
This wasn’t working.
Drawing a full breath, she sat. Her eyes closed, her feet folded underneath her thighs.
She let everything go.
The mana was swimming, everpresent. The space was alight but dimming. Everything as it should be, yet she wasn’t where she ought to be. The bubbles streamed up and down, the matter—
—Ah.
She had been trancing
She should have guessed. But why she hadn’t returned? Hmm... a thought bubble must still haven’t melded back. Where, where, where…
There!
South of herself, a distant light —a mirror was floating. It was her reflection in a bubble. A big that was yet to pop. Her light! Was that a spell? She saw her mirrored self was holding a design.
No wonder!
Well, her conscious self must determine that the spell was easy enough to dismiss though. You knew, since she dared to do a spell in a trance.
Looking up and down, circling the bubbles, pushing her vision to the limit, she nodded and sigh with relief. True to her previous assessment, she was right. The thing was a scroll’s spell, not her’s. This should be easy. Why? Well, that because the spell wasn’t in her, per se. It was in the scroll, she just mirrored the structure in fleeting memory. Otherwise, the spell wouldn’t be just made of mana, it should also be propped by matters. And light knew, it was hard to dismiss matters without causing damage. But mana? She had a pretty good handle on that.
What was the spell again, by the way?
Hmm. Layered circles, connected by reverse triangle, two Sylvar behests, seven wind-class rune… Right. [Quickstep]. She remembered it, now. She had been pre-casting the spell in case the growl wasn’t tamed properly.
Ok, let dismissed it.
She leaped and jumped to the bubble, getting close, getting near. A step of her heel on the float, almost keel. The circle was two she saw, jumping and popping. It layered, quartic, and trianglic.
The path was clear. The light was straight.
She touched the third-star positions and sighed with relief. At least this half-her still knew her conscious self’s usual gate placement. Now with just a bit of Parsett’s manic, a depth tweaking, she would be able to slow the mana flow to...
Nice!
The circle was dimming. The mana halt to grinding.
First layer!
She cut the passthrough.
The second!
The circle seal formed.
The third!
She let the seal ran, by the stream of strings that followed, she looked as it crawled and crawled out of the space to her hand till it reached the scroll, sealing it to unuse.
What was left was her mirrored self. And at once, the moment the seal was placed (as indicated by the loud click, echoing in the space) it was crumbling, emptying — turned into matters and barebone of memories. She watched it streamed down, down, down. To her center. To her self.
She blinked.
"Yup yup yup. Big sister got money?"
A rough skin brushed against her hand, hot. Movement in front of her. Wind around her back. Looking at her front, she saw the world —the real world had returned. Behind a long table was the seller, looking curious; her party’s rogue, smiling as always; and Emily, looking to her own hand, concentrating on something.
“Yes, we do young miss,” Emily said after a breath, looking up from her own hand. “We’d take—”
“Wa...it...” Arlene spoke, her voice cracking. Ugh. Her throat tickled — it was dry. The trance must reduce her normal gulping. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, she walked toward Emily, holding out her hand.
“Let me see.”
“Oh! Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Lene.” the woman looked surprised, she blinked a few times before handing her the bottle which Arlene accepted.
Hmm, it wasn’t much. Just a regular stone bottle. Smooth though, she brushed her finger a few times on its patterned surface. Should he pop the cork off? Nah. That’d be buying. She had a better method.
"[Appraisal]!"
She flickered her mana, coursing through from her hand to the held bottle. In a breath, a screen of blue, warped itself to her front, presenting the system-approved information.
[Minor] Stamina Elixir
A bottle of stamina Elixir. Immediately refill half maximum stamina within 100 breaths after consumption.
What? H—how? How?? She—she just humoring Clem when the latter told her there was a potion — a made potion that could restore stamina. Which was hilarious. Half-hilarious. The other, other half was …anger. Because he did waste her time. Her translation’s part was far from finished and even if it had finished, she still needed to study. He should know that. She told Emily like two moons before that Lyd and her had tests in two weeks. Yet since she already at the inn, and since the day was already lost, she figured she would just ...took a break. She had been stressed out with preparing for the walk and walking around, even if it pointless, was a good refresher if any. Her anger even had somewhat melted when she realized he was dead serious.
Yet, she was the one in the wrong?
She stared, stared, and stared to the bottle, to the potion. She almost — almost popped the cork off, trying to identify it by look, by whiff. Thank great will she managed to stop herself. All of her coins wouldn’t be enough to replace this — this treasure!
How—how could this be? She even already prepared to give him a consolation head tap later, a firm one that she would relish for a long, long time. She meant, come on. Those ladders guys obviously got him. Got him good. It—it was obvious! Potions were dungeon-made. That was like ...fact! Sure there was a pre-day’s end record of offshoot [Shaman] class that could make similar concoctions. But those kinds of things were lost to time.
What were the chances that some store in the middle of the busiest inner could have something that only the deepest dark reach of dungeon do?
"Oh. Her. Light!"
"What is it Ar?" Emily turned toward her, her face curious.
"Yeah show us, Lene," said Clem.
"I-I want to see it too."
Blasphemy! All of them! You guys should be in awe, not curious! At once she pulled a sheaf from her bag. By a flick, her sleeves unlatched. Revving her mana, her quill flew — she released the magic true, "[Rapid Transcribing: Appraisal]!"
She watched as the quill wrote and scratched, her magic dripped, functioned as the ink, both were working together, stenciling the appraisal result down.
“Here.”
The [Spearmistress] took the sheaf, read it, and freeze. Her inquiring gleam turned blank. Her spear almost dropped. It lasted for a whole five breathes, before Rene, peeked the sheaf from the back of her shoulder and said "...wow."
The beastman eyes widen.
"It’s.., It’s perfect H—how much for each potion?” the spearmistress turned her head sharp, staring, boring her gaze through the still smiling too young of a seller. Yeah, that the proper reaction, Emily! Arlene sighed.
"This much." the young girl, the mysterious young girl, raised three fingers.
"Three gold? That's cheap en—"
"No, thriteen! ugh. thriteen! ... ugh Clar means to say thirteen! Yes, THIRTEEN!"
Only thirteen? She should — no she must purchase at least one. This, this was huge. Where was her coin pouch— ah! She didn’t even bring it with her!
"Three bottles a person… so, twenty-one, no, twenty-two bottles. Twenty-two bottles, please."
Forgot it. She’d just borrow one from Emily today and returned here for more bottles tomorrow.
"Okay! That would be ...hmm.” the girl paused, her finger was on her chin, thinking hard. Right, it wasn’t easy for someone so young to do sudden math like that, maybe she couldn’t, and this — this amazing master of her would come and help her? She certainly hoped so.
“Two hundred and eighty-six gold!" Ah. So she just needed a little time... Fine. She would find whoever this master was on another day. It wasn’t like he never came to his own store right? “Do you want it wrapped?"
“No, thank you,” Emily said. “We’ll carry it ourselves.”
“Okay! Thanks, big sister, come again!”
___
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2020.02.29 20:37 apham2021114 [Wandering Paradise] - Chapter 4
Chapter 1 Previous Chapter Next Chapter
Around this time of the year was the busiest of them all. What with entrance exams, buildings and rooms renovations, and student and guest events. Expensive, too, with building and architectural maintenance, ceremonial fees, salaries for famous guests and lecturers—the list goes on and on.
Even worse, special accommodations were requested for their precious little kids by the doting nobles of this city. Which meant more revenue, but in turn, more paperwork. Such papers on her desk were of the like, little and insignificant.
Fortunately, these insignificant documents only required her signature. She paid a bit of a glimpse at the headline, signed away, and swapped it for another document waiting in line. Which wasn’t so bad. But those on the corner of her desk--stacked a feet high--taunted her and reminded her to put on her reading glasses. What evil mind would conjure such lengthy, tedious forms that stretch on and on for no good reason whatsoever, she could only wish them a firm slap on their cheeks. For these all have to be read thoroughly, from start to finish.
After an hour-long burst of non-stop signing, she grabbed her gray braided hair and hid her face behind it. “Ugh… no more…” An exhausted sigh followed a longing for something more invigorating. She turned towards the double window in the room that provided some sense of lighting. Outside of the office’s large arched windows a gray smoke rose from the location of the magical field exam.
There, the star pupils of this year would be born. Whoever can complete the tasks of their examiners would have a full-ride scholarship and reap the benefits of an honors student. Who will it be this year, she wondered.
“Hm? Gray smoke?” She hummed a low tune. “Is this Professor Lielie’s? Or is this the work of Professor Zeke?”
Three sudden knocks on the office’s door stole her attention away from the outside.
“The door’s not locked.” Right away she picked up her pen and continued marking off the documents in front of her. Presumably, it was Captain Scarlet with another round-trip to drop off more documents that needed her care. But her usual “Excuse me” that came after was absent.
Another knock, and the door remained closed. She stopped writing and raised a brow. Halfway up and out of her chair, she thought it was one of those new guest instructors the college contracted annually. Often times they would get lost traversing through the main building; need clarity on the correct protocol for something; or just wanted to stop by and chat.
Before she could reach the doorknob, light from the hallway poured in, and so did two individuals she'd never imagine to see again.
One was a true princess with a set of round, red eyes that looked through the world with pupils of innate superiority. That little smile she wore had all the positivity of what could be mistaken as genuine, yet lacked all the warmth that it carried. The same smirky smile she held on the day of being bestowed the title Third Heiress.
She strutted forth on coverless high heels in an unreasonably revealing purple dress: the top-half revealing her bare neck and reddish tattoo; the bottom dress parted mid-way of her right thigh to display her soft, smooth, and pale skin; and the rest tighten to her body to accentuate her toned curves.
She crossed one leg over the other after sitting down on a four-seater black sofa. Combing her fingers through her long, wavy, platinum hair, she greeted Grandmaster Babalin and patted the seat next to her for her companion.
A scruffy middle-aged man in a black suit and white bowtie responded. He closed the door behind him and walked towards her with stiff motions, as if he had never worn such tight apparel before. Adequate space was kept between them, mindful of her precious fur shawl wrapped around her arms and shoulders.
“Princess Priscilla.” Grandmaster Babalin bowed respectfully, sat back on her chair, then addressed the man next to her. “And Lord Marnox. So the news was true that the Third Princess acquired you… a Monster. Whatever your reasons are for being here, I must express my gratitude. They kept me locked in here and entertained me with papers all day. How dreadful. So, what can I do for the both of you?”
“The pleasure is ours.” Lord Marnox smiled. “Our objective is of no surprise. The little one here wishes to enroll. I hope you can help us with this endeavor.”
Grandmaster Babalin turned towards Priscilla, whose smile was so perfectly crafted that she doubted her own eyes. “Oh, what an honor!” She clapped her hands with delight. “I must admit, I’m surprised. I do not know what we can offer you that the courts and capital of the empire could not. Surely, all the expert martial and mystical practitioners would gladly teach you there. To pick here, instead... Do you mind telling this granny why?”
“We cannot--”
“--Certainly.” Priscilla stuck out a hand in front of Lord Marnox. “It is not a matter of personnel, Grandmaster Babalin. Really, this was a personal request of mine. Listening to all the old men and women lecture all day, every day gets boring past the first minute. I... just want to experience a life with those of the same age as I am; go through hardships with my peers before I return to a life at the court. I’d like to take this opportunity to get to know those of less importance than I. Besides, no girl would want to waste her youth stuck in that boring, old room all day. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well… that life doesn’t sound too bad to me. Much better than being stuck in here.” Grandmaster Babalin laughed. “But, your father has agreed to this? I imagined his view of me would’ve made him immediately deny any ventures of this.”
“Lord Marnox, the letter, please.”
Marnox pulled out a crumpled letter from his pocket and placed it on the mahogany desk.
“Ugh… why must you make me read more.” Grandmaster Babalin read through the content, through all of its fancy cursives and Elderuin language before she turned to Lord Marnox. “I’d love to have you here, Princess Priscilla. However, Lord Marnox is a different story. Someone as dangerous as him absolutely cannot stay here. To do so would break the rule that thousands of others had pledged to.”
“No worries there,” Princess Priscilla said. “I’ve seen lots of familiar faces this morning, and the absence of their bodyguards. And I have no intention of doing otherwise. Really, I am just an ordinary student here.” She faced Lord Marnox and cued him to say something.
“It is as she said.” Lord Marnox nodded. “I’m here today to make sure she’s safe. Starting tomorrow, she’ll be on her own, and I hope you will treat her with the proper respect of a royal--”
“--Ordinary.” Princess Priscilla coughed. “Just an ordinary student.”
“Of course,” Grandmaster Babalin said. “Please do try to get along with the others. The nobles here are quite feisty when it comes to their heirs and heiresses. It’d save me a whole lot of headache if nothing would happen.”
“Not a problem.”
“Now, ordinary students usually go through pre-exams to be fitted into several categories the college deemed best to bolster their skills,” Grandmaster Babalin informed. “However, application periods and deadlines have passed months ago. So, now, we’ll conduct a brief one to get you into the right classes. If that is fine with you, let’s get started, shall we?”
“That’s fine.”
“Princess Priscilla, what path do you intend to walk here?”
“...What path do I intend to walk here?” Priscilla tilted her head with a fixed, blank expression. She glanced at Lord Marnox, hoping that he could translate the elder’s odd choice of words.
“She’s talking about an aptitude test,” Lord Marnox informed. “Remember what we’ve discussed?”
“Ah! Why didn’t she just say so.” Princess Priscilla chuckled. “Mystical path, for me. I’ve studied a bit of swordplay, but magic has always fascinated me.”
Grandmaster Babalin walked over to a glass cabinet and retrieved a crystal ball the size of a watermelon. She sat on the sofa across from the princess and placed the crystal ball on the coffee table between them. “Whenever you’re ready, place your hand on it and repeat after me.”
As confident as ever her right hand stretched towards it. “What should I expect to see or feel?”
“It’s different for everyone,” Grandmaster Babalin said. “The most gifted students would see five rings. Meaning, their potential reaches to the fifth circle. Likewise, a person without any aptitude for this path would see nothing at all.”
“Fifth circle? Is that… amazing?”
“Generally, yes. I reached the fourth circle myself--eighty or so years ago--and look where I am now. However, individually, it’s hard to say. It’s all potential, theoretically. How you wield it ultimately decides its effectiveness.”
“Potential?” It only begged more questions, but the anticipation was too much to handle. To find out where she stood in this magical world, the answer was in front of her. Without further ado, she rested her hand on the crystal ball. “Nevermind. I’m ready.”
A loud bang from the door turned their heads.
“Grandmaster!” a desperate masculine voice called out, and another loud bang threatened to break down the door. “Grandmaster Babalin! It’s urgent! Please open the door!”
“I’m busy here!” Grandmaster Babalin shouted. “Come back later!”
Four people barged in, two of whom she immediately recognized: Ren, an excellent guard under the leadership of Captain Scarlet, and Professor Zeke, one of the few official instructors salaried here. The other two looked similar, like they could be sisters, except one had a diminutive physique.
Ren and the diminutive young girl supported the unconscious girl with their shoulders. Professor Zeke rushed over to the unoccupied sofa next to Grandmaster Babalin, instructing the two to lay the girl there. Gripped in the professor’s right hand were several white flowers with thick stems of dark green.
Grandmaster Babalin's eyes grew solemn. There was no mistaking it for anything other than the Lilies of Rejuvenation. “Zeke! The hell are you doing!? You can’t just barge in here when you want to! Boy, you better get back out that door before I take my slippers and--”
“--Great Grandmaster Babalin!” The young girl interrupted in a pleading, spiritless voice. Words from her mouth crammed and shoved its way out. Incoherent, and a mess. When she saw those eyes that didn’t understand a single thing coming out of her mouth, she inhaled a deep breath. “Please! Please, save my sister Arwyn.”
“Grandmaster Babalin, we must act swiftly,” Professor Zeke whispered. “There’s not much time left.”
Grandmaster Babalin wanted to smack his cheeks first, but the fact that Professor Zeke brought them here meant one thing.
“Then what the hell are you waiting for? Hurry up and hand it over!”
She stuck her palmed towards Professor Zeke, and he placed the Lilies of Rejuvenation on it. After clamping it between her teeth, she pressed her thumb against Arwyn’s forehead, and the other thumb against the skin of the girl’s heart. Once everything was prepared, she waited for Professor Zeke, and when he firmly nodded, she sucked in a belly of air.
“Beannachd beatha comhla. [Ioc Comhla].”
Professor Zeke quickly took out a squiggly stick with a crystallic orb at the end--a wand--from his pocket. As she kept repeating the same line, he traced a large circle in the air above the injured girl, leaving a lingering trail of red behind. When he moved on to draw a triangle within the circle, a lingering trail of blue was left behind. A square was then drawn within that triangle, touching all three edges, and what trail was left behind was colored in green.
“Beannachd beatha comhla! [Ioc Comhla]!”
Everyone watching held their breath in fear of ruining both of their concentrations.
Both soaked in sweat. Heaving and gasping under tremendous pressure. Grandmaster Babalin’s throat dried from recycling the same string for the tenth time. Teeth shook from repeating the same lines for the fifteenth time. Hands trembled for the twentieth time. On the next iteration, all three colors pulsated. It ran through all the lines of the drawn shape, mixing and swirling the colors to white, then gray, then black, and back.
No windows were opened, nor were any doors cracked. But somehow, a chill breeze swept between everyone’s feet and rushed through the roots of their hair. It distorted the lines of the geometric shape, attaching one end to the thumb on Arwyn’s forehead, and another end to the thumb on Arwyn’s heart. The petals of the Lilies of Rejuvenation flashed from white to black, the stems dried to brown, and the plants shrunk from its quick decay. As the surrounding air dried, Arwyn wheezed and forced a black haze out of her.
“Arwyn!” her sister cried. “Arwyn! Get up, you lazy bum!”
Arwyn rolled onto her front with the nastiest cough--of a hint of life and death. The color and shape lingering in the air dissipated. Grandmaster Babalin spit out the cruel taste of the dead plant in her mouth and looked at Professor Zeke, thankful that nothing wrong occurred during their practice. Professor Zeke returned the same gesture and pocketed his wand.
“Is she still dead?” Priscilla kneeled next to Arwyn. Poking her squishy arms. Squishing her stretchy cheeks. Squeezing her little nose. No response, whatsoever. “She might still be dead.”
“Wha--!” Chloe screamed. “Please don’t do that!”
“Don’t jest in this kind of situation,” Lord Marnox said. “There’s still some life in her, more now than there was when she came in.”
“Hear that?” Priscilla smiled at Arwyn's sister. “She’ll be fiiine.”
“Yeah...” Arwyn’s sister wiped a slipping tear from her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry. You are?”
“Priscilla,” she replied. “May I know the name of such a caring sister?”
“Chloe.” In front of such pleasantries and hospitality of everyone’s helpfulness, Chloe personally thanked each and every one of them from the bottom of her heart. Grandmaster Babalin insisted that she thought nothing of it, but she humbly bowed nonetheless.
“Ren.” Grandmaster Babalin waved to him. “Escort Chloe and Arwyn home. She’ll be fine now, and I’m sure she wouldn’t want to wake up here in the middle of the night.”
“Certainly.” Ren supported Arwyn from one side, and Chloe supported her from the other. On their way out Ren stopped at the doorway and peeked over his shoulders. “Oh, Grandmaster Babalin. I almost forgot. During my time on duty there was this really annoying person that insisted on seeing you.”
“Oh? Who was it?”
“It was… Wait, I don’t think I ever got his name--”
Ren turned to a loud, harsh tapping that came from down the hall on his left. Soon, the hallway was overtaken by its noise, and the weak fierceness of someone stomping closer.
“What the hell is wrong with this place! Why are there so many doors that lead to nowhere? Why are there so many stairways with no signs? Where are ALL. THE. DIRECTIONS! How can you honestly expect anyone to get anywhere by themselves in this stupid maze of--”
The voice cut off as Ren waved to someone on his left. “Hey. Actually… the person you’re looking for is behind us.”
“Oh, hello. Thank you.”
Chloe was completely stuck on him until Ren tugged for her to resume their walk.
“Someone you know?” Ren asked.
“No. It’s just... I think I saw him on my way to the shop...”
Their voices trailed off as Sigrios closed the door behind him. Of the four people here, two immediately caught his eyes. That scruffy man sitting on the couch reeked with an unforgettable stench of dried blood. The other, presumably the grandmaster he had been searching for, was wrinkled with wisdom and adorned with many sashes. Their eyes met, and he couldn’t be anymore happier.
“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” Grandmaster Babalin said. “But I’m awfully busy right now. Please come again another time.”
“Ah--wait! Please wait! My name is Sigrios.” Sigrios dropped his briefcase, opened it, and took out a sealed letter. “I guess you didn’t have time to read it; or it got lost on the way; or whatever, but please read this. He gave me this in case something like that happened.”
“Great… more papers to read.” Grandmaster Babalin wanted to finish business with the princess and discuss matters with Professor Zeke. What nonsense the newcomer spouted was of little importance. She was a hair’s breadth away from dismissing his letter altogether, but upon seeing that unique carving on the seal, time seemingly stopped. “This is…” In her hands she saw something she thought was long gone forgotten: the symbol of three concentric circles. “Hohenheim…”
“What…?!” Lord Marnox stared at Grandmaster Babalin in disbelief. “That name...”
Without a second further, she broke the inked seal and uncurled the letter:
“Grandmaster Babalin?” Professor Zeke shook her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”
“Excuse me. Sorry. That performance from earlier must have taken a toll on my body.” Grandmaster Babalin forced a cough, shook her hands of its numbness, and pocketed the letter that fell. “That’s right, Professor Zeke, thank you for your assistance earlier. If you didn’t carry that plant with you, I’m not sure how much longer she would’ve lasted. However, I expect a full report on today’s incident by tomorrow morning. How can someone end up in such a state on our grounds--on opening day, no less--is completely baffling!”
Professor Zeke stuttered in his steps backwards. “A f-full report?” His shaky voice filled with dread. “But I thought you hate reading those--” He quickly spun his body around and sprinted towards the door. Sigrios had somehow moved out of the way, but his briefcase suffered an unfortunate kick towards the corner of the room. With both feet out of the door, Professor Zeke let out a cheeky laugh.
“You better do it if you want to keep your job!” Grandmaster Babalin yelled. “Zeke! You hear me?!”
“Sorry, kid.” Professor Zeke left the door half-shut with his head still peeking through. “Grandmaster Babalin, there is one thing you should know regarding today’s event.”
“Write it in that report, idiot.” Grandmaster Babalin folded her arms.
“Now, now, it’s something you’d want to hear in person,” Professor Zeke insisted. “In regards to Arwyn’s ceremonial exam, we couldn’t fully ascertain her potential with the traditional method. The crystal ball responded unusually, so we switched over to Tsushin’s Ten-Stress-Circle method.”
“Oh? To not inform me first… Get that second job ready.” Grandmaster Babalin walked over and picked up Sigrios’ briefcase. After passing it to him and receiving his gratitude, she lessened her distance from the door, completely devoid of any and all pretense of a threat. “And? Go on, go on. What of it?”
“This year’s students averaged around the third and fourth circle.” Professor Zeke lowered his voice. “Well, hers… Before whatever happened--whatever went wrong--she reached up to... the second circle.”
“That’s it? Why I oughta…” Grandmaster Babalin was a second away from slamming the door into his face. But her hand was pulled towards him. Palm facing towards the ground, and solemn in his eyes stared into her perplexion. A finger traced along her palm. It started at one point, stretching down in a curve, and then back up and down into an incomplete circle. What little confusion was left in her mind disappeared when he silently mouthed a number.
Six. The sixth circle.
A satisfied smile crossed Professor Zeke’s face when he saw her mouth stuck open. Paralyzed. Whatever thought was racing through her mind was no doubt similar to the ones that he experienced when he saw it live. Without saying goodbye he gently closed the door and left her basking in the surprising discovery.
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Chapter 4: Aptitude Test And A Surprising Discovery (Part 1)
The highest tower of Shinewood College was home to an elderly woman, scribbling her signature away onto hundreds of papers. She peeped at another hundred piling high. Another night at the office, at this rate.Around this time of the year was the busiest of them all. What with entrance exams, buildings and rooms renovations, and student and guest events. Expensive, too, with building and architectural maintenance, ceremonial fees, salaries for famous guests and lecturers—the list goes on and on.
Even worse, special accommodations were requested for their precious little kids by the doting nobles of this city. Which meant more revenue, but in turn, more paperwork. Such papers on her desk were of the like, little and insignificant.
Fortunately, these insignificant documents only required her signature. She paid a bit of a glimpse at the headline, signed away, and swapped it for another document waiting in line. Which wasn’t so bad. But those on the corner of her desk--stacked a feet high--taunted her and reminded her to put on her reading glasses. What evil mind would conjure such lengthy, tedious forms that stretch on and on for no good reason whatsoever, she could only wish them a firm slap on their cheeks. For these all have to be read thoroughly, from start to finish.
After an hour-long burst of non-stop signing, she grabbed her gray braided hair and hid her face behind it. “Ugh… no more…” An exhausted sigh followed a longing for something more invigorating. She turned towards the double window in the room that provided some sense of lighting. Outside of the office’s large arched windows a gray smoke rose from the location of the magical field exam.
There, the star pupils of this year would be born. Whoever can complete the tasks of their examiners would have a full-ride scholarship and reap the benefits of an honors student. Who will it be this year, she wondered.
“Hm? Gray smoke?” She hummed a low tune. “Is this Professor Lielie’s? Or is this the work of Professor Zeke?”
Three sudden knocks on the office’s door stole her attention away from the outside.
“The door’s not locked.” Right away she picked up her pen and continued marking off the documents in front of her. Presumably, it was Captain Scarlet with another round-trip to drop off more documents that needed her care. But her usual “Excuse me” that came after was absent.
Another knock, and the door remained closed. She stopped writing and raised a brow. Halfway up and out of her chair, she thought it was one of those new guest instructors the college contracted annually. Often times they would get lost traversing through the main building; need clarity on the correct protocol for something; or just wanted to stop by and chat.
Before she could reach the doorknob, light from the hallway poured in, and so did two individuals she'd never imagine to see again.
One was a true princess with a set of round, red eyes that looked through the world with pupils of innate superiority. That little smile she wore had all the positivity of what could be mistaken as genuine, yet lacked all the warmth that it carried. The same smirky smile she held on the day of being bestowed the title Third Heiress.
She strutted forth on coverless high heels in an unreasonably revealing purple dress: the top-half revealing her bare neck and reddish tattoo; the bottom dress parted mid-way of her right thigh to display her soft, smooth, and pale skin; and the rest tighten to her body to accentuate her toned curves.
She crossed one leg over the other after sitting down on a four-seater black sofa. Combing her fingers through her long, wavy, platinum hair, she greeted Grandmaster Babalin and patted the seat next to her for her companion.
A scruffy middle-aged man in a black suit and white bowtie responded. He closed the door behind him and walked towards her with stiff motions, as if he had never worn such tight apparel before. Adequate space was kept between them, mindful of her precious fur shawl wrapped around her arms and shoulders.
“Princess Priscilla.” Grandmaster Babalin bowed respectfully, sat back on her chair, then addressed the man next to her. “And Lord Marnox. So the news was true that the Third Princess acquired you… a Monster. Whatever your reasons are for being here, I must express my gratitude. They kept me locked in here and entertained me with papers all day. How dreadful. So, what can I do for the both of you?”
“The pleasure is ours.” Lord Marnox smiled. “Our objective is of no surprise. The little one here wishes to enroll. I hope you can help us with this endeavor.”
Grandmaster Babalin turned towards Priscilla, whose smile was so perfectly crafted that she doubted her own eyes. “Oh, what an honor!” She clapped her hands with delight. “I must admit, I’m surprised. I do not know what we can offer you that the courts and capital of the empire could not. Surely, all the expert martial and mystical practitioners would gladly teach you there. To pick here, instead... Do you mind telling this granny why?”
“We cannot--”
“--Certainly.” Priscilla stuck out a hand in front of Lord Marnox. “It is not a matter of personnel, Grandmaster Babalin. Really, this was a personal request of mine. Listening to all the old men and women lecture all day, every day gets boring past the first minute. I... just want to experience a life with those of the same age as I am; go through hardships with my peers before I return to a life at the court. I’d like to take this opportunity to get to know those of less importance than I. Besides, no girl would want to waste her youth stuck in that boring, old room all day. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well… that life doesn’t sound too bad to me. Much better than being stuck in here.” Grandmaster Babalin laughed. “But, your father has agreed to this? I imagined his view of me would’ve made him immediately deny any ventures of this.”
“Lord Marnox, the letter, please.”
Marnox pulled out a crumpled letter from his pocket and placed it on the mahogany desk.
“Ugh… why must you make me read more.” Grandmaster Babalin read through the content, through all of its fancy cursives and Elderuin language before she turned to Lord Marnox. “I’d love to have you here, Princess Priscilla. However, Lord Marnox is a different story. Someone as dangerous as him absolutely cannot stay here. To do so would break the rule that thousands of others had pledged to.”
“No worries there,” Princess Priscilla said. “I’ve seen lots of familiar faces this morning, and the absence of their bodyguards. And I have no intention of doing otherwise. Really, I am just an ordinary student here.” She faced Lord Marnox and cued him to say something.
“It is as she said.” Lord Marnox nodded. “I’m here today to make sure she’s safe. Starting tomorrow, she’ll be on her own, and I hope you will treat her with the proper respect of a royal--”
“--Ordinary.” Princess Priscilla coughed. “Just an ordinary student.”
“Of course,” Grandmaster Babalin said. “Please do try to get along with the others. The nobles here are quite feisty when it comes to their heirs and heiresses. It’d save me a whole lot of headache if nothing would happen.”
“Not a problem.”
“Now, ordinary students usually go through pre-exams to be fitted into several categories the college deemed best to bolster their skills,” Grandmaster Babalin informed. “However, application periods and deadlines have passed months ago. So, now, we’ll conduct a brief one to get you into the right classes. If that is fine with you, let’s get started, shall we?”
“That’s fine.”
“Princess Priscilla, what path do you intend to walk here?”
“...What path do I intend to walk here?” Priscilla tilted her head with a fixed, blank expression. She glanced at Lord Marnox, hoping that he could translate the elder’s odd choice of words.
“She’s talking about an aptitude test,” Lord Marnox informed. “Remember what we’ve discussed?”
“Ah! Why didn’t she just say so.” Princess Priscilla chuckled. “Mystical path, for me. I’ve studied a bit of swordplay, but magic has always fascinated me.”
Grandmaster Babalin walked over to a glass cabinet and retrieved a crystal ball the size of a watermelon. She sat on the sofa across from the princess and placed the crystal ball on the coffee table between them. “Whenever you’re ready, place your hand on it and repeat after me.”
As confident as ever her right hand stretched towards it. “What should I expect to see or feel?”
“It’s different for everyone,” Grandmaster Babalin said. “The most gifted students would see five rings. Meaning, their potential reaches to the fifth circle. Likewise, a person without any aptitude for this path would see nothing at all.”
“Fifth circle? Is that… amazing?”
“Generally, yes. I reached the fourth circle myself--eighty or so years ago--and look where I am now. However, individually, it’s hard to say. It’s all potential, theoretically. How you wield it ultimately decides its effectiveness.”
“Potential?” It only begged more questions, but the anticipation was too much to handle. To find out where she stood in this magical world, the answer was in front of her. Without further ado, she rested her hand on the crystal ball. “Nevermind. I’m ready.”
A loud bang from the door turned their heads.
“Grandmaster!” a desperate masculine voice called out, and another loud bang threatened to break down the door. “Grandmaster Babalin! It’s urgent! Please open the door!”
“I’m busy here!” Grandmaster Babalin shouted. “Come back later!”
Four people barged in, two of whom she immediately recognized: Ren, an excellent guard under the leadership of Captain Scarlet, and Professor Zeke, one of the few official instructors salaried here. The other two looked similar, like they could be sisters, except one had a diminutive physique.
Ren and the diminutive young girl supported the unconscious girl with their shoulders. Professor Zeke rushed over to the unoccupied sofa next to Grandmaster Babalin, instructing the two to lay the girl there. Gripped in the professor’s right hand were several white flowers with thick stems of dark green.
Grandmaster Babalin's eyes grew solemn. There was no mistaking it for anything other than the Lilies of Rejuvenation. “Zeke! The hell are you doing!? You can’t just barge in here when you want to! Boy, you better get back out that door before I take my slippers and--”
“--Great Grandmaster Babalin!” The young girl interrupted in a pleading, spiritless voice. Words from her mouth crammed and shoved its way out. Incoherent, and a mess. When she saw those eyes that didn’t understand a single thing coming out of her mouth, she inhaled a deep breath. “Please! Please, save my sister Arwyn.”
“Grandmaster Babalin, we must act swiftly,” Professor Zeke whispered. “There’s not much time left.”
Grandmaster Babalin wanted to smack his cheeks first, but the fact that Professor Zeke brought them here meant one thing.
“Then what the hell are you waiting for? Hurry up and hand it over!”
She stuck her palmed towards Professor Zeke, and he placed the Lilies of Rejuvenation on it. After clamping it between her teeth, she pressed her thumb against Arwyn’s forehead, and the other thumb against the skin of the girl’s heart. Once everything was prepared, she waited for Professor Zeke, and when he firmly nodded, she sucked in a belly of air.
“Beannachd beatha comhla. [Ioc Comhla].”
Professor Zeke quickly took out a squiggly stick with a crystallic orb at the end--a wand--from his pocket. As she kept repeating the same line, he traced a large circle in the air above the injured girl, leaving a lingering trail of red behind. When he moved on to draw a triangle within the circle, a lingering trail of blue was left behind. A square was then drawn within that triangle, touching all three edges, and what trail was left behind was colored in green.
“Beannachd beatha comhla! [Ioc Comhla]!”
Everyone watching held their breath in fear of ruining both of their concentrations.
Both soaked in sweat. Heaving and gasping under tremendous pressure. Grandmaster Babalin’s throat dried from recycling the same string for the tenth time. Teeth shook from repeating the same lines for the fifteenth time. Hands trembled for the twentieth time. On the next iteration, all three colors pulsated. It ran through all the lines of the drawn shape, mixing and swirling the colors to white, then gray, then black, and back.
No windows were opened, nor were any doors cracked. But somehow, a chill breeze swept between everyone’s feet and rushed through the roots of their hair. It distorted the lines of the geometric shape, attaching one end to the thumb on Arwyn’s forehead, and another end to the thumb on Arwyn’s heart. The petals of the Lilies of Rejuvenation flashed from white to black, the stems dried to brown, and the plants shrunk from its quick decay. As the surrounding air dried, Arwyn wheezed and forced a black haze out of her.
“Arwyn!” her sister cried. “Arwyn! Get up, you lazy bum!”
Arwyn rolled onto her front with the nastiest cough--of a hint of life and death. The color and shape lingering in the air dissipated. Grandmaster Babalin spit out the cruel taste of the dead plant in her mouth and looked at Professor Zeke, thankful that nothing wrong occurred during their practice. Professor Zeke returned the same gesture and pocketed his wand.
“Is she still dead?” Priscilla kneeled next to Arwyn. Poking her squishy arms. Squishing her stretchy cheeks. Squeezing her little nose. No response, whatsoever. “She might still be dead.”
“Wha--!” Chloe screamed. “Please don’t do that!”
“Don’t jest in this kind of situation,” Lord Marnox said. “There’s still some life in her, more now than there was when she came in.”
“Hear that?” Priscilla smiled at Arwyn's sister. “She’ll be fiiine.”
“Yeah...” Arwyn’s sister wiped a slipping tear from her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry. You are?”
“Priscilla,” she replied. “May I know the name of such a caring sister?”
“Chloe.” In front of such pleasantries and hospitality of everyone’s helpfulness, Chloe personally thanked each and every one of them from the bottom of her heart. Grandmaster Babalin insisted that she thought nothing of it, but she humbly bowed nonetheless.
“Ren.” Grandmaster Babalin waved to him. “Escort Chloe and Arwyn home. She’ll be fine now, and I’m sure she wouldn’t want to wake up here in the middle of the night.”
“Certainly.” Ren supported Arwyn from one side, and Chloe supported her from the other. On their way out Ren stopped at the doorway and peeked over his shoulders. “Oh, Grandmaster Babalin. I almost forgot. During my time on duty there was this really annoying person that insisted on seeing you.”
“Oh? Who was it?”
“It was… Wait, I don’t think I ever got his name--”
Ren turned to a loud, harsh tapping that came from down the hall on his left. Soon, the hallway was overtaken by its noise, and the weak fierceness of someone stomping closer.
“What the hell is wrong with this place! Why are there so many doors that lead to nowhere? Why are there so many stairways with no signs? Where are ALL. THE. DIRECTIONS! How can you honestly expect anyone to get anywhere by themselves in this stupid maze of--”
The voice cut off as Ren waved to someone on his left. “Hey. Actually… the person you’re looking for is behind us.”
“Oh, hello. Thank you.”
Chloe was completely stuck on him until Ren tugged for her to resume their walk.
“Someone you know?” Ren asked.
“No. It’s just... I think I saw him on my way to the shop...”
Their voices trailed off as Sigrios closed the door behind him. Of the four people here, two immediately caught his eyes. That scruffy man sitting on the couch reeked with an unforgettable stench of dried blood. The other, presumably the grandmaster he had been searching for, was wrinkled with wisdom and adorned with many sashes. Their eyes met, and he couldn’t be anymore happier.
“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” Grandmaster Babalin said. “But I’m awfully busy right now. Please come again another time.”
“Ah--wait! Please wait! My name is Sigrios.” Sigrios dropped his briefcase, opened it, and took out a sealed letter. “I guess you didn’t have time to read it; or it got lost on the way; or whatever, but please read this. He gave me this in case something like that happened.”
“Great… more papers to read.” Grandmaster Babalin wanted to finish business with the princess and discuss matters with Professor Zeke. What nonsense the newcomer spouted was of little importance. She was a hair’s breadth away from dismissing his letter altogether, but upon seeing that unique carving on the seal, time seemingly stopped. “This is…” In her hands she saw something she thought was long gone forgotten: the symbol of three concentric circles. “Hohenheim…”
“What…?!” Lord Marnox stared at Grandmaster Babalin in disbelief. “That name...”
Without a second further, she broke the inked seal and uncurled the letter:
“To Babalin, youngling of the Stars:It fell out of her hands, and only seconds later did the content of the letter registered in her head. Her hands shook. Loose and wrinkly as they are, they were once full of youth and the yearning of the unknown. Here it was, a glimpse of something that could be, in the flesh.
Soon, I will send to you a person of my past. I’ve spoken of him before, when we met at the Milky Beach, and though he may look crude now, he is whole. I’ve done what I can, but I can no longer support him with what I have. I hope you can guide him in my stead. Towards the future we both dreamt on that fateful day.
From the light,
Hohenheim.”
“Grandmaster Babalin?” Professor Zeke shook her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”
“Excuse me. Sorry. That performance from earlier must have taken a toll on my body.” Grandmaster Babalin forced a cough, shook her hands of its numbness, and pocketed the letter that fell. “That’s right, Professor Zeke, thank you for your assistance earlier. If you didn’t carry that plant with you, I’m not sure how much longer she would’ve lasted. However, I expect a full report on today’s incident by tomorrow morning. How can someone end up in such a state on our grounds--on opening day, no less--is completely baffling!”
Professor Zeke stuttered in his steps backwards. “A f-full report?” His shaky voice filled with dread. “But I thought you hate reading those--” He quickly spun his body around and sprinted towards the door. Sigrios had somehow moved out of the way, but his briefcase suffered an unfortunate kick towards the corner of the room. With both feet out of the door, Professor Zeke let out a cheeky laugh.
“You better do it if you want to keep your job!” Grandmaster Babalin yelled. “Zeke! You hear me?!”
“Sorry, kid.” Professor Zeke left the door half-shut with his head still peeking through. “Grandmaster Babalin, there is one thing you should know regarding today’s event.”
“Write it in that report, idiot.” Grandmaster Babalin folded her arms.
“Now, now, it’s something you’d want to hear in person,” Professor Zeke insisted. “In regards to Arwyn’s ceremonial exam, we couldn’t fully ascertain her potential with the traditional method. The crystal ball responded unusually, so we switched over to Tsushin’s Ten-Stress-Circle method.”
“Oh? To not inform me first… Get that second job ready.” Grandmaster Babalin walked over and picked up Sigrios’ briefcase. After passing it to him and receiving his gratitude, she lessened her distance from the door, completely devoid of any and all pretense of a threat. “And? Go on, go on. What of it?”
“This year’s students averaged around the third and fourth circle.” Professor Zeke lowered his voice. “Well, hers… Before whatever happened--whatever went wrong--she reached up to... the second circle.”
“That’s it? Why I oughta…” Grandmaster Babalin was a second away from slamming the door into his face. But her hand was pulled towards him. Palm facing towards the ground, and solemn in his eyes stared into her perplexion. A finger traced along her palm. It started at one point, stretching down in a curve, and then back up and down into an incomplete circle. What little confusion was left in her mind disappeared when he silently mouthed a number.
Six. The sixth circle.
A satisfied smile crossed Professor Zeke’s face when he saw her mouth stuck open. Paralyzed. Whatever thought was racing through her mind was no doubt similar to the ones that he experienced when he saw it live. Without saying goodbye he gently closed the door and left her basking in the surprising discovery.
2020.02.01 04:17 The_Palid_Drome From a faded journal, found behind an old bookcase in a boarded up London house. Someone had taken great pains to record their experiences. What did those early explorers discover? (Part 1)
It was a cold February morning when I received the letter, my wife putting it down in front of me with the rest of the regular correspondence. It caught my eye immediately and so I tossed aside the bills and letter of condemnation from my disapproving uncle, whose ire I could not seem to shift despite my weekly assurances, and stared down at the envelope.
‘To Mr. Douglas Joseph Hemwick,’ it said in fine black ink, its cursive swirling gracefully upon the paper. I could tell from this alone that the sender was most prestigious and deserved my utmost attention. I took the letter to my study and grabbed my father’s silver letter knife to delicately prize it open. With a care that was perhaps a little too much I slowly pinched the letter inside and pulled it out.
It was a single page folded in half and I could immediately see that the same exquisite handwriting was here too. It was short, only one paragraph long, but its contents were incredibly arresting.
Dear Mr. Hemwick,
I write to you today with an exciting offer. Your attendance is requested at Pratton House, Cambridge, on the 7th February at 8pm sharp in order that you might take part in the sale of the century. I cannot disclose details at this time but suffice to say you will not be disappointed. Mention the contents of this letter to no one.
Yours Sincerely,
Sir Bernard Howell
That name meant something to me, a great deal in fact, for it was the name of one of the most famous British explorers of the past hundred years. His exploits were worth their weight in newspaper columns, and serialised versions of his diaries made it often difficult to come by one’s morning broadsheet. They read as almost too fantastical to be believed, and yet the scientific community were in unison as to their voracity, having handled and analysed the various artefacts and exotic flora and fauna he always returned with. My own son loved to hear about the mile-high waterfalls of the Americas and the forgotten tombs of Egypt, so much so that I had restricted these tales from the evening as it would get his blood too hot to sleep.
To be named in person by this towering figure of British culture was a difficult notion to comprehend, and yet here lay the evidence. I went back through the letter then, pondering as to this ‘sale of the century’ and what it had to do with me. I was by no means a man without capital but my comparatively modest income to the likes of Sir Bernard and the lofty folk he mingled with paled in comparison. If a sale was on the cards then I highly doubted I would be able to front it.
But then, only time would tell, as I decided immediately, nay, before even I had finished the letter, that I would go. Something about the delicate, flawless handwriting, and the mystery within had captured my imagination. I was not prone to adventure, having settled into my domestic life rather contentedly, but if a man is to stave off senility in his old age he must have the excitement of his memories to keep him sane. The unknown beckoned, like the briny deep, and I was helpless to its entrancing lure.
The next few days I could think of little else. Even as my pen scrawled across countless documents and my glazed eyes peered over my spectacles at clients my mind was fogged by mysterious correspondences. I found a renewed interest in Sir Bernard’s diaries and began to wonder what marvellous item he would be offering on the occasion. The golden idol? The finger of the ancient king of Babylon? One of those ferocious man-eating plants? I quivered at the possibilities and allowed myself to ignore the practical problems in favour of succumbing to excitement, for I notioned that my confidence would somewhat make up for my lack of means. A laugh at the right joke or a kiss on the right hand could take a man a mile.
My wife was none the wiser, of course, and though I had begun reading Sir Bernard’s diaries to my son before bed, against my more recent judgement as to their evening-suitability, she couldn’t care less for my altered opinion on the matter. Indeed, I often found myself reading to him long into the night, and even after he had drifted off to his nightly adventures. I wished I could join him but my duties as a husband rendered my own bedtime a scheduled affair.
I had decided to leave at seven o’clock on the morning of February 7th to allow for any incidents that might disrupt my travel, but I needn’t have worried. After a brisk farewell to the whole family I departed for, as I called it, ‘important business’ and stroked my moustache in the back of the cab with giddy excitement. I gave myself a playful slap on the wrist, imitating nanny, for my childish exuberances and smiled all the way to Cambridge and my residence for the night, a charming townhouse with just a touch of the crookedness about it, which I admired. I enjoy finding the little details that tell a greater story, like the tan line of a missing ring or the second glance of one woman to another. In this building I saw a long history and imagined for a moment all the tears of joy and pain that had been shed under its roof. It made me happy to know that life had passed through here in such a multitude of circumstances.
With time to spare I decided to walk to the old familiar places around the city that I recalled from past visits. The scenery was oddly unchanged yet filled with a fresh energy as though swept in on the wind. Perhaps Sir Bernard had brought the fantastical energy home with him. It made me wonder where he was right now and what he was doing. With the prospect of a chance encounter on the streets I took to aimless wandering and allowed my feet to lead me to and fro between the ancient architecture, over the river and beyond the grim corners where steel and teeth both glinted from the shadows.
At 5pm I returned to my residence to prepare for the evening by washing, shaving and otherwise becoming the gentleman I was better known to be. I applied a deft amount of aftershave to accent my demeanour and then checked myself over thoroughly in the mirror. With doubtless prestigious guests at the venue I did not wish to belie anything other than good stock and better manners.
And then before I quite knew it, I was standing in front of the large doors at Pratton House having rung the bell. The cold had begun to settle in earnest again and so my breath visibly lingered as I waited for the door to creak open and a handsome lady to stand before me. She curtsied with stiff formality and looked me in the eye as she spoke.
“Mr. Hemwick. Thank you for coming. Please come in.”
She spoke slowly, deliberately, quietly, but with a fortitude that I thought to be most exciting. She was nobody’s fool, that was for sure.
I stepped inside to find myself in a well-lit reception room filled with ornate wooden architecture and a high ceiling. A beautiful vase of flowers sat on a varnished mahogany table accompanied by a framed photograph of Sir Bernard with his arm around a half-nude native of some sort. They were exchanging something small but I couldn’t quite see what. Sir Bernard had his trademark smile but the native’s expression was quite the opposite.
“May I take your coat Mr. Hemwick?” asked the lady. She had clearly allowed me a moment to take in my surroundings, no doubt Sir Bernard’s directive in order to engulf me as thoroughly as possible in his copious auspiciousness.
“Certainly.”
Once removed she held my coat in one arm while gesturing with the other. “This way Mr. Hemwick.”
I followed her through the doorway into a cosy wood-panelled room, not much larger than the reception. Here there were two large cushioned sofas facing each other, with an enormous tiger-skin rug in between them, its mouth agape as though still in shock at having been shot and laid out for the mere comfort of human feet.
Beyond the sofas was a thick marble mantlepiece adorned with small curios of the sort one would read about in Sir Bernard’s diaries, though naturally these would be of lesser import. But the pièce de résistance was a huge portrait hung over the mantlepiece of Sir Bernard himself, his torso and head slightly askew as he grinned widely with that flush ruddiness in his cheeks he was so admired for. In the background a nondescript exotic jungle scene hid memories that only Sir Bernard could recall. Perhaps tonight I would hear from the man himself about his latest, as-of-yet unheard trials!
I was giddy at the prospect and almost let my composure slip as I turned to the stern lady by the door. “A most humbling room. Your employer must be very proud.”
“I would not be at liberty to say, Mr. Hemwick. My employer has his own opinions and does not pay me to keep my own.”
“Indeed,” I said, noting how her demeanour made her ever so attractive to the likes of me. “When will the other guests be arriving?”
“In due course, it is only 6pm after all.”
“Time suffers no fools, madam. Better to be early and waiting, than late and fretting.”
“As you say, Mr. Hemwick. A drink?”
‘Aha!’ I thought. The first true test of class.
“A Tom Collins. With a slice of fresh lemon.”
“Very good, Mr. Hemwick.”
And with that she retired from the room, bowing as she went, and closed the door in her own face.
Such dignity and cold ferocity, it gave me such a rush!
With the lady’s absence I took a more thorough look around the room. The delicate wooden piano in the corner had been well-varnished but, with a slight inspection of the keys, hardly, if ever played. The room as a whole, in fact, had the air of a place that was well-kept but never lived in. Hardly a surprise, thought I, what with Sir Bernard’s galivanting around the globe and then his flitting between noble houses and establishments, he could hardly be expected to settle down to his piano to plonk out a folksy ditty for the merriment of the ornaments.
And every corner of the room, every inch of it was surveyed by his bulging eyes, watching closely as I examined the hollow horn on the coffee table, the blackened leather book displayed on a lectern inside the book cabinet, and the spitefully-pink flower that bloomed from a vase by the lace-curtained window. Whether by lingering morality, or the unshakable feeling that I was indeed being watched, I let my fingers go no closer than a foot to any of these undoubtedly priceless items.
The temptation to touch, to be engaged with even such a small part of Sir Bernard’s legacy as this, was almost too much.
It was as I was examining a red book laced with gold that the door opened and in came the waiting lady holding a silver tray, and on it a tall glass. I stepped forward to accept it but then stopped as I witnessed another lady enter behind her.
“Miss Lyle,” said the waiting lady, “May I introduce Mr. Hemwick.”
I examined Miss Lyle closely, and took note of her clothes. She had ridden here, evidently, a fact betrayed by her riding boots and gloves hanging from the crook of her elbow. Her hair was held up in a bun atop her head, and though she wore no masque I felt immediately engaged to her in an attractive manner.
Having two stern and sharply-attractive women in front of me threatened to betray something of my own, were it not for the rigidity of my attire.
I took a step forward and held out a hand to Miss Lyle.
“Charmed,” I said.
She shook it and gave me a look of disinterest, though I could see through the seams that it was not the truth. She desired me, I could feel it.
“Mr. Hemwick. A pleasure,” she said, and then we let go. I resisted the urge to bring my hand up to my face right then, for the excitement and pleasure of but a snifter of her scent. Nay, even the leather of her gloves was like to send me into a rage of passion. I subdued myself but smiled at her in the charming manner I greeted my clients.
“Won’t you join me on the sofa?” I asked as I took my glass in one hand and gestured behind me with the other.
“A while yet, I have been sat for a good few hours and would enjoy the opportunity to stretch my legs.” As she said this she walked past me and began to peruse the room as I had done. Naturally, now feeling more comfortable in my surroundings, I fell into a character that oozed confidence.
“A drink for you, Miss Lyle?” asked the waiting lady.
“Gin and tonic, thank you kindly.”
“Very good Miss Lyle,” and she left in the same manner as before.
The room fell suddenly silent, save for the gentle rustling of the trees outside and the occasional holler of someone on the street. I wanted to own this moment as firmly as possible, and so I watched Miss Lyle with a posture that made no qualms about it. She could be in no doubt that this was, for now, my domain.
“And what part of the uncharted world do you come from, Mr. Hemwick?” she asked me without turning away from the blackened book I noted earlier.
“The ancient and forgotten lands of London.”
“How strange, I have heard of this place. Are you not then one of the attractions displayed within this room?” She turned to me with a governess’ questioning look. My blood pumped hot.
“Alas, in truth I am far less mysterious than these items.”
“And yet, you remain as silent. Are you a man, or a museum artefact, Mr. Hemwick?”
I chortled at her sharp wit. A chase, an engagement of wiles before the kill. How exciting!
“I confess I was adhering to chivalry in allowing the lady to speak first, but I see if one of us is a knight it is she who rides to the castle atop a steed,” I said, nodding at her well-polished riding boots. “But Miss Lyle, do not think these curious possessions of Sir Bernard are as silent as I. They speak of dark secrets hidden away behind forgotten words and deceased tongues.”
Miss Lyle turned her nose up at the thought. “I do not read Sir Bernard’s diaries; they are a fanciful waste of time. I have much better things to do.”
Ah, the first pang of irritation towards her. Who could not enjoy his skilfully-told exploits?
“Then pray, what brings you here Miss Lyle?”
She turned to me at once, a searching look. She was not panicked but was determined to know what I knew. This, here, was the first opportunity to nick our opponent. Tell a lie, and be known a liar? Tell the truth, and be known an idiot? The sparks of our fencing thoughts were like to set the tiger-skin rug on fire.
“Opportunity, Mr. Hemwick.”
A safe and cautious sally. I now knew my opponent so very well. This prey was mine.
“Then we are poised against each other, Miss Lyle.”
“I must warn you, sir, that I have never lost a fight against a man.”
“And against a lady?”
“I only fight men, Mr. Hemwick.”
“Oh dear, then you are missing out on a most satisfying experience.”
I smirked at her, imagining beneath her steely exterior how her skin must be crawling now. I doubted very much that she had ever matched so far above her ability. To make her squirm, to draw from her a feeling as strong as revulsion, gave to me a lofty puff in my chest.
She took a moment longer to reply. “You joke that I am a knight of chivalry, well in fact I am not, and should I find that an outstretched hand contains a hidden needle I should quicker cut off that hand than merely withdraw.”
At that moment the door opened and our waiting lady returned with Miss Lyle’s gently fizzing drink upon a silver tray.
“Do we understand each other, Mr. Hemwick?”
The waiting lady paid no attention to our conversation and laid out a doily next to Miss Lyle, then placed the glass on top of it.
The ice inside tinkled gently while I smiled.
“Absolutely, Miss Lyle.”
As the time approached 8pm, Miss Lyle and I found ourselves joined by two more guests: a Doctor Brown, of Leeds; and a businessman of African descent called Andrew Gaits, who also came here from London.
What connected us all was very clear: we all knew more than what we were saying, and that, in turn, was apparent to each. Sir Bernard had done well to gather such astute and silently-probing individuals, who’s eyes pierced the soul far better than a crude surgeon’s drill ever could.
But doubtless each of us had our own uniqueness that would lend the proceedings a frisson of danger, and for my own it was that, and I was quite sure of this, I was the only person who did not acutely detest the others.
Of Miss Lyle, the nature of my appreciation can be in no doubt; and while Doctor Brown had perfected the art of looking down one’s nose at everyone even when they were stood to one’s rear, his sophisticated lexicon and shallow demeanour made me lick my lips at the prospect of such an easy ego to massage; Mr. Gaits meanwhile lived his life as a ringed target for anyone with the means to shoot at: money was his vice, pure and simple. From the gold rings on his fingers to the glint of his tooth, here was a man who could put a price on anything, and so long as he was sure he was undercutting you in some manner you could procure anything you wanted from him.
We made idle chatter while we waited and drew from each other ammunition to fill our chambers at a later date. Of course, we all knew these were blanks, but even blanks can scare a horse into trampling a poor soul standing in its way.
There was no clock in here, I had observed, and so I was careful not to be seen glancing out of the window to note the length of the shadows. Mr. Gaits had no such qualms and checked his pocket watch regularly. It was gold, of course.
“Almost eight,” he said at last. “Chequebooks at the ready, lady and gentlemen.”
“Eagerness is a childish mannerism.” Doctor Brown tutted at the base businessman. “Sir Bernard will not wish to enter his own home to see four salivating purchasers.”
“What else should he want to see?”
I chortled. “I daresay he is used to facing off against bloodthirsty predators. Fear not, Mr. Gaits, he has called us here in theatrical manner, he will not hesitate to draw out our curiosity to a frayed thread.”
“I don’t have the time nor the patience to waste. Once he sees how many numbers I can write in my book he’ll do away with you three.”
“And how many numbers is that?” said Miss Lyle. “Can you count to ten?”
We three shared a laugh at Mr. Gaits’ expense.
“You have a sharp tongue, Miss. But words are not worth as much as numbers, and my numbers are worth more than yours, we can both be very sure of that.”
“Perhaps you are right. But then you should not wonder why I did not bother to bring a chequebook at all.”
Miss Lyle had piqued my interest once more, and I found myself wrapping my consciousness around her cold body.
Mr. Gaits laughed. “You have gold hidden in your boots? You think Sir Bernard will accept a receipt of intent?”
Miss Lyle said nothing, and yet in her silence she spoke volumes.
An intriguing note that I, painfully enough to admit, had not thought of myself. Such an odd collection of people, invited in such an odd way, to a ‘sale’ for which the object was unknown. Why then was it so certain that the price would be monetary? If so far we had been lead to expect nothing, why should the unexpected not be expected?
It seemed to me that my initial worry upon receiving my letter, of having considerably less capital than my likely-peers, was evidently unfounded: Sir Bernard was no fool, he did not need to invite strangers to his house to pad out an auction. We were chosen each for our own reasons, and for three of us it was most evidently not for our fortunes.
I felt a tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers.
And then, as if the tingling was a paranormal summons, the door opened for the fifth and final time that evening.
“Miss Lyle, gentlemen, Sir Bernard Howell.”
The waiting lady stepped aside to reveal her employer, but she needn’t have bothered. He outranked her in every physical asset. He was a tall, potato-shaped man with a round, almost perfectly-circular head, on top of which was a small, well-combed parting of brownish-orange hair.
He wore comically small spectacles hung around his neck on a chain and everything else except for his milky brown shoes and white socks was green: green jacket, green waistcoat, and green trousers.
His cheeks and nose were ruddy red, and his mouth was small but wide, showing off gleaming teeth in a smile that pushed his round cheeks up against his beady green eyes.
As he entered the room he seemed to push us all back with his larger-than-life presence. I began to suffocate on his aura.
His arms outstretched, he declared in a booming voice: “Welcome, dear guests. I trust I find you well? Doctor Brown?”
“In good spirits, thank you Sir Bernard.”
“Mr. Gaits?”
“All the happier for seeing you at last, Sir Bernard.” At this he got up from the sofa and went forwards, shaking Sir Bernard by the hand. “Shall we get started?”
Sir Bernard laughed so loudly for a moment I swore the windows vibrated a little.
“A prudent devil you are, Mr. Gaits. So wonderful to see! Worry not, we will tarry only a short while but it would be most impolite not to greet my guests afore.”
“As you say sir, though I assure you your introductions will be wasted.”
Sir Bernard clapped him warmly on the shoulder.
“The man I sought is the man who arrived, excellent news I say! But I do insist upon it. Mr. Hemwick, a delight to see you in the confines of my own home. How is the Tom Collins?”
Try as I might, I could not help but smile. The crafty devil, he was already making the measure of us all. The waiting lady had filled him in on our particulars, no doubt. I shook his hand as I said, “Perfection. The lady is wasted on you. I’m sure I know an establishment in London much more suited to her fine craftsmanship.”
“Ah, but that is exactly the reason why I insist on keeping her here. I am a collector of unique items, after all. Which of my prized artefacts will you find within the British Museum? None of course!”
“And yet, here we are Sir Bernard.”
Sir Bernard leant towards me ever so slightly, and his smug grin took on a new, hungrier look. “And here we are,” he said quietly.
Then suddenly his eyes darted to the corner of the room and he exclaimed, “Miss Lyle! As beautiful as they say.” He walked over to her and took her offered hand, planting a gentle kiss upon it. “I hope the company has not been too rough for your liking?”
“I shovel horse manure daily. Though I presently lack a shovel, the engagement is the same.”
At this Sir Bernard exploded with laughter once more and Doctor Brown gasped, “I say!”
“A deft and punishing assessment, Miss Lyle. I daresay you will enjoy your stay here.”
“Thank you, Sir Bernard. The gin and tonic is excellent, by the way.”
“Yes, it seems as though I have left you in good hands. Well done Mrs. Pyke.”
Mrs. Pyke nodded her thanks.
“But before we get too comfortable, perhaps we should discuss some business?”
At this room fell suddenly silent, more quiet than silent even. The vacuum of sound that descended threatened to drown out the sound of my own heartbeat as it thumped against my ribs.
“You all received my letters, and, I hasten to add, followed the instructions precisely. There are only six people in the world who know those letters exist, and only five of them know the contents. Mrs. Pyke assures me she wrote them well within the accordance of my wishes.”
I was not quick enough to prevent myself from blinking in astonishment, though I steadied myself immediately afterwards. Mrs. Pyke was the owner of that delicate handwriting, but of course! Sir Bernard’s would have betrayed a lifetime of adventure, whereas the letter I received was written with the precision of one who spent her days perfecting a Tom Collins. Fool that I was, I had let a glaring fact pass me by and it immediately put me on edge. My quiet confidence had been blunted and now I would have to reassess everything.
“You didn’t write them?” said Mr. Gaits. A greater fool was he, I thought, for playing his cards face-up.
“As you will all find out tonight, the matter we shall be dealing with requires the utmost secrecy. As such it is vital that the trail that has been so carefully, purposefully laid ends not at my own feet. Mrs. Pyke has proven herself countless times to be a most loyal house servant.”
“This is most irregular, Sir Bernard,” said Doctor Brown.
“Indeed, though I should think it were obvious by now, my esteemed colleague.” Sir Bernard almost winked at the doctor, whom I could see winced at the notion that his own well-earnt doctorate compared in any way to Sir Bernard’s honorary award. “Do not be flustered Doctor, for I was under the impression that you, of all your peers, would find what I have to show you tonight most interesting.”
And once more, though all could swear he had winked he had, in fact, not. Sir Bernard Howell was an unprecedented master of the unsaid, and it was slowly dawning on me that I was wading farther out than I had planned to.
“I am hungry, Sir Bernard.” We all turned to Miss Lyle, who for all the world looked bored. “Perhaps we can eat soon? Or I shall be like to faint like others of my weaker sex.”
“Ah, Miss Lyle you have preceded my thoughts exactly. Gentlemen, though it seems superfluous to say it now, I have arranged dinner before the nights event, so as to ensure we do not work on empty stomachs, for that way lies madness. As you can plainly see,” he patted his belly, “I am not a man to go without regular sustenance, and my journey today has been most long. Come, the cook has served up his best.”
I felt very sure that three of Sir Bernard’s four guests were reeling as though he had punched them all square in the jaw with his best hook, and I am ashamed to admit that one of them was me.
I had surveyed and assessed the juicy morsel dangling in front of me before biting, only to find it was attached to a hook on the end of Sir Bernard’s fishing line. I had been so sure of myself, so confident in my ability to acquiesce the truth that I had been blinded to the true threat that lay right in front of me. I recalled once more the letter, and how I had decided before I had even finished reading it once, that I would be attending a secret auction, in a secluded place, among strangers, and for an item I knew not what nor even its nature.
As I followed behind Doctor Brown in procession to the dining room I wanted to glance over my shoulder to look upon Miss Lyle’s face, but I knew, even in my shockingly bad reading of the proceedings to my current situation, that she would not be grinning.
Dinner was muted, though the food was as divine as Sir Bernard foretold. I realised my façade was stumbling when Miss Lyle asked me if I had heard her question, and I had to bumble a lie that I was too busy admiring the landscape painting on the opposite wall. Sir Bernard immediately began to explain the details of the jungle tree-tops painted therein and all focus went there, but I knew she knew. And Miss Lyle knew I knew.
The sly harlot!
It felt like a hundred years had passed before Mrs. Pyke had laid out the last liqueur and Sir Bernard raised his glass, which we all copied.
“To the great game!” he said.
“The great game,” we chimed in before downing our drinks. It tasted of caramel and honey, though to me there was certainly a bitterness.
“Miss Lyle, gentlemen, finally, we come to the matter at hand.” We watched him closely as he pushed his chair back and stood up, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “If you’d all follow me please.”
We left the dining room and back into the corridor, but this time we turned deeper into the house and entered a nondescript room.
This room was perfectly square, but unlike every other room in the house there was not a single item of interest to be seen, except for one notable exception in the very centre.
It wasn’t an exotic artefact, or a mysterious tome. It was a tall rectangular shape covered in a delicate blue cloth that draped all the way to the floor. It betrayed no shape other than flat geometry and would have been quite unremarkable in any other location.
We unwittingly gathered together abreast while Sir Bernard approached and stood in front of it. He gazed up at it almost lovingly and raised his hands, then he turned to us.
“What am I bid?” he asked.
A moment passed where we all processed what he had just asked. This man was merciless: sucker punch after sucker punch, not a moment to pause and ponder.
I glanced to my left and caught Mr. Gaits’ eye.
“For what?” he said.
Sir Bernard grinned his biggest smile yet. “I’ll give you a clue dear boy: it’s not the door.”
Mr. Gaits’ jaw hung low and I heard Doctor Brown splutter: “Sir Bernard, I...what is under the cloth?”
“That is with regards to the letters you all received. Should you wish it, the honour can be yours.”
“But how are we to bid on an unknown item?”
“Doctor, I have read your books, and yet now am I to discover that they were written by someone else? Whom is the author of such clever works then, if he is not here this evening? You read the letter, you have come as asked, and only now, with all that you knew you did not know, do you deem it an oddity to be unknowing?”
“I merely assumed...”
But Sir Bernard cut him off.
“Then wrongly you assumed, not that I believe it. Curiosity is what brought you all here tonight, though I am sure you all hazarded that guess much earlier. Do not fool yourselves any longer: this is no ordinary auction, and the prize is not a thing you could proudly display on your desk.
“I am offering you this evening the chance to taste but the tiniest morsel of the wonderful cornucopia that has been my life. Never again shall one person discover so much, or uncover the truest sensations that man has not felt since his own first dawn, when the Sun rose and became God!
“I therefore ask only once more, whom shall it be?”
He stood before us as mighty as Michelangelo’s David: as inspiring in his witnessing as in the dreaming of his construction. How such a man could come to be! And before I could stop myself my lips parted.
“Ten thousand pounds!” I shouted.
Mr. Gaits and the Doctor peered round at me. There was a moment where I thought I had been put under a spell, and that my fellows thought me truly mad, but then Mr Gaits said: “Twenty!”
“Twenty-five!” said Brown.
“Thirty-five!” I said.
“Fifty!” said Gaits.
“Eighty!” said Brown.
“One-hundred!”
“Two-hundred!”
“Three-hundred!” I screamed, all notion of capital gone from my head.
“Four-hundred!”
“Eight-hundred!”
“One-thousand-thousand pounds!”
“I will tell you where I buried him.”
“One-thous...”
We three men stopped suddenly and looked to our right. Miss Lyle stood a short distance away from me, and the lighting cast a shadow across her eyes.
She was looking directly at Sir Bernard, and she wore the exact same expression she had wielded all evening, but in this new dark place, both before the blue cloth and within our own baited minds succumbed to Sir Bernard’s words, I saw it anew. Where before I had read defensive posturing, a woman on the defence against my shamelessly lascivious onslaught, now I realised it was the look of an apex predator, not unlike a shark.
Sir Bernard had an unsettlingly wide and toothy smile on his face. Two sharks, thought I.
“Miss Lyle,” said Sir Bernard quietly. “I think the other guests would like you to repeat what you just said. I do believe it has knocked the wind out of their sails.”
“I will tell you where I buried him,” she said with a short and deadly glance towards us.
“Ah, now that is an offer! Any advances, gentlemen?”
We three now stuttered and stammered, looking between the occupants of the room and the blue cloth in shock and horror.
“One-million!” said Mr. Gates pathetically.
Sir Bernard laughed. “Come, come now. The stakes have been raised beyond mineral value. The deepest shadows of the heart of darkness await, and only the bravest may enter. What say you?”
It was a few seconds before Doctor Brown stuttered: “I...I will tell you where both of them are buried.”
A bead of sweat began to form at the back of my neck, for I knew what was coming.
I could see Mr. Gaits staring at Sir Bernard as he bit his lip. “I’ll tell you where all of them are buried!”
Sir Bernard nodded very approvingly, but there seemed to be an electricity in the air, a friction born from expectation. Slowly, everyone turned to me. I could feel their stares jabbing at me from every direction and I wanted more than anything to be inside that cloth, hidden away from the world, from those that knew. Because yes, indeed, they knew now. All of them knew.
I had built my castle on a foundation of lies, and without having said a single word I was watching it crumble at Sir Bernard’s will.
I opened my mouth and the words fell out like a torrent.
“I will tell you. Where I buried all of them. The adults and the children.”
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‘To Mr. Douglas Joseph Hemwick,’ it said in fine black ink, its cursive swirling gracefully upon the paper. I could tell from this alone that the sender was most prestigious and deserved my utmost attention. I took the letter to my study and grabbed my father’s silver letter knife to delicately prize it open. With a care that was perhaps a little too much I slowly pinched the letter inside and pulled it out.
It was a single page folded in half and I could immediately see that the same exquisite handwriting was here too. It was short, only one paragraph long, but its contents were incredibly arresting.
Dear Mr. Hemwick,
I write to you today with an exciting offer. Your attendance is requested at Pratton House, Cambridge, on the 7th February at 8pm sharp in order that you might take part in the sale of the century. I cannot disclose details at this time but suffice to say you will not be disappointed. Mention the contents of this letter to no one.
Yours Sincerely,
Sir Bernard Howell
That name meant something to me, a great deal in fact, for it was the name of one of the most famous British explorers of the past hundred years. His exploits were worth their weight in newspaper columns, and serialised versions of his diaries made it often difficult to come by one’s morning broadsheet. They read as almost too fantastical to be believed, and yet the scientific community were in unison as to their voracity, having handled and analysed the various artefacts and exotic flora and fauna he always returned with. My own son loved to hear about the mile-high waterfalls of the Americas and the forgotten tombs of Egypt, so much so that I had restricted these tales from the evening as it would get his blood too hot to sleep.
To be named in person by this towering figure of British culture was a difficult notion to comprehend, and yet here lay the evidence. I went back through the letter then, pondering as to this ‘sale of the century’ and what it had to do with me. I was by no means a man without capital but my comparatively modest income to the likes of Sir Bernard and the lofty folk he mingled with paled in comparison. If a sale was on the cards then I highly doubted I would be able to front it.
But then, only time would tell, as I decided immediately, nay, before even I had finished the letter, that I would go. Something about the delicate, flawless handwriting, and the mystery within had captured my imagination. I was not prone to adventure, having settled into my domestic life rather contentedly, but if a man is to stave off senility in his old age he must have the excitement of his memories to keep him sane. The unknown beckoned, like the briny deep, and I was helpless to its entrancing lure.
The next few days I could think of little else. Even as my pen scrawled across countless documents and my glazed eyes peered over my spectacles at clients my mind was fogged by mysterious correspondences. I found a renewed interest in Sir Bernard’s diaries and began to wonder what marvellous item he would be offering on the occasion. The golden idol? The finger of the ancient king of Babylon? One of those ferocious man-eating plants? I quivered at the possibilities and allowed myself to ignore the practical problems in favour of succumbing to excitement, for I notioned that my confidence would somewhat make up for my lack of means. A laugh at the right joke or a kiss on the right hand could take a man a mile.
My wife was none the wiser, of course, and though I had begun reading Sir Bernard’s diaries to my son before bed, against my more recent judgement as to their evening-suitability, she couldn’t care less for my altered opinion on the matter. Indeed, I often found myself reading to him long into the night, and even after he had drifted off to his nightly adventures. I wished I could join him but my duties as a husband rendered my own bedtime a scheduled affair.
I had decided to leave at seven o’clock on the morning of February 7th to allow for any incidents that might disrupt my travel, but I needn’t have worried. After a brisk farewell to the whole family I departed for, as I called it, ‘important business’ and stroked my moustache in the back of the cab with giddy excitement. I gave myself a playful slap on the wrist, imitating nanny, for my childish exuberances and smiled all the way to Cambridge and my residence for the night, a charming townhouse with just a touch of the crookedness about it, which I admired. I enjoy finding the little details that tell a greater story, like the tan line of a missing ring or the second glance of one woman to another. In this building I saw a long history and imagined for a moment all the tears of joy and pain that had been shed under its roof. It made me happy to know that life had passed through here in such a multitude of circumstances.
With time to spare I decided to walk to the old familiar places around the city that I recalled from past visits. The scenery was oddly unchanged yet filled with a fresh energy as though swept in on the wind. Perhaps Sir Bernard had brought the fantastical energy home with him. It made me wonder where he was right now and what he was doing. With the prospect of a chance encounter on the streets I took to aimless wandering and allowed my feet to lead me to and fro between the ancient architecture, over the river and beyond the grim corners where steel and teeth both glinted from the shadows.
At 5pm I returned to my residence to prepare for the evening by washing, shaving and otherwise becoming the gentleman I was better known to be. I applied a deft amount of aftershave to accent my demeanour and then checked myself over thoroughly in the mirror. With doubtless prestigious guests at the venue I did not wish to belie anything other than good stock and better manners.
And then before I quite knew it, I was standing in front of the large doors at Pratton House having rung the bell. The cold had begun to settle in earnest again and so my breath visibly lingered as I waited for the door to creak open and a handsome lady to stand before me. She curtsied with stiff formality and looked me in the eye as she spoke.
“Mr. Hemwick. Thank you for coming. Please come in.”
She spoke slowly, deliberately, quietly, but with a fortitude that I thought to be most exciting. She was nobody’s fool, that was for sure.
I stepped inside to find myself in a well-lit reception room filled with ornate wooden architecture and a high ceiling. A beautiful vase of flowers sat on a varnished mahogany table accompanied by a framed photograph of Sir Bernard with his arm around a half-nude native of some sort. They were exchanging something small but I couldn’t quite see what. Sir Bernard had his trademark smile but the native’s expression was quite the opposite.
“May I take your coat Mr. Hemwick?” asked the lady. She had clearly allowed me a moment to take in my surroundings, no doubt Sir Bernard’s directive in order to engulf me as thoroughly as possible in his copious auspiciousness.
“Certainly.”
Once removed she held my coat in one arm while gesturing with the other. “This way Mr. Hemwick.”
I followed her through the doorway into a cosy wood-panelled room, not much larger than the reception. Here there were two large cushioned sofas facing each other, with an enormous tiger-skin rug in between them, its mouth agape as though still in shock at having been shot and laid out for the mere comfort of human feet.
Beyond the sofas was a thick marble mantlepiece adorned with small curios of the sort one would read about in Sir Bernard’s diaries, though naturally these would be of lesser import. But the pièce de résistance was a huge portrait hung over the mantlepiece of Sir Bernard himself, his torso and head slightly askew as he grinned widely with that flush ruddiness in his cheeks he was so admired for. In the background a nondescript exotic jungle scene hid memories that only Sir Bernard could recall. Perhaps tonight I would hear from the man himself about his latest, as-of-yet unheard trials!
I was giddy at the prospect and almost let my composure slip as I turned to the stern lady by the door. “A most humbling room. Your employer must be very proud.”
“I would not be at liberty to say, Mr. Hemwick. My employer has his own opinions and does not pay me to keep my own.”
“Indeed,” I said, noting how her demeanour made her ever so attractive to the likes of me. “When will the other guests be arriving?”
“In due course, it is only 6pm after all.”
“Time suffers no fools, madam. Better to be early and waiting, than late and fretting.”
“As you say, Mr. Hemwick. A drink?”
‘Aha!’ I thought. The first true test of class.
“A Tom Collins. With a slice of fresh lemon.”
“Very good, Mr. Hemwick.”
And with that she retired from the room, bowing as she went, and closed the door in her own face.
Such dignity and cold ferocity, it gave me such a rush!
With the lady’s absence I took a more thorough look around the room. The delicate wooden piano in the corner had been well-varnished but, with a slight inspection of the keys, hardly, if ever played. The room as a whole, in fact, had the air of a place that was well-kept but never lived in. Hardly a surprise, thought I, what with Sir Bernard’s galivanting around the globe and then his flitting between noble houses and establishments, he could hardly be expected to settle down to his piano to plonk out a folksy ditty for the merriment of the ornaments.
And every corner of the room, every inch of it was surveyed by his bulging eyes, watching closely as I examined the hollow horn on the coffee table, the blackened leather book displayed on a lectern inside the book cabinet, and the spitefully-pink flower that bloomed from a vase by the lace-curtained window. Whether by lingering morality, or the unshakable feeling that I was indeed being watched, I let my fingers go no closer than a foot to any of these undoubtedly priceless items.
The temptation to touch, to be engaged with even such a small part of Sir Bernard’s legacy as this, was almost too much.
It was as I was examining a red book laced with gold that the door opened and in came the waiting lady holding a silver tray, and on it a tall glass. I stepped forward to accept it but then stopped as I witnessed another lady enter behind her.
“Miss Lyle,” said the waiting lady, “May I introduce Mr. Hemwick.”
I examined Miss Lyle closely, and took note of her clothes. She had ridden here, evidently, a fact betrayed by her riding boots and gloves hanging from the crook of her elbow. Her hair was held up in a bun atop her head, and though she wore no masque I felt immediately engaged to her in an attractive manner.
Having two stern and sharply-attractive women in front of me threatened to betray something of my own, were it not for the rigidity of my attire.
I took a step forward and held out a hand to Miss Lyle.
“Charmed,” I said.
She shook it and gave me a look of disinterest, though I could see through the seams that it was not the truth. She desired me, I could feel it.
“Mr. Hemwick. A pleasure,” she said, and then we let go. I resisted the urge to bring my hand up to my face right then, for the excitement and pleasure of but a snifter of her scent. Nay, even the leather of her gloves was like to send me into a rage of passion. I subdued myself but smiled at her in the charming manner I greeted my clients.
“Won’t you join me on the sofa?” I asked as I took my glass in one hand and gestured behind me with the other.
“A while yet, I have been sat for a good few hours and would enjoy the opportunity to stretch my legs.” As she said this she walked past me and began to peruse the room as I had done. Naturally, now feeling more comfortable in my surroundings, I fell into a character that oozed confidence.
“A drink for you, Miss Lyle?” asked the waiting lady.
“Gin and tonic, thank you kindly.”
“Very good Miss Lyle,” and she left in the same manner as before.
The room fell suddenly silent, save for the gentle rustling of the trees outside and the occasional holler of someone on the street. I wanted to own this moment as firmly as possible, and so I watched Miss Lyle with a posture that made no qualms about it. She could be in no doubt that this was, for now, my domain.
“And what part of the uncharted world do you come from, Mr. Hemwick?” she asked me without turning away from the blackened book I noted earlier.
“The ancient and forgotten lands of London.”
“How strange, I have heard of this place. Are you not then one of the attractions displayed within this room?” She turned to me with a governess’ questioning look. My blood pumped hot.
“Alas, in truth I am far less mysterious than these items.”
“And yet, you remain as silent. Are you a man, or a museum artefact, Mr. Hemwick?”
I chortled at her sharp wit. A chase, an engagement of wiles before the kill. How exciting!
“I confess I was adhering to chivalry in allowing the lady to speak first, but I see if one of us is a knight it is she who rides to the castle atop a steed,” I said, nodding at her well-polished riding boots. “But Miss Lyle, do not think these curious possessions of Sir Bernard are as silent as I. They speak of dark secrets hidden away behind forgotten words and deceased tongues.”
Miss Lyle turned her nose up at the thought. “I do not read Sir Bernard’s diaries; they are a fanciful waste of time. I have much better things to do.”
Ah, the first pang of irritation towards her. Who could not enjoy his skilfully-told exploits?
“Then pray, what brings you here Miss Lyle?”
She turned to me at once, a searching look. She was not panicked but was determined to know what I knew. This, here, was the first opportunity to nick our opponent. Tell a lie, and be known a liar? Tell the truth, and be known an idiot? The sparks of our fencing thoughts were like to set the tiger-skin rug on fire.
“Opportunity, Mr. Hemwick.”
A safe and cautious sally. I now knew my opponent so very well. This prey was mine.
“Then we are poised against each other, Miss Lyle.”
“I must warn you, sir, that I have never lost a fight against a man.”
“And against a lady?”
“I only fight men, Mr. Hemwick.”
“Oh dear, then you are missing out on a most satisfying experience.”
I smirked at her, imagining beneath her steely exterior how her skin must be crawling now. I doubted very much that she had ever matched so far above her ability. To make her squirm, to draw from her a feeling as strong as revulsion, gave to me a lofty puff in my chest.
She took a moment longer to reply. “You joke that I am a knight of chivalry, well in fact I am not, and should I find that an outstretched hand contains a hidden needle I should quicker cut off that hand than merely withdraw.”
At that moment the door opened and our waiting lady returned with Miss Lyle’s gently fizzing drink upon a silver tray.
“Do we understand each other, Mr. Hemwick?”
The waiting lady paid no attention to our conversation and laid out a doily next to Miss Lyle, then placed the glass on top of it.
The ice inside tinkled gently while I smiled.
“Absolutely, Miss Lyle.”
As the time approached 8pm, Miss Lyle and I found ourselves joined by two more guests: a Doctor Brown, of Leeds; and a businessman of African descent called Andrew Gaits, who also came here from London.
What connected us all was very clear: we all knew more than what we were saying, and that, in turn, was apparent to each. Sir Bernard had done well to gather such astute and silently-probing individuals, who’s eyes pierced the soul far better than a crude surgeon’s drill ever could.
But doubtless each of us had our own uniqueness that would lend the proceedings a frisson of danger, and for my own it was that, and I was quite sure of this, I was the only person who did not acutely detest the others.
Of Miss Lyle, the nature of my appreciation can be in no doubt; and while Doctor Brown had perfected the art of looking down one’s nose at everyone even when they were stood to one’s rear, his sophisticated lexicon and shallow demeanour made me lick my lips at the prospect of such an easy ego to massage; Mr. Gaits meanwhile lived his life as a ringed target for anyone with the means to shoot at: money was his vice, pure and simple. From the gold rings on his fingers to the glint of his tooth, here was a man who could put a price on anything, and so long as he was sure he was undercutting you in some manner you could procure anything you wanted from him.
We made idle chatter while we waited and drew from each other ammunition to fill our chambers at a later date. Of course, we all knew these were blanks, but even blanks can scare a horse into trampling a poor soul standing in its way.
There was no clock in here, I had observed, and so I was careful not to be seen glancing out of the window to note the length of the shadows. Mr. Gaits had no such qualms and checked his pocket watch regularly. It was gold, of course.
“Almost eight,” he said at last. “Chequebooks at the ready, lady and gentlemen.”
“Eagerness is a childish mannerism.” Doctor Brown tutted at the base businessman. “Sir Bernard will not wish to enter his own home to see four salivating purchasers.”
“What else should he want to see?”
I chortled. “I daresay he is used to facing off against bloodthirsty predators. Fear not, Mr. Gaits, he has called us here in theatrical manner, he will not hesitate to draw out our curiosity to a frayed thread.”
“I don’t have the time nor the patience to waste. Once he sees how many numbers I can write in my book he’ll do away with you three.”
“And how many numbers is that?” said Miss Lyle. “Can you count to ten?”
We three shared a laugh at Mr. Gaits’ expense.
“You have a sharp tongue, Miss. But words are not worth as much as numbers, and my numbers are worth more than yours, we can both be very sure of that.”
“Perhaps you are right. But then you should not wonder why I did not bother to bring a chequebook at all.”
Miss Lyle had piqued my interest once more, and I found myself wrapping my consciousness around her cold body.
Mr. Gaits laughed. “You have gold hidden in your boots? You think Sir Bernard will accept a receipt of intent?”
Miss Lyle said nothing, and yet in her silence she spoke volumes.
An intriguing note that I, painfully enough to admit, had not thought of myself. Such an odd collection of people, invited in such an odd way, to a ‘sale’ for which the object was unknown. Why then was it so certain that the price would be monetary? If so far we had been lead to expect nothing, why should the unexpected not be expected?
It seemed to me that my initial worry upon receiving my letter, of having considerably less capital than my likely-peers, was evidently unfounded: Sir Bernard was no fool, he did not need to invite strangers to his house to pad out an auction. We were chosen each for our own reasons, and for three of us it was most evidently not for our fortunes.
I felt a tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers.
And then, as if the tingling was a paranormal summons, the door opened for the fifth and final time that evening.
“Miss Lyle, gentlemen, Sir Bernard Howell.”
The waiting lady stepped aside to reveal her employer, but she needn’t have bothered. He outranked her in every physical asset. He was a tall, potato-shaped man with a round, almost perfectly-circular head, on top of which was a small, well-combed parting of brownish-orange hair.
He wore comically small spectacles hung around his neck on a chain and everything else except for his milky brown shoes and white socks was green: green jacket, green waistcoat, and green trousers.
His cheeks and nose were ruddy red, and his mouth was small but wide, showing off gleaming teeth in a smile that pushed his round cheeks up against his beady green eyes.
As he entered the room he seemed to push us all back with his larger-than-life presence. I began to suffocate on his aura.
His arms outstretched, he declared in a booming voice: “Welcome, dear guests. I trust I find you well? Doctor Brown?”
“In good spirits, thank you Sir Bernard.”
“Mr. Gaits?”
“All the happier for seeing you at last, Sir Bernard.” At this he got up from the sofa and went forwards, shaking Sir Bernard by the hand. “Shall we get started?”
Sir Bernard laughed so loudly for a moment I swore the windows vibrated a little.
“A prudent devil you are, Mr. Gaits. So wonderful to see! Worry not, we will tarry only a short while but it would be most impolite not to greet my guests afore.”
“As you say sir, though I assure you your introductions will be wasted.”
Sir Bernard clapped him warmly on the shoulder.
“The man I sought is the man who arrived, excellent news I say! But I do insist upon it. Mr. Hemwick, a delight to see you in the confines of my own home. How is the Tom Collins?”
Try as I might, I could not help but smile. The crafty devil, he was already making the measure of us all. The waiting lady had filled him in on our particulars, no doubt. I shook his hand as I said, “Perfection. The lady is wasted on you. I’m sure I know an establishment in London much more suited to her fine craftsmanship.”
“Ah, but that is exactly the reason why I insist on keeping her here. I am a collector of unique items, after all. Which of my prized artefacts will you find within the British Museum? None of course!”
“And yet, here we are Sir Bernard.”
Sir Bernard leant towards me ever so slightly, and his smug grin took on a new, hungrier look. “And here we are,” he said quietly.
Then suddenly his eyes darted to the corner of the room and he exclaimed, “Miss Lyle! As beautiful as they say.” He walked over to her and took her offered hand, planting a gentle kiss upon it. “I hope the company has not been too rough for your liking?”
“I shovel horse manure daily. Though I presently lack a shovel, the engagement is the same.”
At this Sir Bernard exploded with laughter once more and Doctor Brown gasped, “I say!”
“A deft and punishing assessment, Miss Lyle. I daresay you will enjoy your stay here.”
“Thank you, Sir Bernard. The gin and tonic is excellent, by the way.”
“Yes, it seems as though I have left you in good hands. Well done Mrs. Pyke.”
Mrs. Pyke nodded her thanks.
“But before we get too comfortable, perhaps we should discuss some business?”
At this room fell suddenly silent, more quiet than silent even. The vacuum of sound that descended threatened to drown out the sound of my own heartbeat as it thumped against my ribs.
“You all received my letters, and, I hasten to add, followed the instructions precisely. There are only six people in the world who know those letters exist, and only five of them know the contents. Mrs. Pyke assures me she wrote them well within the accordance of my wishes.”
I was not quick enough to prevent myself from blinking in astonishment, though I steadied myself immediately afterwards. Mrs. Pyke was the owner of that delicate handwriting, but of course! Sir Bernard’s would have betrayed a lifetime of adventure, whereas the letter I received was written with the precision of one who spent her days perfecting a Tom Collins. Fool that I was, I had let a glaring fact pass me by and it immediately put me on edge. My quiet confidence had been blunted and now I would have to reassess everything.
“You didn’t write them?” said Mr. Gaits. A greater fool was he, I thought, for playing his cards face-up.
“As you will all find out tonight, the matter we shall be dealing with requires the utmost secrecy. As such it is vital that the trail that has been so carefully, purposefully laid ends not at my own feet. Mrs. Pyke has proven herself countless times to be a most loyal house servant.”
“This is most irregular, Sir Bernard,” said Doctor Brown.
“Indeed, though I should think it were obvious by now, my esteemed colleague.” Sir Bernard almost winked at the doctor, whom I could see winced at the notion that his own well-earnt doctorate compared in any way to Sir Bernard’s honorary award. “Do not be flustered Doctor, for I was under the impression that you, of all your peers, would find what I have to show you tonight most interesting.”
And once more, though all could swear he had winked he had, in fact, not. Sir Bernard Howell was an unprecedented master of the unsaid, and it was slowly dawning on me that I was wading farther out than I had planned to.
“I am hungry, Sir Bernard.” We all turned to Miss Lyle, who for all the world looked bored. “Perhaps we can eat soon? Or I shall be like to faint like others of my weaker sex.”
“Ah, Miss Lyle you have preceded my thoughts exactly. Gentlemen, though it seems superfluous to say it now, I have arranged dinner before the nights event, so as to ensure we do not work on empty stomachs, for that way lies madness. As you can plainly see,” he patted his belly, “I am not a man to go without regular sustenance, and my journey today has been most long. Come, the cook has served up his best.”
I felt very sure that three of Sir Bernard’s four guests were reeling as though he had punched them all square in the jaw with his best hook, and I am ashamed to admit that one of them was me.
I had surveyed and assessed the juicy morsel dangling in front of me before biting, only to find it was attached to a hook on the end of Sir Bernard’s fishing line. I had been so sure of myself, so confident in my ability to acquiesce the truth that I had been blinded to the true threat that lay right in front of me. I recalled once more the letter, and how I had decided before I had even finished reading it once, that I would be attending a secret auction, in a secluded place, among strangers, and for an item I knew not what nor even its nature.
As I followed behind Doctor Brown in procession to the dining room I wanted to glance over my shoulder to look upon Miss Lyle’s face, but I knew, even in my shockingly bad reading of the proceedings to my current situation, that she would not be grinning.
Dinner was muted, though the food was as divine as Sir Bernard foretold. I realised my façade was stumbling when Miss Lyle asked me if I had heard her question, and I had to bumble a lie that I was too busy admiring the landscape painting on the opposite wall. Sir Bernard immediately began to explain the details of the jungle tree-tops painted therein and all focus went there, but I knew she knew. And Miss Lyle knew I knew.
The sly harlot!
It felt like a hundred years had passed before Mrs. Pyke had laid out the last liqueur and Sir Bernard raised his glass, which we all copied.
“To the great game!” he said.
“The great game,” we chimed in before downing our drinks. It tasted of caramel and honey, though to me there was certainly a bitterness.
“Miss Lyle, gentlemen, finally, we come to the matter at hand.” We watched him closely as he pushed his chair back and stood up, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “If you’d all follow me please.”
We left the dining room and back into the corridor, but this time we turned deeper into the house and entered a nondescript room.
This room was perfectly square, but unlike every other room in the house there was not a single item of interest to be seen, except for one notable exception in the very centre.
It wasn’t an exotic artefact, or a mysterious tome. It was a tall rectangular shape covered in a delicate blue cloth that draped all the way to the floor. It betrayed no shape other than flat geometry and would have been quite unremarkable in any other location.
We unwittingly gathered together abreast while Sir Bernard approached and stood in front of it. He gazed up at it almost lovingly and raised his hands, then he turned to us.
“What am I bid?” he asked.
A moment passed where we all processed what he had just asked. This man was merciless: sucker punch after sucker punch, not a moment to pause and ponder.
I glanced to my left and caught Mr. Gaits’ eye.
“For what?” he said.
Sir Bernard grinned his biggest smile yet. “I’ll give you a clue dear boy: it’s not the door.”
Mr. Gaits’ jaw hung low and I heard Doctor Brown splutter: “Sir Bernard, I...what is under the cloth?”
“That is with regards to the letters you all received. Should you wish it, the honour can be yours.”
“But how are we to bid on an unknown item?”
“Doctor, I have read your books, and yet now am I to discover that they were written by someone else? Whom is the author of such clever works then, if he is not here this evening? You read the letter, you have come as asked, and only now, with all that you knew you did not know, do you deem it an oddity to be unknowing?”
“I merely assumed...”
But Sir Bernard cut him off.
“Then wrongly you assumed, not that I believe it. Curiosity is what brought you all here tonight, though I am sure you all hazarded that guess much earlier. Do not fool yourselves any longer: this is no ordinary auction, and the prize is not a thing you could proudly display on your desk.
“I am offering you this evening the chance to taste but the tiniest morsel of the wonderful cornucopia that has been my life. Never again shall one person discover so much, or uncover the truest sensations that man has not felt since his own first dawn, when the Sun rose and became God!
“I therefore ask only once more, whom shall it be?”
He stood before us as mighty as Michelangelo’s David: as inspiring in his witnessing as in the dreaming of his construction. How such a man could come to be! And before I could stop myself my lips parted.
“Ten thousand pounds!” I shouted.
Mr. Gaits and the Doctor peered round at me. There was a moment where I thought I had been put under a spell, and that my fellows thought me truly mad, but then Mr Gaits said: “Twenty!”
“Twenty-five!” said Brown.
“Thirty-five!” I said.
“Fifty!” said Gaits.
“Eighty!” said Brown.
“One-hundred!”
“Two-hundred!”
“Three-hundred!” I screamed, all notion of capital gone from my head.
“Four-hundred!”
“Eight-hundred!”
“One-thousand-thousand pounds!”
“I will tell you where I buried him.”
“One-thous...”
We three men stopped suddenly and looked to our right. Miss Lyle stood a short distance away from me, and the lighting cast a shadow across her eyes.
She was looking directly at Sir Bernard, and she wore the exact same expression she had wielded all evening, but in this new dark place, both before the blue cloth and within our own baited minds succumbed to Sir Bernard’s words, I saw it anew. Where before I had read defensive posturing, a woman on the defence against my shamelessly lascivious onslaught, now I realised it was the look of an apex predator, not unlike a shark.
Sir Bernard had an unsettlingly wide and toothy smile on his face. Two sharks, thought I.
“Miss Lyle,” said Sir Bernard quietly. “I think the other guests would like you to repeat what you just said. I do believe it has knocked the wind out of their sails.”
“I will tell you where I buried him,” she said with a short and deadly glance towards us.
“Ah, now that is an offer! Any advances, gentlemen?”
We three now stuttered and stammered, looking between the occupants of the room and the blue cloth in shock and horror.
“One-million!” said Mr. Gates pathetically.
Sir Bernard laughed. “Come, come now. The stakes have been raised beyond mineral value. The deepest shadows of the heart of darkness await, and only the bravest may enter. What say you?”
It was a few seconds before Doctor Brown stuttered: “I...I will tell you where both of them are buried.”
A bead of sweat began to form at the back of my neck, for I knew what was coming.
I could see Mr. Gaits staring at Sir Bernard as he bit his lip. “I’ll tell you where all of them are buried!”
Sir Bernard nodded very approvingly, but there seemed to be an electricity in the air, a friction born from expectation. Slowly, everyone turned to me. I could feel their stares jabbing at me from every direction and I wanted more than anything to be inside that cloth, hidden away from the world, from those that knew. Because yes, indeed, they knew now. All of them knew.
I had built my castle on a foundation of lies, and without having said a single word I was watching it crumble at Sir Bernard’s will.
I opened my mouth and the words fell out like a torrent.
“I will tell you. Where I buried all of them. The adults and the children.”
2018.12.07 18:58 Unsent-Forever Christmas was your favourite holiday.
You loved the snow, the crunch a fresh layer would make under our feet. You loved the smell of pine, and your house always smelled of that earthy scent when I came over. Christmas hasn’t been the same for me since you left.
Twenty six years ago we had our first Christmas without you. Your parents.. they were heart broken. The gifts, still wrapped, sitting under the tree, while the ones with your brothers and sister’s names on it were torn open. It was a reminder of what they had lost.
We held a memorial for you on Christmas, that year. Your mom and dad, me, your two brothers, and your sister all went out into the snow, and sang Christmas carols at your grave. We each opened a present for you, that year, while the wind whipped around us.
The next year, it was me, your parents, and your sister. Your brothers had moved away - Jason went to school, Landen got married, and was expecting his first baby that year. His wife was too pregnant to make the trip out. I stayed, standing there cold and wet for hours after your family left. How could I leave you again, go on for another six months trying to push the memories out of my head, until your birthday? How could I leave you again?
In eighteen days I will stand in front of your grave again. Your parents are gone now, I’m sure you know. Passed away within six months of each other. Landen hasn’t come since that first year, Jason comes on his own time. Olivia isn’t coming this year, she’s busy, she says. I’m never too busy for you, Ellie.
The man who killed you is still alive. It hurts, that you are gone, your parents have left, and yet he is still here. Living life into his eighties, old and frail, with kids and grandkids that you never got to experience. Why did he live, and you didn’t? Why didn’t he die? He was the one who got behind the wheel while he was drunk, and you faced the consequences.
I’ve spent such a long time angry. My hip will never be the same, I’ve walked with a limp since I was twenty years old, I can cry thinking of my daughters names, and the memory they hold. I had known you since I was born. We had spent twenty years together. That was a shock, six years ago, realizing you’d been gone for just as long as you were alive.
There’s a gift for you, every year, under my tree. It’s usually a Christmas ornament - you always loved them, and I put them on my tree each year - but this year, I’ve paid to restore your headstone. Fix the cracked concrete and turn it into a shining marble. Your name, written in gold on the black marble, is in loopy cursive writing, the same writing you had wished you had.
Merry (early) Christmas, Ellie.
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Twenty six years ago we had our first Christmas without you. Your parents.. they were heart broken. The gifts, still wrapped, sitting under the tree, while the ones with your brothers and sister’s names on it were torn open. It was a reminder of what they had lost.
We held a memorial for you on Christmas, that year. Your mom and dad, me, your two brothers, and your sister all went out into the snow, and sang Christmas carols at your grave. We each opened a present for you, that year, while the wind whipped around us.
The next year, it was me, your parents, and your sister. Your brothers had moved away - Jason went to school, Landen got married, and was expecting his first baby that year. His wife was too pregnant to make the trip out. I stayed, standing there cold and wet for hours after your family left. How could I leave you again, go on for another six months trying to push the memories out of my head, until your birthday? How could I leave you again?
In eighteen days I will stand in front of your grave again. Your parents are gone now, I’m sure you know. Passed away within six months of each other. Landen hasn’t come since that first year, Jason comes on his own time. Olivia isn’t coming this year, she’s busy, she says. I’m never too busy for you, Ellie.
The man who killed you is still alive. It hurts, that you are gone, your parents have left, and yet he is still here. Living life into his eighties, old and frail, with kids and grandkids that you never got to experience. Why did he live, and you didn’t? Why didn’t he die? He was the one who got behind the wheel while he was drunk, and you faced the consequences.
I’ve spent such a long time angry. My hip will never be the same, I’ve walked with a limp since I was twenty years old, I can cry thinking of my daughters names, and the memory they hold. I had known you since I was born. We had spent twenty years together. That was a shock, six years ago, realizing you’d been gone for just as long as you were alive.
There’s a gift for you, every year, under my tree. It’s usually a Christmas ornament - you always loved them, and I put them on my tree each year - but this year, I’ve paid to restore your headstone. Fix the cracked concrete and turn it into a shining marble. Your name, written in gold on the black marble, is in loopy cursive writing, the same writing you had wished you had.
Merry (early) Christmas, Ellie.
2018.11.30 00:36 davenportauthor Aunt Ethel
My Mom had few visitors that year and her holiday plans almost completely revolved around her DVR backlog of Judge Judy episodes.
Ryan largely spent all the major holidays with his wife’s family, so it was a bit of a surprise when my brother wandered in that Christmas Eve and announced that my presence was eagerly awaited at the annual MacGowan family feast. My mother turned from her shows long enough to tell me that it would be good for me to get out of the house. I quickly changed into what going out attire I could from my suitcase and I squeezed into the barely existing back seat of his pickup truck.
“Can we get out of there before 10 this year? I’m feeling a little under the weather.” His wife Kelly asked.
Ryan had always gotten along better with the MacGowan side than I had and he’d maintained his ties with them long after our parents’ split and Dad’s passing. He began filing me in on all the family business I’d missed out on in the last near decade.
“Billy says he’s dry.” Ryan mimed tipping a glass towards his lips.
“Probably a good thing.” I remarked.
“It’s his second go around. Third maybe.”
“You are such a negative a-hole Ryan.” His wife Kelly commented from the passenger seat.
“Kay left Anthony.” It was a well-known and open secret in our family that Tony had a hair-trigger temper and that Kay had been the most frequent recipient of that rage.
Maureen’s kid Stephen was doing big things in IT, but “the little weirdo still never looks you in the eye.”
Kelly swatted him on his arm and their oldest boy Arthur added,
“I play him sometimes in Call of Duty, he’s real good.” His voice tinged with respect.
Vanessa, Kevin’s daughter, was thinking about pre-med, God bless her was Ryan’s one proclamation on the matter. He informed me that Cecily was dating a sailor stationed at the Naval Base.
“Black guy” He added, “so expect Grandma and Aunt Ethel to have a lot to say this year.”
“Ethel’s alive?” I practically shouted in surprise, earning me a smile from Ryan’s youngest boy Clifford, a name that Kelly had argued bitterly against.
“Yup, I think the consensus is that she’ll outlive us all,” he said as he navigated through the snow flurries that swept across the bridge that separated Aquidneck Island and the city of Newport from the rest of the state.
The MacGowans had their feet planted in the cement of the place and after Mom and Dad split up, I really stopped seeing that side of the family almost altogether. I remember one night just before they called it quits that me and Ryan spent the night at Grandma’s. Maybe it was to give my folks a date night or something. Ethel had been there, presumably to lend a hand. I never knew much about her, except that disapproval seemed to be the primary past time that she’d filled her eighty plus years with. That night she alternated between yelling at us to stop running up and down the stairs and asking if we’d washed our hands recently.
At bedtime Grandma read to us from an old copy of “Little Red Riding Hood,” that had to be nearly as old as the woman herself. Ryan was out cold before she hit the last page. She looked down at me with those ancient kind eyes, smiled, and whispered,
“I’ll leave the hall light on Abe.”
I’m embarrassed to admit that at 10 years old I was still a little afraid of the dark. However, the warm light from the single bare bulb fell in a line right across the bed my brother and I shared, providing me a much needed comfort. I must have been nearly out when I felt a quick burst of air push through the room and the light was gone. My eyes snapped open and I saw the door had been closed. My breathing quickened. I tried, and failed miserably, to convince myself that there was nothing in the house that could hurt us. I slid out of bed and creeped quickly across the floor. I winced as the door’s hinges creaked as though the invention of WD-40 would come as a complete surprise to the MacGowan family. Something flashed into the space between the doorjamb and I found myself staring at Aunt Ethel’s one rolling blue eye.
“Get back under the covers Abel, or the wolf under your bed will eat you and little Ryan. Gobble you both right up.” She hissed out at me.
“She even had a stroke about a year ago.” My brother said, bring me out of my thoughts. “You heard about Tina’s accident right?”
I had, but in all honesty it was only by virtue of Mom forwarding me a link to the obituary about a year ago, along with her standard warnings about e. coli contaminated kale.
“You know how Tina was, always there with a casserole or coffee cake. She heard that Aunt Ethel hadn’t been getting many visitors. She went after work one night and we got a bad storm, black ice all over. Cops think a gust of wind just blew her off the road on the way back.”
“How are Jerry and the kids?”
“Who knows? He hasn’t brought them by any family function since Tina’s funeral. I wouldn’t be surprised if they moved off the island.”
“And how’s Ethel?”
I had an image of a crumpled and palsied version of the woman I’d grown up fearing presiding over the party and I felt a touch ashamed. In the rearview window I saw Ryan’s eyes pinch together, his brows forming deep lines in his forehead. He looked like he was about to say something further when Kelly announced,
“Turn is up here.”
Before I knew it we were at 23 Pope Street. We punched through the front door into the deep humid heat thrown off by the assembled bodies and the stove, deep roasting the bird in its belly.
A call went up as I passed through the threshold, identifying me as one of them. Uncle Billy was there, now five years sober. Aunt Kay gave me a hug and introduced me to Roy, the head salesman from Aquidneck Toyota, she announced with pride. Steven went in depth about why I should seriously consider switching to Linux. Cecily posed in front of me, her engagement ring on display. Cousin Teddy, grown out of his baby fat and braces, showed me his police badge with talismanic pride.
Along with Roy there was a collection of significant others my various relatives had brought along. Cecily’s fiancé Gene, Teddy’s wife and their newborn, and a random selection of folks from the block. There was Old Rob, Fred, and Gimpy Sully among the neighborhood favorites that drifted in and out during the night. I made small talk with some of them, hitting the safe spaces of weather and movies. I said something about how in California anything below 65 is considered winter. A spritely old woman that I did not recognize let out a disproportionate, bawdy guffaw. I didn’t see her come in, or join the circle of cast offs. When I asked her name she practically cackled with joy,
“Oh dear Abel, do I look so poorly?”
She placed a leathery, dry palm against my face and God help me I wanted jerk my cheek away, such a sudden wave of revulsion hit me.
The woman that stood in front of me was undeniably old, you might even go as far as to bust out wizened as a description. There were all the physical signs of age. Liver-spots, crow’s feet deep enough to plant potatoes in, and that yellow tinge that only the jaundiced and very old can get. There was no physical characteristics I could point to that made me doubt her. For all that there was an undeniable vitality to this old woman calling herself my Aunt Ethel.
I stammered an apology but Ethel assured me that no offense had been taken.
“So …” Whatever my question or comment was going to be, it dissipated when Grandma MacGowan plopped down a turkey \ nearly half her size next to the mashed potatoes, and ordered everyone was to plate up.
Grandma, Ethel, and Uncle Elmer were at the front of the line. I couldn’t help but notice that there was a very health distance maintained between Ethel and Elmer, with no one prodding him forward until after she had slowly and carefully gathered every item onto her plate and taken her traditional spot on the couch. The conversation, which had been held at a low murmur, seemed to break loose and take up a more normal volume once Aunt Ethel looked down and concerned herself with the turkey leg on her plate. The old woman we’d all known had been a picker, deigning to eat just enough to keep herself alive. This new version seemed voracious, shocking us all by going up for a second helping.
I think she knew it too, the discomfort that seemed to creep around her. Occasionally I would see her looking around the room and quietly taking us all in with an expression of amusement. If I hadn’t known this old woman, I might have mistaken her for an old matronly type, just enjoying the company of her family in the holiday season. I noticed a small tremor in her frame, her left foot was tapping against the floorboards of her sister’s home. She was anticipating, waiting for something.
Billy was the first to head upstairs for his coat. Unlike years past he stopped and spoke to each of the children he passed, asking them what they were hoping to receive from Santa that year, instead of almost drunkenly knocking them aside. He carefully weaved through the kids on his way down and at the foot of the stairs while donning his overcoat, wished everyone a “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” He’d really pulled himself together. I remember hopping that this time it would take. His hand was on the doorknob when Ethel appeared next to him.
I honestly didn’t see her get up from the couch or push her way through the tightly pressed knots of her relatives, but there she was standing next to him. She had a bright red package with a thick white ribbon wrapped tightly around it. The paper was smooth and reflective, the kind that they sell for decorating a lamppost or a door outside, rather than actually wrapping presents in. They spoke together for a little while, Billy looking thoroughly uncomfortable with Ethel being that close to him. He made some polite gestures suggesting that such a gift wasn’t necessary. Ethel seemed to insist and practically dropped it, forcing Billy to either let it and its contents fall to the floor, or catch it. I watched him lurch forward a bit as he grabbed it, whatever was inside was heavy and had set him off balance. Ethel had handled the thing as though it weighted nothing at all. She held up one instructive finger at him, Billy nodding in acquiescence. She smiled at him and then made her way back to the couch. Billy stood at the door a moment or two longer, possibly debating if he could just leave the box behind. Eventually he hefted it in to the most comfortable position he could and closed the door behind him as he left.
About half an hour later Cecily and Gene made their goodbyes. I remember he said something to her as they put their coats on and my cousin burst out into a deep throaty laugh that could be heard even over the low din of the room. I turned towards my brother and commented that they looked happy. He nodded and by the time I turned back, Ethel was standing between them. She had two long packages held in her arms like cord wood, wrapped in that same iridescent red paper.
The scene repeat itself a dozen times that night. Everyone that left got a package, but I never saw Ethel approach them, never saw where she was pulling the boxes from. At some point I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. Ryan, his coat already on, announced that the kids needed to get to bed and that Kelly wasn’t feeling so hot.
I dashed up the stairs and grabbed my coat as quickly as I could. I saw no signs of Ethel and I could just see Ryan and his family gathered on the front porch waiting for me. I scanned to the left and right and when I was convinced that the coast was clear, I made a run for the door. The absurdity of trying to avoid an old woman from giving me a gift did occur to me, but it vanished just as quickly when Ryan turned, revealing Aunt Ethel. Her arms were outstretched, a wide happy grin on her lips, and a big red package in her arms. I looked around the porch and saw Ryan and Kelly with their own presents held awkwardly in their arms. The children each had clutched in their hands a tiny red envelope that matched the sheen of the adults’ packages.
Aunt Ethel was speaking to me and apparently had been for a while. She spoke of the importance of family and of “appreciating what you have,” while you still have it. She practically thrust the gift into my arms, and as she did cautioned me to,
“Be sure not to open it until Christmas morning.”
I woke up the next day in my childhood bedroom, to the sounds of my Mother’s television set filling the floor below me. My phone said it was 9 AM East Coast time. I decided that calling my son to wish him a Merry Christmas would have to wait just a bit longer. I did however see a text from my brother.
Dude are you awake? He’d sent me that message almost three hours ago.
Merry Christmas to you too. Yeah just woke up. I wrote back.
The phone started to ring almost immediately.
“Did you open your present yet?” He spoke quickly. He sounded like he hadn’t slept the whole night.
“I haven’t even gone downstairs yet. I literally just woke up.”
“No, no. Not presents. Did you open up Ethel’s present?”
Kelly’s family had a tradition of letting the kids open up one gift on Christmas Eve, a tradition that she wanted their kids to carry on. Ryan told me that Arthur had headed straight for the biggest package under the tree, assuming it was a TV for his room. Kelly had told him no, that was a family gift and to pick something with just his name on it. In a defiant huff Arthur had torn open the envelope that was still tucked into his back pocket, expecting a check or a gift card. Instead he found a note, written in cursive lettering.
“You were a mistake.” It read.
The boy had shown the note to his parents, who had flown from mild confusion to outright rage in a record matter of seconds. They asked little Cliff where he’d put his envelope. Cliff had remained standing in front of them, rooted to the spot.
The boy quietly pleaded, “Please don’t make me.”
Ryan had told the boys to get ready for bed and retrieved the shiny envelope from the coat rack by their front door. Kelly followed him and he tore it open right there, catching the edge of the letter in his haste.
“Mommy has a disease.” Written in the same smooth looping letters.
They’d left their packages in the car and Kelly stormed out without her jacket to retrieve them.
“I said we should just chuck ‘em. I mean, clearly the stroke did something to her brain. That’s the only reason you’d give something like that to a kid, but Kelly was pissed.” My brother told me as I looked at my own package tucked quietly on the corner of the dresser that was once home to my Castle Grayskull. I did not remember bringing it in the house, I did not remember placing there.
“She was all, ‘your Aunt is a freak show,’ and ‘nobody in my family would do anything like this’!” Kelly indignantly proclaimed as she stormed up to their bedroom.
His wife had slammed their bedroom door shut and by the time Ryan had made it through, she’d already grabbed a pair of bathroom nail scissors and sliced along the wrapping of the gift that bore his name. Inside there were a dozen or so pieces of paper. Bar receipts for cash purchases, hotel and motel bills also paid for in cash, and printouts of e-mails that Ryan had apparently sent to someone named Audrey. Most damning was the old polaroid buried among the rest of the various scraps of evidence. It showed Ryan reclining on a bed, not the one he shared with his wife but the kind with worn thin by years of washing and covered by a cheap, mostly polyester comforter. Next to him was a young woman, wearing only a gray polo with the logo of the store Ryan managed on it.
Ryan had grabbed Kelly’s box and tore at the wrapping with his fingers, it came away in long strips that curled up onto themselves as they hit the floor. Once again they were greeted with stacks of paper. Applications and bills for credit cards in Kelly’s name that Ryan had no idea existed. Apparently she had storage lockers, the charge reflected over and over again, all over the state where she stored everything from new refrigerators to faux antique rocking chairs.
“There’s a second mortgage on the house! She forged my signature!”
I heard a hollow thump as he bellowed down the phone that they were several hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. He was either denying or confessing that he’d been unfaithful but I was no longer listening to him. A hollow thump, like a fist wrapping against a plywood desk or something slumping against the side of a cardboard box.
I did not open my present that day. I ate a quiet lunch with my Mom and we watched Miracle on 34th Street. I called my son and asked him if he’d liked the bike Santa had gotten him. My brother did not stop by for a visit.
I did not open it the next day, but I did take it down stairs and put it on the front porch, my sleep the night before had been disturbed by dreams involving the box and a wolf chasing me through Grandma’s house, each one of his steps a hollow boom that filled the place floor to ceiling.
I kissed my Mom goodbye before I headed off to the airport.
“You’d think your brother would come by wouldn’t you?” She asked, her hands on her hips in judgment.
I kissed her again and promised that I’d make it back out that way as soon as I could.
The flight back to LA was uneventful. I rolled my windows down on the ride back from the airport, savoring the 72 degree weather and the clear blue sky above me. Even the smog around the city center seemed to relax me. These were the comfortable, reasonable sign posts a there was an undeniable relief.
I got home and did a load of laundry right away, straight from the suitcase. It was a habit my ex had instilled in me and one I was grateful to her for. I slid my closet door open and saw a box sitting there for me. All by itself, wrapped in shiny red paper and topped with a bone white bow. I had not packed it.
My brother called a minute or so later. Someone was screaming at him in the background. Most of the words were lost in the sheer shrillness of the voice but one came across clear as a bell on my end.
“… whore…”
Without pause or preamble, he announced, “Billy’s dead.”
Apparently Uncle Billy had gone home after the party, and according to Teddy, he’d hung himself in his bedroom closet. The belt he’d used appeared to be brand new, as did the full bottle of whiskey sitting in an unwrapped gift box they found at his feet. Both items still had tags on them.
“Did you open your present yet?” He asked as the information sunk in, and I thought I heard a strange, hopeful note in Ryan’s voice.
He’s called me a few more times since then, and it’s never with good news.
Kay had apparently broken it off with Roy. Elmer had seen her car parked outside her ex-husband’s house.
Stephen had been fired from his job, something about cheating on or lying about one of his certifications.
Cecily and Gene were supposed to take Grandma to the mall to make some returns but they never showed up. Neither one of them had answered their phones.
Teddy opened his gift a couple of days ago and he’d called Ryan. There was just an old school VHS tape. On it was a post-it-note dated 11NOV2015. According to Ryan, Teddy hadn’t watched it yet and had no plans to.
“Did you open yours yet?”
I told him no and then hung up.
I won’t open it, no matter how loudly it thumps around at night.
--
It’s New Year’s Eve today and I went to the store. Just to get a six pack so I could sip something while I watched the ball drop in my living room. I slid the beer into the fridge and thought that I might just lie down for a while. Ever since I’d gotten back I’d been feeling very low energy. I thought it might be the jetlag or weak bug I’d picked up.
I walked to my bedroom and saw the package sitting at the foot of my bed. I picked it up without knowing I was going to. The thought occurred to me that I could just put it down. I could just put it in the trash. I could just burn the fucking thing!
Instead I tore the paper off and tossed the lid behind me. Sitting there in center of it, was a single notecard, smooth cursive forming eight little words,
“I’m going to gobble you all right up.”
Then there was a knock on my door.
submitted by davenportauthor to nosleep [link] [comments]
Ryan largely spent all the major holidays with his wife’s family, so it was a bit of a surprise when my brother wandered in that Christmas Eve and announced that my presence was eagerly awaited at the annual MacGowan family feast. My mother turned from her shows long enough to tell me that it would be good for me to get out of the house. I quickly changed into what going out attire I could from my suitcase and I squeezed into the barely existing back seat of his pickup truck.
“Can we get out of there before 10 this year? I’m feeling a little under the weather.” His wife Kelly asked.
Ryan had always gotten along better with the MacGowan side than I had and he’d maintained his ties with them long after our parents’ split and Dad’s passing. He began filing me in on all the family business I’d missed out on in the last near decade.
“Billy says he’s dry.” Ryan mimed tipping a glass towards his lips.
“Probably a good thing.” I remarked.
“It’s his second go around. Third maybe.”
“You are such a negative a-hole Ryan.” His wife Kelly commented from the passenger seat.
“Kay left Anthony.” It was a well-known and open secret in our family that Tony had a hair-trigger temper and that Kay had been the most frequent recipient of that rage.
Maureen’s kid Stephen was doing big things in IT, but “the little weirdo still never looks you in the eye.”
Kelly swatted him on his arm and their oldest boy Arthur added,
“I play him sometimes in Call of Duty, he’s real good.” His voice tinged with respect.
Vanessa, Kevin’s daughter, was thinking about pre-med, God bless her was Ryan’s one proclamation on the matter. He informed me that Cecily was dating a sailor stationed at the Naval Base.
“Black guy” He added, “so expect Grandma and Aunt Ethel to have a lot to say this year.”
“Ethel’s alive?” I practically shouted in surprise, earning me a smile from Ryan’s youngest boy Clifford, a name that Kelly had argued bitterly against.
“Yup, I think the consensus is that she’ll outlive us all,” he said as he navigated through the snow flurries that swept across the bridge that separated Aquidneck Island and the city of Newport from the rest of the state.
The MacGowans had their feet planted in the cement of the place and after Mom and Dad split up, I really stopped seeing that side of the family almost altogether. I remember one night just before they called it quits that me and Ryan spent the night at Grandma’s. Maybe it was to give my folks a date night or something. Ethel had been there, presumably to lend a hand. I never knew much about her, except that disapproval seemed to be the primary past time that she’d filled her eighty plus years with. That night she alternated between yelling at us to stop running up and down the stairs and asking if we’d washed our hands recently.
At bedtime Grandma read to us from an old copy of “Little Red Riding Hood,” that had to be nearly as old as the woman herself. Ryan was out cold before she hit the last page. She looked down at me with those ancient kind eyes, smiled, and whispered,
“I’ll leave the hall light on Abe.”
I’m embarrassed to admit that at 10 years old I was still a little afraid of the dark. However, the warm light from the single bare bulb fell in a line right across the bed my brother and I shared, providing me a much needed comfort. I must have been nearly out when I felt a quick burst of air push through the room and the light was gone. My eyes snapped open and I saw the door had been closed. My breathing quickened. I tried, and failed miserably, to convince myself that there was nothing in the house that could hurt us. I slid out of bed and creeped quickly across the floor. I winced as the door’s hinges creaked as though the invention of WD-40 would come as a complete surprise to the MacGowan family. Something flashed into the space between the doorjamb and I found myself staring at Aunt Ethel’s one rolling blue eye.
“Get back under the covers Abel, or the wolf under your bed will eat you and little Ryan. Gobble you both right up.” She hissed out at me.
“She even had a stroke about a year ago.” My brother said, bring me out of my thoughts. “You heard about Tina’s accident right?”
I had, but in all honesty it was only by virtue of Mom forwarding me a link to the obituary about a year ago, along with her standard warnings about e. coli contaminated kale.
“You know how Tina was, always there with a casserole or coffee cake. She heard that Aunt Ethel hadn’t been getting many visitors. She went after work one night and we got a bad storm, black ice all over. Cops think a gust of wind just blew her off the road on the way back.”
“How are Jerry and the kids?”
“Who knows? He hasn’t brought them by any family function since Tina’s funeral. I wouldn’t be surprised if they moved off the island.”
“And how’s Ethel?”
I had an image of a crumpled and palsied version of the woman I’d grown up fearing presiding over the party and I felt a touch ashamed. In the rearview window I saw Ryan’s eyes pinch together, his brows forming deep lines in his forehead. He looked like he was about to say something further when Kelly announced,
“Turn is up here.”
Before I knew it we were at 23 Pope Street. We punched through the front door into the deep humid heat thrown off by the assembled bodies and the stove, deep roasting the bird in its belly.
A call went up as I passed through the threshold, identifying me as one of them. Uncle Billy was there, now five years sober. Aunt Kay gave me a hug and introduced me to Roy, the head salesman from Aquidneck Toyota, she announced with pride. Steven went in depth about why I should seriously consider switching to Linux. Cecily posed in front of me, her engagement ring on display. Cousin Teddy, grown out of his baby fat and braces, showed me his police badge with talismanic pride.
Along with Roy there was a collection of significant others my various relatives had brought along. Cecily’s fiancé Gene, Teddy’s wife and their newborn, and a random selection of folks from the block. There was Old Rob, Fred, and Gimpy Sully among the neighborhood favorites that drifted in and out during the night. I made small talk with some of them, hitting the safe spaces of weather and movies. I said something about how in California anything below 65 is considered winter. A spritely old woman that I did not recognize let out a disproportionate, bawdy guffaw. I didn’t see her come in, or join the circle of cast offs. When I asked her name she practically cackled with joy,
“Oh dear Abel, do I look so poorly?”
She placed a leathery, dry palm against my face and God help me I wanted jerk my cheek away, such a sudden wave of revulsion hit me.
The woman that stood in front of me was undeniably old, you might even go as far as to bust out wizened as a description. There were all the physical signs of age. Liver-spots, crow’s feet deep enough to plant potatoes in, and that yellow tinge that only the jaundiced and very old can get. There was no physical characteristics I could point to that made me doubt her. For all that there was an undeniable vitality to this old woman calling herself my Aunt Ethel.
I stammered an apology but Ethel assured me that no offense had been taken.
“So …” Whatever my question or comment was going to be, it dissipated when Grandma MacGowan plopped down a turkey \ nearly half her size next to the mashed potatoes, and ordered everyone was to plate up.
Grandma, Ethel, and Uncle Elmer were at the front of the line. I couldn’t help but notice that there was a very health distance maintained between Ethel and Elmer, with no one prodding him forward until after she had slowly and carefully gathered every item onto her plate and taken her traditional spot on the couch. The conversation, which had been held at a low murmur, seemed to break loose and take up a more normal volume once Aunt Ethel looked down and concerned herself with the turkey leg on her plate. The old woman we’d all known had been a picker, deigning to eat just enough to keep herself alive. This new version seemed voracious, shocking us all by going up for a second helping.
I think she knew it too, the discomfort that seemed to creep around her. Occasionally I would see her looking around the room and quietly taking us all in with an expression of amusement. If I hadn’t known this old woman, I might have mistaken her for an old matronly type, just enjoying the company of her family in the holiday season. I noticed a small tremor in her frame, her left foot was tapping against the floorboards of her sister’s home. She was anticipating, waiting for something.
Billy was the first to head upstairs for his coat. Unlike years past he stopped and spoke to each of the children he passed, asking them what they were hoping to receive from Santa that year, instead of almost drunkenly knocking them aside. He carefully weaved through the kids on his way down and at the foot of the stairs while donning his overcoat, wished everyone a “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” He’d really pulled himself together. I remember hopping that this time it would take. His hand was on the doorknob when Ethel appeared next to him.
I honestly didn’t see her get up from the couch or push her way through the tightly pressed knots of her relatives, but there she was standing next to him. She had a bright red package with a thick white ribbon wrapped tightly around it. The paper was smooth and reflective, the kind that they sell for decorating a lamppost or a door outside, rather than actually wrapping presents in. They spoke together for a little while, Billy looking thoroughly uncomfortable with Ethel being that close to him. He made some polite gestures suggesting that such a gift wasn’t necessary. Ethel seemed to insist and practically dropped it, forcing Billy to either let it and its contents fall to the floor, or catch it. I watched him lurch forward a bit as he grabbed it, whatever was inside was heavy and had set him off balance. Ethel had handled the thing as though it weighted nothing at all. She held up one instructive finger at him, Billy nodding in acquiescence. She smiled at him and then made her way back to the couch. Billy stood at the door a moment or two longer, possibly debating if he could just leave the box behind. Eventually he hefted it in to the most comfortable position he could and closed the door behind him as he left.
About half an hour later Cecily and Gene made their goodbyes. I remember he said something to her as they put their coats on and my cousin burst out into a deep throaty laugh that could be heard even over the low din of the room. I turned towards my brother and commented that they looked happy. He nodded and by the time I turned back, Ethel was standing between them. She had two long packages held in her arms like cord wood, wrapped in that same iridescent red paper.
The scene repeat itself a dozen times that night. Everyone that left got a package, but I never saw Ethel approach them, never saw where she was pulling the boxes from. At some point I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. Ryan, his coat already on, announced that the kids needed to get to bed and that Kelly wasn’t feeling so hot.
I dashed up the stairs and grabbed my coat as quickly as I could. I saw no signs of Ethel and I could just see Ryan and his family gathered on the front porch waiting for me. I scanned to the left and right and when I was convinced that the coast was clear, I made a run for the door. The absurdity of trying to avoid an old woman from giving me a gift did occur to me, but it vanished just as quickly when Ryan turned, revealing Aunt Ethel. Her arms were outstretched, a wide happy grin on her lips, and a big red package in her arms. I looked around the porch and saw Ryan and Kelly with their own presents held awkwardly in their arms. The children each had clutched in their hands a tiny red envelope that matched the sheen of the adults’ packages.
Aunt Ethel was speaking to me and apparently had been for a while. She spoke of the importance of family and of “appreciating what you have,” while you still have it. She practically thrust the gift into my arms, and as she did cautioned me to,
“Be sure not to open it until Christmas morning.”
I woke up the next day in my childhood bedroom, to the sounds of my Mother’s television set filling the floor below me. My phone said it was 9 AM East Coast time. I decided that calling my son to wish him a Merry Christmas would have to wait just a bit longer. I did however see a text from my brother.
Dude are you awake? He’d sent me that message almost three hours ago.
Merry Christmas to you too. Yeah just woke up. I wrote back.
The phone started to ring almost immediately.
“Did you open your present yet?” He spoke quickly. He sounded like he hadn’t slept the whole night.
“I haven’t even gone downstairs yet. I literally just woke up.”
“No, no. Not presents. Did you open up Ethel’s present?”
Kelly’s family had a tradition of letting the kids open up one gift on Christmas Eve, a tradition that she wanted their kids to carry on. Ryan told me that Arthur had headed straight for the biggest package under the tree, assuming it was a TV for his room. Kelly had told him no, that was a family gift and to pick something with just his name on it. In a defiant huff Arthur had torn open the envelope that was still tucked into his back pocket, expecting a check or a gift card. Instead he found a note, written in cursive lettering.
“You were a mistake.” It read.
The boy had shown the note to his parents, who had flown from mild confusion to outright rage in a record matter of seconds. They asked little Cliff where he’d put his envelope. Cliff had remained standing in front of them, rooted to the spot.
The boy quietly pleaded, “Please don’t make me.”
Ryan had told the boys to get ready for bed and retrieved the shiny envelope from the coat rack by their front door. Kelly followed him and he tore it open right there, catching the edge of the letter in his haste.
“Mommy has a disease.” Written in the same smooth looping letters.
They’d left their packages in the car and Kelly stormed out without her jacket to retrieve them.
“I said we should just chuck ‘em. I mean, clearly the stroke did something to her brain. That’s the only reason you’d give something like that to a kid, but Kelly was pissed.” My brother told me as I looked at my own package tucked quietly on the corner of the dresser that was once home to my Castle Grayskull. I did not remember bringing it in the house, I did not remember placing there.
“She was all, ‘your Aunt is a freak show,’ and ‘nobody in my family would do anything like this’!” Kelly indignantly proclaimed as she stormed up to their bedroom.
His wife had slammed their bedroom door shut and by the time Ryan had made it through, she’d already grabbed a pair of bathroom nail scissors and sliced along the wrapping of the gift that bore his name. Inside there were a dozen or so pieces of paper. Bar receipts for cash purchases, hotel and motel bills also paid for in cash, and printouts of e-mails that Ryan had apparently sent to someone named Audrey. Most damning was the old polaroid buried among the rest of the various scraps of evidence. It showed Ryan reclining on a bed, not the one he shared with his wife but the kind with worn thin by years of washing and covered by a cheap, mostly polyester comforter. Next to him was a young woman, wearing only a gray polo with the logo of the store Ryan managed on it.
Ryan had grabbed Kelly’s box and tore at the wrapping with his fingers, it came away in long strips that curled up onto themselves as they hit the floor. Once again they were greeted with stacks of paper. Applications and bills for credit cards in Kelly’s name that Ryan had no idea existed. Apparently she had storage lockers, the charge reflected over and over again, all over the state where she stored everything from new refrigerators to faux antique rocking chairs.
“There’s a second mortgage on the house! She forged my signature!”
I heard a hollow thump as he bellowed down the phone that they were several hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. He was either denying or confessing that he’d been unfaithful but I was no longer listening to him. A hollow thump, like a fist wrapping against a plywood desk or something slumping against the side of a cardboard box.
I did not open my present that day. I ate a quiet lunch with my Mom and we watched Miracle on 34th Street. I called my son and asked him if he’d liked the bike Santa had gotten him. My brother did not stop by for a visit.
I did not open it the next day, but I did take it down stairs and put it on the front porch, my sleep the night before had been disturbed by dreams involving the box and a wolf chasing me through Grandma’s house, each one of his steps a hollow boom that filled the place floor to ceiling.
I kissed my Mom goodbye before I headed off to the airport.
“You’d think your brother would come by wouldn’t you?” She asked, her hands on her hips in judgment.
I kissed her again and promised that I’d make it back out that way as soon as I could.
The flight back to LA was uneventful. I rolled my windows down on the ride back from the airport, savoring the 72 degree weather and the clear blue sky above me. Even the smog around the city center seemed to relax me. These were the comfortable, reasonable sign posts a there was an undeniable relief.
I got home and did a load of laundry right away, straight from the suitcase. It was a habit my ex had instilled in me and one I was grateful to her for. I slid my closet door open and saw a box sitting there for me. All by itself, wrapped in shiny red paper and topped with a bone white bow. I had not packed it.
My brother called a minute or so later. Someone was screaming at him in the background. Most of the words were lost in the sheer shrillness of the voice but one came across clear as a bell on my end.
“… whore…”
Without pause or preamble, he announced, “Billy’s dead.”
Apparently Uncle Billy had gone home after the party, and according to Teddy, he’d hung himself in his bedroom closet. The belt he’d used appeared to be brand new, as did the full bottle of whiskey sitting in an unwrapped gift box they found at his feet. Both items still had tags on them.
“Did you open your present yet?” He asked as the information sunk in, and I thought I heard a strange, hopeful note in Ryan’s voice.
He’s called me a few more times since then, and it’s never with good news.
Kay had apparently broken it off with Roy. Elmer had seen her car parked outside her ex-husband’s house.
Stephen had been fired from his job, something about cheating on or lying about one of his certifications.
Cecily and Gene were supposed to take Grandma to the mall to make some returns but they never showed up. Neither one of them had answered their phones.
Teddy opened his gift a couple of days ago and he’d called Ryan. There was just an old school VHS tape. On it was a post-it-note dated 11NOV2015. According to Ryan, Teddy hadn’t watched it yet and had no plans to.
“Did you open yours yet?”
I told him no and then hung up.
I won’t open it, no matter how loudly it thumps around at night.
--
It’s New Year’s Eve today and I went to the store. Just to get a six pack so I could sip something while I watched the ball drop in my living room. I slid the beer into the fridge and thought that I might just lie down for a while. Ever since I’d gotten back I’d been feeling very low energy. I thought it might be the jetlag or weak bug I’d picked up.
I walked to my bedroom and saw the package sitting at the foot of my bed. I picked it up without knowing I was going to. The thought occurred to me that I could just put it down. I could just put it in the trash. I could just burn the fucking thing!
Instead I tore the paper off and tossed the lid behind me. Sitting there in center of it, was a single notecard, smooth cursive forming eight little words,
“I’m going to gobble you all right up.”
Then there was a knock on my door.
2018.11.02 21:00 secret_online The subreddit and Discord mods are raising money for charity right now!
The event is over!
Thanks you to all who came and watched the stream. A huge thanks to everyone who donated. This year we managed to raise $427 for childrens' hospitals in the US and Canada.If you still want to watch charity livestreams, pop over to Rain's 100% run that is happening right now.
Original Post
We did it last year, and we're doing it again. It's time for our 2nd annual Extra Life livestream, where we play Factorio for 24 hours raising money for Children's Miracle Network Hospitals.Make sure you go and support the other participants as well, the table at the end of this post lists people who have joined the Factorio team this year.
Links
- Previous Announcement Post
- Last year's final thread (including factory download (screenshot))
- Reddit Superteam
- /modnews post
Participants
/Factorio Team
Join us!| Name | Stream | Donate Link | Times | Extra Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Swan | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream |
| arielbeje | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream |
| AgentEightySix | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream |
| secret_online | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| Zirr | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| ocbaker | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| Qaudforce | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| tensawolf | Twitch | Extra Life | 8am, 3rd Nov CST | |
| LengendB89 | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | |
| Grapz224 | Twitch | Extra Life | Check comment | |
| Coyote101 | Twitch | Extra Life |
Other Participants
| Name | Stream | Donate Link | Times | Extra Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| rain9441 | Twitch | Extra Life | 1pm, 3rd Nov UTC | 100% speed run |
2018.10.25 19:15 secret_online /r/Factorio is participating in the Extra Life charity event!
Hello Engineers,
Last year /Factorio participated in the Extra Life charity event. It's a yearly marathon, raising money for Children's Miracle Network Hospitals while playing the games we love. 100% of the money raised during the marathon goes to the hospitals caring for sick kids. You can find out more about Extra Life on their website.
Last year we raised $2,613.48 forharity charity, placing us at the 8th highest team on Reddit. This year we're going to do better.
The Main Event is on the 3rd of November, but you can participate (and donate) at any time.
If you are a streamer and would like to participate for /Factorio, join the /Factorio team. If you know someone who streams, who you think might want to participate, send them a link to this thread. I'll also maintain a table of participants in this thread, just send me a PM with the details and I'll update the table as soon as I can.
Last year we had raffles throughout our stream, and we're going to do the same again . We will also give out Redditgold Premium for the team's top fundraisers, provided by Reddit themselves.
We will be starting at 8pm on the 2nd of November UTC, and playing for 24 hours. So come along and join us for a full day of Factorio fun!
submitted by secret_online to factorio [link] [comments]
Last year /Factorio participated in the Extra Life charity event. It's a yearly marathon, raising money for Children's Miracle Network Hospitals while playing the games we love. 100% of the money raised during the marathon goes to the hospitals caring for sick kids. You can find out more about Extra Life on their website.
Last year we raised $2,613.48 for
What's happening this year?
We're doing it again, that's what.The Main Event is on the 3rd of November, but you can participate (and donate) at any time.
If you are a streamer and would like to participate for /Factorio, join the /Factorio team. If you know someone who streams, who you think might want to participate, send them a link to this thread. I'll also maintain a table of participants in this thread, just send me a PM with the details and I'll update the table as soon as I can.
What are the moderators of /Factorio and the Factorio Discord doing?
Like last year, we will be getting together and streaming us playing Factorio. If you saw what we did last year, you have an idea of what's coming. If you didn't, well, you're in for a treat.Last year we had raffles throughout our stream, and we're going to do the same again . We will also give out Reddit
We will be starting at 8pm on the 2nd of November UTC, and playing for 24 hours. So come along and join us for a full day of Factorio fun!
Links
- Last year's final thread (including factory download (screenshot))
- Reddit Superteam
- /modnews post
Participants
/Factorio Team
Join us!| Name | Stream | Donate Link | Times | Extra Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Swan | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream |
| arielbeje | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream |
| AgentEightySix | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream |
| secret_online | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| Zirr | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| ocbaker | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| Qaudforce | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | Moderator's Stream | |
| tensawolf | Twitch | Extra Life | 8am, 3rd Nov CST | |
| LengendB89 | Twitch | Extra Life | 8pm, 2nd Nov UTC | |
| Grapz224 | Twitch | Extra Life | Check comment | |
| Coyote101 | Twitch | Extra Life |
Other Participants
| Name | Stream | Donate Link | Times | Extra Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| rain9441 | Twitch | Extra Life | 1pm, 3rd Nov UTC | 100% speed run |
2018.10.25 04:03 Luna_LoveWell Texas Hold'em
[WP] On a dare you enter a haunted mansion with the rumor of ghosts haunting the home. You walk in and find 4 Ghosts playing a card game, asking if you want to join them.
The four ghosts sitting at the table seemed more stunned to see me than I was to see them. We both just gawked at each other for a few moments. It took me a minute to take in the whole scene and realized that there were cards and poker chips scattered around. Two cards in each ghost's hands, and three more face-up on the table.
But one of the ghosts collected his wits faster than I did. "Come in, young lady! Don't be afraid!" He was older and wrinkled, wearing an old-timey top hat and with a gold chain sticking out of his breast pocket. And he was far more solid than the others; I could barely see the outline of the chair through his back. In contrast, a kid no older than 10 across the table from him was practically vapor. The old man raised a hand and waved me over with a hand full of playing cards. "Come, join our game!"
Most of me wanted to dash out of the house right then and there. I'd be made fun of at school the next day, but that didn't seem particularly important right now. Getting killed or possessed or whatever was more terrifying than being known as someone who didn't follow through with a dare.
But on the other hand, I was kind of curious. How often does one get a chance to meet real ghosts? Ghosts that, at least for now, seemed pretty friendly. "What are you playing?" I asked.
"Poker!" one of the other ghosts said. He was balding and fat, with a cigar sticking out of the corner of his lip like Winston Churchill. "You know how to play, kid?"
The old man stood from his chair. The actual chair did not move, but passed right through his body. He floated across the room to a spare chair over in the corner of the room, and then carried it over to the table. "Please, sit! We don't bite, I promise. We've been hoping for a mortal to join us!"
Despite my reservations, I took a seat.
"So should I deal you in?" the fat ghost with the cigar asked.
"She has to know the rules," the woman next to him said. She was as thin as he was fat, with a nose like a hawk's beak and the curly sort of bob that was fashionable in the 1950s.
"I know how to play poker," I butted in. I still couldn't quite believe that this was all real. "I've played before!"
"Not the poker rules, dear," the old man said. "The RULES." He flicked a finger, and a dictionary-sized book appeared on the table. It had a bright red cover, and 'RULES' written on the front in ornate cursive. "This is not just a game." He gestured at the couple and the young boy one-by-one. "We're playing for our lives. Whoever wins the game comes back to life, born anew. Another shot at things." He tapped one bony finger on the book. "And, according to this, with a decent bit of luck this time around."
"And if you lose?"
"Who knows?" the thin woman said. "Maybe we all just disappear. Or maybe we're all Judged, sent to Hell at long last. But we certainly don't come back here."
"But if you play," the old man said, flipping through pages until he found the one titled 'Mortal Contestants,' "Well, there's a pretty amazing prize in store for you." There was the sound of perforated paper tearing, and he held up a punch card with three skulls on it. "Extra lives! Three of 'em! How does that strike you? 'When death comes knocking at your door,'" he read aloud, "just hand him this card and he will return you back to your life with illness, ailment, or accident passed.'" He shook his head appreciatively. "I had a few close calls in my life, let me tell you. What I woulda given for one of these!"
But I wasn't born yesterday. "And if I lose?" I asked.
The old man shrugged. "Well, you die." He pointed at the book again. "Says here that if you lose it all, you're immediately added to the next game, just like we were when we passed on. But whichever one of us wins gets to have your life."
Of course I should have walked away right then and there. Maybe it was that I was a cocky teenager who thought she was invincible. Or maybe it was that I still didn't believe it was all real. Who can really know?
But I didn't walk away. "All right, deal me in," I said
Oscar, the nine year old, was fading. Not just metaphorically, in that he was getting more and more demoralized as he lost, but physically fading. With every stack of chips thrown in to ante, he became more and more transparent. By the time he was down to his final two chips, he was little more than a shadow behind a floating pair of cards. And he knew that the end was near. We couldn't really see the tears, but we could hear the constant sniffles and attempts to stifle the sobs.
But Chuck, the Churchill look-alike, almost seemed to take pleasure in forcing little Oscar to bet his last five chits on a very poor bluff. And as soon as the cards were laid down on the table, Oscar vanished entirely. Chuck raked the chips in and took the cigar out off his mouth for just long enough to flash a triumphant grin. He flicked ashes off into an ash tray, but somehow, the cigar didn't grow any shorter. Next to him, Elaina kept sipping at her cocktail but her glass similarly never grew empty.
"How long have you all been playing this game?" I asked. Perhaps that cigar had been burning for decades.
"Oh, gosh," Arthur mused, passing a hand through the remaining strands of white hair, "You know, I'm not really sure. It seems like it has been a long time, but time seems to pass differently once you... you know."
I took the cards and shuffled. "Well, when did you die?"
"'38 for me and the missus," Chuck said with head jerk toward Elaina next to him. "Damn car accident."
"I told him the brakes had been squeaky," Elaina said into her drink.
"Nineteen thirty eight?" I asked. That was eighty years ago! Chuck and Elaina both nodded.
"I passed on in 1915," Arthur said. "But I can't complain. I had a good, long life."
"So much so that you want another?" I said as I started dealing the cards.
"You're damn right," he said with a smile. Then he tossed a chip into the pile. "Come on, everyone, ante up."
"So who taught you to play poker?" Arthur asked as I won yet another hand. Chuck, who had been boisterous and cracking jokes when we first started playing, had gotten quieter and quieter as his stack of chips dwindled. He was about as visible as a strong glare on a window. Elaina barely put the drink down anymore, even to play. She was even less visible, but didn't seem to care as much as Chuck did. I got the sense that she was just ready for it to all be over. Even Arthur, who'd been almost entirely opaque when I first arrived, was pretty hazy.
"My dad," I said. Chuck grunted at that, but didn't say anything and just kept shuffling.
"You two play often?" Arthur asked.
"No, he... well, he and my mom got divorced last year. And he moved to Florida after that, so I only see him about once a year."
"Divorced?" Elaina gasped. "That is horrible. In our day, that just wasn't acceptable. And to just abandon your family and move..."
"Real shame," Chuck said, sounding like he really could not care less.
"What does your mother do?" Elaina asked. "Without her husband to care for? Has she had to find work?"
I laughed a bit, remembering that the 1930s had been a very different time. "No, she already had a job before he left," I said. Elaina did her best sympathy frown at that and exchanged a look with her husband. She very obviously mouthed 'lower class' at him.
"What about your brothers and sisters?" Arthur asked. "Do you ever play poker with them?"
"No, I'm an only child," I told him.
"Oh, your poor mother!" Elaina said with renewed sympathy. "Is that why your father left? Because they were unable to have other children?"
"No!" This conversation was getting a bit personal. "They just... had problems. Can you just deal the cards?" Chuck had forgotten all about the deck in his hand. He grunted again, took another puff of his cigar, and started handing out cards.
"Shame that it's just the two of you," Arthur muttered as he looked at his cards and rearranged his hand. "It seems a lonely life."
"What about you?" I asked Arthur. It helped to have conversation; easier to bluff that way. But I didn't need it; I had two sixes in my hand, a third one had just come up in the community cards. This was looking promising.
"I had three kids," he said. "Two boys and a girl. But by the time I passed on, only my daughter was still alive." He put his bet into the center of the table. "Lost one in the Civil War, and another to typhoid. But my daughter, she was lovely. Why, she'd just given me a granddaughter about a year before I passed on. Jewel of my life. When I win the game, I'm going to find her."
"Your granddaughter?" I asked, raising Arthur by five. "You died in 1915, though, right? Which means she was born in 1914."
"Yes," he said. "November 10th. I know it's been a few years, though. After all, Chuck and Elaina did pass on in the 1930's. She'll be a bit older, but I've got to make up for lost time. Maybe she'll have a family of her own by now."
"Arthur..." I didn't quite know how to tell him this. "It's 2018."
"2018?" he asked. I suddenly noticed how old and frail his voice sounded.
"Yeah." To prove it to him, I pulled my iphone from my pocket and showed him the date. And it was like I'd cut the strings on a marionette.
"Well, sometimes you just don't have the cards," Chuck growled. Only the faint outline of his form was still visible. He tossed his cigar into the ash tray. "It's been fun, I guess." He slid the cards onto the table, showing a four and a five, not at all enough to beat Arthur's hand. By the time I looked up, he was already gone. Off to join his wife in whatever fate awaited those who were all out of chips.
"Just the two of us," Arthur said, with a kindly smile.
"Just the two of us," I repeated.
We played a few hands, going back and forth with small bets. We both had sizable stacks of chips at this point, so it was going to take a while until we got to the point of desperation like the others who had already left the game. And we both recognized it.
"2018, huh?" Arthur asked as I dealt.
"Yeah." I slipped his second card across the table.
"Huh." He looked at the cards, then at his chips, then at my chips. "You know, this is going to take forever. The two of us are pretty evenly matched." He bet, and I called, then he flipped over the next card. Another ten, which gave me two pair. And Arthur didn't exactly have the best poker face, and wasn't looking too thrilled. I was pretty sure I had him beat.
"Well, I'm in it to win," I told him. The next card was a 2, which didn't change anything for me, but it made Arthur look pretty queasy. It definitely hadn't helped his hand.
But he forced a smile nonetheless. "Well, my dear, you've been a fine opponent, but I'm afraid it's all over." He cupped his hands and pushed all of his chips into the center, causing them to cascade over his fingers. "I am all-in."
I took a moment to consider. I was fairly sure that I had him beat. But how sure was I? Sure enough to risk my life? I would never be that sure. But at some point in the game, I'd have to be. And now seemed as good a time as ever. "All right," I said, scooping up all of my chips too. "All right, let's do this."
Arthur looked at the big pile of chips, then back down at his cards. "My granddaughter," he said. "Her name is Charlotte Gottlieb." He rose from the table and picked up one of the spray paint cans that teenagers had left laying around the place. Then he sprayed her name on the wall. "So that you won't forget it. Can you please buy some flowers for her grave? For me?" He tossed his cards onto the table, face down. "I fold." It took him far longer to fade than the others; perhaps because he was still very solid with all of his chips. "Best of luck to you, young lady. Don't waste those extra lives." He gave a quivering smile, then dissipated away.
"HEY!" My friend Carrie grabbed me by the shoulder, and I practically jumped a foot into the air.
"Jesus, don't sneak up on me in a god-damn haunted house!" I told her.
"What is taking you so long?" she said. "We've been waiting out there for like an hour!" she pointed toward the door, where I could see headlights of the car waiting at the curb.
"An hour?" I said. I'd barely made it past the living room and into the dining room. I hadn't even been in here for two minutes.
"Come on, this place is super creepy," Carrie said. "Let's go." She grabbed my hand and led me back toward the door.
But as I turned, I caught a glimpse of graffiti on the wall, still dripping streaks of black paint. All it said was 'Charlotte Gottlieb,' fairly out of place alongside the slurs and tags and crude drawings that had been spraypainted on all of the walls. "Do you know who Charlotte Gottlieb is?" I asked Carrie.
"No," she said. "Who is she?"
I paused in the archway between the living room and the dining room. The name was so familiar. It meant something. I made a mental note to google it later to find out who she was. Maybe it would come to me then. "Never mind." I headed toward the front door of the house. "Let's go."
submitted by Luna_LoveWell to Luna_Lovewell [link] [comments]
But one of the ghosts collected his wits faster than I did. "Come in, young lady! Don't be afraid!" He was older and wrinkled, wearing an old-timey top hat and with a gold chain sticking out of his breast pocket. And he was far more solid than the others; I could barely see the outline of the chair through his back. In contrast, a kid no older than 10 across the table from him was practically vapor. The old man raised a hand and waved me over with a hand full of playing cards. "Come, join our game!"
Most of me wanted to dash out of the house right then and there. I'd be made fun of at school the next day, but that didn't seem particularly important right now. Getting killed or possessed or whatever was more terrifying than being known as someone who didn't follow through with a dare.
But on the other hand, I was kind of curious. How often does one get a chance to meet real ghosts? Ghosts that, at least for now, seemed pretty friendly. "What are you playing?" I asked.
"Poker!" one of the other ghosts said. He was balding and fat, with a cigar sticking out of the corner of his lip like Winston Churchill. "You know how to play, kid?"
The old man stood from his chair. The actual chair did not move, but passed right through his body. He floated across the room to a spare chair over in the corner of the room, and then carried it over to the table. "Please, sit! We don't bite, I promise. We've been hoping for a mortal to join us!"
Despite my reservations, I took a seat.
"So should I deal you in?" the fat ghost with the cigar asked.
"She has to know the rules," the woman next to him said. She was as thin as he was fat, with a nose like a hawk's beak and the curly sort of bob that was fashionable in the 1950s.
"I know how to play poker," I butted in. I still couldn't quite believe that this was all real. "I've played before!"
"Not the poker rules, dear," the old man said. "The RULES." He flicked a finger, and a dictionary-sized book appeared on the table. It had a bright red cover, and 'RULES' written on the front in ornate cursive. "This is not just a game." He gestured at the couple and the young boy one-by-one. "We're playing for our lives. Whoever wins the game comes back to life, born anew. Another shot at things." He tapped one bony finger on the book. "And, according to this, with a decent bit of luck this time around."
"And if you lose?"
"Who knows?" the thin woman said. "Maybe we all just disappear. Or maybe we're all Judged, sent to Hell at long last. But we certainly don't come back here."
"But if you play," the old man said, flipping through pages until he found the one titled 'Mortal Contestants,' "Well, there's a pretty amazing prize in store for you." There was the sound of perforated paper tearing, and he held up a punch card with three skulls on it. "Extra lives! Three of 'em! How does that strike you? 'When death comes knocking at your door,'" he read aloud, "just hand him this card and he will return you back to your life with illness, ailment, or accident passed.'" He shook his head appreciatively. "I had a few close calls in my life, let me tell you. What I woulda given for one of these!"
But I wasn't born yesterday. "And if I lose?" I asked.
The old man shrugged. "Well, you die." He pointed at the book again. "Says here that if you lose it all, you're immediately added to the next game, just like we were when we passed on. But whichever one of us wins gets to have your life."
Of course I should have walked away right then and there. Maybe it was that I was a cocky teenager who thought she was invincible. Or maybe it was that I still didn't believe it was all real. Who can really know?
But I didn't walk away. "All right, deal me in," I said
But Chuck, the Churchill look-alike, almost seemed to take pleasure in forcing little Oscar to bet his last five chits on a very poor bluff. And as soon as the cards were laid down on the table, Oscar vanished entirely. Chuck raked the chips in and took the cigar out off his mouth for just long enough to flash a triumphant grin. He flicked ashes off into an ash tray, but somehow, the cigar didn't grow any shorter. Next to him, Elaina kept sipping at her cocktail but her glass similarly never grew empty.
"How long have you all been playing this game?" I asked. Perhaps that cigar had been burning for decades.
"Oh, gosh," Arthur mused, passing a hand through the remaining strands of white hair, "You know, I'm not really sure. It seems like it has been a long time, but time seems to pass differently once you... you know."
I took the cards and shuffled. "Well, when did you die?"
"'38 for me and the missus," Chuck said with head jerk toward Elaina next to him. "Damn car accident."
"I told him the brakes had been squeaky," Elaina said into her drink.
"Nineteen thirty eight?" I asked. That was eighty years ago! Chuck and Elaina both nodded.
"I passed on in 1915," Arthur said. "But I can't complain. I had a good, long life."
"So much so that you want another?" I said as I started dealing the cards.
"You're damn right," he said with a smile. Then he tossed a chip into the pile. "Come on, everyone, ante up."
"My dad," I said. Chuck grunted at that, but didn't say anything and just kept shuffling.
"You two play often?" Arthur asked.
"No, he... well, he and my mom got divorced last year. And he moved to Florida after that, so I only see him about once a year."
"Divorced?" Elaina gasped. "That is horrible. In our day, that just wasn't acceptable. And to just abandon your family and move..."
"Real shame," Chuck said, sounding like he really could not care less.
"What does your mother do?" Elaina asked. "Without her husband to care for? Has she had to find work?"
I laughed a bit, remembering that the 1930s had been a very different time. "No, she already had a job before he left," I said. Elaina did her best sympathy frown at that and exchanged a look with her husband. She very obviously mouthed 'lower class' at him.
"What about your brothers and sisters?" Arthur asked. "Do you ever play poker with them?"
"No, I'm an only child," I told him.
"Oh, your poor mother!" Elaina said with renewed sympathy. "Is that why your father left? Because they were unable to have other children?"
"No!" This conversation was getting a bit personal. "They just... had problems. Can you just deal the cards?" Chuck had forgotten all about the deck in his hand. He grunted again, took another puff of his cigar, and started handing out cards.
"Shame that it's just the two of you," Arthur muttered as he looked at his cards and rearranged his hand. "It seems a lonely life."
"What about you?" I asked Arthur. It helped to have conversation; easier to bluff that way. But I didn't need it; I had two sixes in my hand, a third one had just come up in the community cards. This was looking promising.
"I had three kids," he said. "Two boys and a girl. But by the time I passed on, only my daughter was still alive." He put his bet into the center of the table. "Lost one in the Civil War, and another to typhoid. But my daughter, she was lovely. Why, she'd just given me a granddaughter about a year before I passed on. Jewel of my life. When I win the game, I'm going to find her."
"Your granddaughter?" I asked, raising Arthur by five. "You died in 1915, though, right? Which means she was born in 1914."
"Yes," he said. "November 10th. I know it's been a few years, though. After all, Chuck and Elaina did pass on in the 1930's. She'll be a bit older, but I've got to make up for lost time. Maybe she'll have a family of her own by now."
"Arthur..." I didn't quite know how to tell him this. "It's 2018."
"2018?" he asked. I suddenly noticed how old and frail his voice sounded.
"Yeah." To prove it to him, I pulled my iphone from my pocket and showed him the date. And it was like I'd cut the strings on a marionette.
"Just the two of us," Arthur said, with a kindly smile.
"Just the two of us," I repeated.
We played a few hands, going back and forth with small bets. We both had sizable stacks of chips at this point, so it was going to take a while until we got to the point of desperation like the others who had already left the game. And we both recognized it.
"2018, huh?" Arthur asked as I dealt.
"Yeah." I slipped his second card across the table.
"Huh." He looked at the cards, then at his chips, then at my chips. "You know, this is going to take forever. The two of us are pretty evenly matched." He bet, and I called, then he flipped over the next card. Another ten, which gave me two pair. And Arthur didn't exactly have the best poker face, and wasn't looking too thrilled. I was pretty sure I had him beat.
"Well, I'm in it to win," I told him. The next card was a 2, which didn't change anything for me, but it made Arthur look pretty queasy. It definitely hadn't helped his hand.
But he forced a smile nonetheless. "Well, my dear, you've been a fine opponent, but I'm afraid it's all over." He cupped his hands and pushed all of his chips into the center, causing them to cascade over his fingers. "I am all-in."
I took a moment to consider. I was fairly sure that I had him beat. But how sure was I? Sure enough to risk my life? I would never be that sure. But at some point in the game, I'd have to be. And now seemed as good a time as ever. "All right," I said, scooping up all of my chips too. "All right, let's do this."
Arthur looked at the big pile of chips, then back down at his cards. "My granddaughter," he said. "Her name is Charlotte Gottlieb." He rose from the table and picked up one of the spray paint cans that teenagers had left laying around the place. Then he sprayed her name on the wall. "So that you won't forget it. Can you please buy some flowers for her grave? For me?" He tossed his cards onto the table, face down. "I fold." It took him far longer to fade than the others; perhaps because he was still very solid with all of his chips. "Best of luck to you, young lady. Don't waste those extra lives." He gave a quivering smile, then dissipated away.
"Jesus, don't sneak up on me in a god-damn haunted house!" I told her.
"What is taking you so long?" she said. "We've been waiting out there for like an hour!" she pointed toward the door, where I could see headlights of the car waiting at the curb.
"An hour?" I said. I'd barely made it past the living room and into the dining room. I hadn't even been in here for two minutes.
"Come on, this place is super creepy," Carrie said. "Let's go." She grabbed my hand and led me back toward the door.
But as I turned, I caught a glimpse of graffiti on the wall, still dripping streaks of black paint. All it said was 'Charlotte Gottlieb,' fairly out of place alongside the slurs and tags and crude drawings that had been spraypainted on all of the walls. "Do you know who Charlotte Gottlieb is?" I asked Carrie.
"No," she said. "Who is she?"
I paused in the archway between the living room and the dining room. The name was so familiar. It meant something. I made a mental note to google it later to find out who she was. Maybe it would come to me then. "Never mind." I headed toward the front door of the house. "Let's go."
2018.10.13 01:00 GrandpasBasement Grandpa Mapped Out His Entire Basement [Part 3]
Part 1
Part 2
My flashlight reflected back at me. It didn't spill over carpet, but over a hard, reflective floor. Linoleum.
Something new.
Thank God.
I stepped onto the linoleum and looked forward, flicking my flashlight across the new scene. A wall of lockers faced me only a few feet away. They extended into the dark in either direction, so far that my flashlight couldn't follow to the end. I held the door open so it wouldn't shut on me while I looked around. The ceiling was made of tiles with the occasional light fixture, each of them turned off. It was obvious to me where I was.
A school hallway.
Thirty basements led to... a school.
Or something that was supposed to look like a school.
"Jake?" I yelled into the empty hallway, hoping this would be the point where I could find him and go home. No response.
The echo of water began to trickle down the stairs behind me. I looked back up the stairs to see the glint of water as the carpet absorbed what it could, dumping the rest down each stair in series. There wasn't a choice. I had to continue.
I stepped backwards into the hall, and the door slammed shut on its own. The echo followed the length of the hallway in both directions. The closed door on this side resembled an old-time classroom door made of heavy wood with a large, frosted glass panel. No name was etched on the glass, and the nameplate beside the door was empty. There was a few feet of brick on either side and above the door, and the rows of red, metal lockers started after that. The door still existed and wasn't' just a painting of a door. I put my hand to the wood, feeling for the vibration of water pressure behind it. Nothing. No water seeped under the door either.
After turning around, my flashlight followed the row of lockers, but I still couldn't see the end in either direction.
Two options. Right or left.
I already had a guide that hadn't lead me astray so far. The linoleum was cool as I sat and leaned against a locker. Balancing the journal on my knees, I turned to my bookmark page, turned past the basement section and found a new diagram that I hadn't recognized before. It was several sets of parallel lines that formed a square in the middle with branches spreading out from there. Every branch devolved into parallel lines that were smaller and smaller until the two lines came together into a point.
A line was marked "Entrance" just like the stairs had been. The entrance was on the left arm of the large square. I assumed that's where I was.
Underneath the diagram was a list of numbers, followed by a letter, separated by commas. 30R, 15R, 45L, 180R and so on.
There was no designated exit or a goal marked on the diagram. Only the entrance was marked. I figured that the R and L, since they were the only two letters used, meant right and left. Directions. So, the first choice would be to go down the hallway to my right. But where else was there a chance to turn? I couldn't see any openings right or left beyond that. The diagram clearly indicated there were corners in this hallway, so where would I go? And what did the numbers mean? Number of lockers? Degrees to turn?
I turned back a page or two to hopefully get some context. To try and read the text again and see if I could make anything out. I frowned, confused, at how... clear the text now was. The pencil marks were dark and fresh. My fingers even smeared the pencil a little, as if I was handling writing that someone had just given me. The diagram of the basement was incomplete. Only ten marks and LOTS of chicken-scratch notes and arrows that had been erased thoroughly before, replaced with perfect cursive.
The journal was changing. I was looking at an earlier version of the basement diagram. A work in progress.
How?
The notes on the opposite page were much easier to read, though I still struggled through the handwriting. They were bullet points all jammed together and full of abbreviations. I didn't understand most. But some I could understand because of what I'd just gone through.
The notes seemed obvious to me now. Why would you spend time to write down how many doors there were in each room? I could see needing to specify bring a white light. The flashlight was definitely white. Was that why my phone hadn't worked? It wasn't white enough?
I suddenly remembered that I had my phone, and my stomach sank as I felt how wet my clothes were. Sure enough, when I fished my phone out of my pocket, it was dead. No response from any buttons. The water had killed it. I wondered what day it was, but realized it didn't matter anyway and put my phone back.
So the page in front of me was a work in progress by Grandpa. He'd only tested a few pathways. The journal, or this page at least, had gone... back in time.
In fact, the only consistent part of this entire experience seemed to be the messed up time. Skipping ahead several hours or days when I didn't even notice the change, certain pages of the journal going from super old and extremely faded to bright and fresh. Something was up with time down here.
There were other bullet points where I understood the words, but not the meaning.
Once I had deciphered all I could on that page, I went back to the diagram outlining the current hallways. The numbers had to be lockers. Degrees wouldn't tell me how far to go. I had a direction and a distance. I could start.
Standing up, I wanted to get going fast. Jake could still be in this part of the basement. The more time I took, the further away he got. I glanced at the numbers along the top, but they were all the same. 146. Repeated on every locker over and over.
Fine, counting by hand would have to do.
I pulled out the journal and re-read the first number so I could remember and count without distractions. The page containing this diagram had changed. The text was partially finished again, with fresh pencil lead smearing the opposite page. The first few measurements were still there, and both of the bullet points were legible.
I took a couple of steps back, aiming my flashlight down each side of the black hallway. Nothing but lockers and reflective metal.
When I looked back down, I saw that the pencil markings had gone backwards. The blood was gone, so was the second bullet point. I stepped forward, and watched with fascinated horror as the text wrote itself with every move forward. It erased itself when I went backward. The diagram also grew and reduced in size with the movements.
I was living the writing this time.
Five steps forward increased the range of the diagram. The lines imprinted themselves on the pages.
Okay, I could do this.
With the journal held open in front of me, I walked forward, using my fingers to count off the lockers as I tapped each one. Every ten lockers, I put a finger in a new page to mark how many sets of ten I had done. As I walked, I felt myself feel... better. Pausing, I looked at my hurt arm and realized that the bruising was going away. My ribs felt fine. They were... healing. The further I went, the better they felt.
At 30, I stopped and looked around. There was nothing but lockers. I should have a right turn here. While I looked around, a new bullet point scrawled itself onto the page.
I glanced at the locker my hand was on. I had to turn right. The lockers on either side of it were almost identical. No way to tell if I was right or wrong.
Choose the right one.
Lowering my hand, I set my fingers to the latch and lifted while pulling. The metal rattled as it spun on hinges to reveal a black space. The flashlight showed me that the inside started out as a normal locker, but then changed to be mirrored. The other side was another locker door. I could pass right through the wall and open the other side.
Cautiously, I squeezed my shoulders into the locker, reached my free arm through, and felt for the latch on the other side. It clicked, and the other locker swung open freely. Once the confined space became a pathway instead, I gained courage and ducked through the opening. Two awkward shuffles took me out the other side, metal pressing on my still wet clothes.
I stumbled through to the other side, and found myself in an identical hallway to where I had just come from. With a deep sigh, I consulted my journal. Next direction was another right. This was going to take forever.
After a few turns, I began feeling confident. Every time I approached the end of the list of directions, a new one appeared along with new lines in the diagram. I was starting to line up the diagram with the directions, and understood that every time I approached a point where the parallel lines converged, I would turn one direction or another. I was avoiding those points for some reason. There was no indication in real life that there was anything there. The hallways went on forever, so far as I could tell.
I was counting up to a thousand, when a loud metal BANG in the locker my hand rested on broke my concentration. My heart jumped into my throat, and I moved forward three lockers to finish my set of ten and mark my place. With my fingers securely stuck into the journal, I looked back. The locker that had jolted looked normal. Nothing out of place.
BANG
The one I was touching made the sound this time. After a single noise, the locker fell silent. I hesitated for a few seconds, keeping my hand where it was so I wouldn't lose measurement. Down the hall where I had come from, I could just make out the outline of the open locker door where I'd left.
Even as I pointed the flashlight down the hall, a low rumbling began to rise. A rhythmic drumming. My heart started to pound, expecting a burst of water from the open locker, or for the ceiling tiles to collapse. As if the sound was a drumroll, something emerged from the open locker I'd left behind. Something short. Something humanoid.
My jaw clenched as it stumbled out of the locker with very little grace. Almost fell over, but it got moving. Its legs twirled awkwardly along the linoleum. The drumming increased, and I realized that the lockers were banging in unison over where it was.
I wanted to run. I wanted to get away. But my feet stayed obediently, not losing count.
I set my hand solidly on each locker as I counted under my breath, following along with my fingers..
Ten.
Twenty.
It was slowly gaining, but I could still make it. The drumming was getting louder as the lockers it passed took up the rhythm.
Thirty.
Forty.
The journal's text jittered forward in time and backward in time. A letter would appear, only to reverse. My body went through flashes of pain. A new bullet point began to write itself. The next direction also appeared.
SIxty steps. My hand was sweaty against the locker. With one motion, I threw open the door. It was open gap with the inside of a locker door on the other side, as expected. I glanced back. The figure was still stumbling along, maybe twenty feet behind. It was coming straight at me, I was the obvious target. Its body looked emaciated, like a person starved down to skin and bones. Its face was still too far away to make out. The brightness of my flashlight didn't help either. The bright light obscured its features.
The pounding was louder now as the thing got closer and closer.
I shoved through the opening and lifted the latch on the other side. Inside the locker, the noise was deafening. The door swung open, clattering against the locker next to it. I had my hand on the wall, pulling myself through, when something moved in front of me.
Another one.
Another one approaching the locker on the other side. There wasn't time. I grabbed both locker doors, having to duck low and spread myself thin to fit in the double locker. The flashlight and journal both fell out of my grasp as I gripped the interior of the locker doors on either side and slammed them shut. The metal banging started immediately on both sides. They pulled at the locker doors, but I held them closed. They weren't very strong.
My muscles started to cramp as I stooped inside the double locker, holding both doors. The metal on my chest and my back felt like it was closing in around me. The roof forced me to crane my neck to the side. Darkness was thick and oppressive. I never thought I had claustrophobia until I was in that locker space. I started to scream, unable to cope any other way. The banging on each side was perfectly synchronized. They mirrored each other with every attempt on the door and fist on the metal.
I closed my eyes, sucking in ragged breath while I figured out what to do.
The journal laid open at my feet. I prayed to Grandpa, please tell me what to do. What do I do?
The journal responded. A new bullet point was scribbled on the paper.
Another note appeared, but this one wasn't scribbled as a bullet point. It was in all caps, just like Grandpa's "DONT GIVE UP".
PUSH
Push? Push what?
I looked at the doors I held shut. The two things were switching between pulling on the door and banging their fists. In fact, the iteration was predictable. A loop. Mirrored.
BANG BANG BANG PULL PULL BANG BANG BANG
Over and over.
I waited for my opportunity. I could only put my weight behind one door, so I opted for the one I needed to go through. I'd have to be fast, because the one behind would be pulling again right after I got out.
BANG BANG BANG
Wait.
First attempt to pull.
I leaned into it. Second attempt to pull, the latch was loose. I threw myself into it as best I could. The force of the door opening shoved the thing backward. The force was great enough to knock it against the far locker. It writhed on the ground, struggling to right itself. Reaching back into the locker, I snatched up the flashlight and the journal. The far locker door didn't open, however. I wasn't about to investigate why.
Equipment in hand, I started to run, but halted after only a few steps.
Don't run.
So I didn't.
Hesitantly, I went back to the locker door, and began to count the lockers. I kept a close eye on the humanoid, who was struggling to stand up again. The lockers continued to bang in unison where it laid. My hand tapped each locker quickly, leading me away from it.
Ten.
Twenty.
It took its sweet time to get up. The thing was slow.
Thirty.
Forty.
The humanoid was up and coming after me now, but the distance was enough to calm my heart.
Fifty.
Sixy.
Seventy.
Something loomed out of the darkness ahead as I approached. I hesitated, but it wasn't moving. Every step brought me closer, until I could make out its shape. A box, sitting in the middle of the hallway.
Eighty.
The box had some writing on the side facing me.
HIDE was written in fat, permanent marker. The E was backwards, and the letters were awkwardly drawn in childish lines. I swallowed hard, approaching the box and unable to turn away or avoid it. If I deviated from my line, which was slightly to the right of the box, my measurement would be off.
I looked back, and the thing was far enough away that only its faint outline could be seen.
As I came to the box, I watched it carefully. It didn't budge. My eyes flickered to the journal, looking for any advice.
On cue, it added a bullet point.
As I passed the box, which looked like the size of a shoebox before, but had grown to the size of a dishwasher, I noticed holes cut in the side for gripping and lifting the box. Long rectangles with rounded edges. As I passed, looking the box over with the flashlight, the light suddenly reflected off of two eyes in the box, staring at me. The eyes were white, moist, and reflective. I flinched, my back leg leaving its spot. I managed to keep my front foot down firm, even as the rest of my body jumped against the nearest locker.
Don't run. Don't run.
The eyes followed me until my angle hid them from view. They blinked a few times, watching me without fear.
My heart was a battering ram on my ribcage. I kept glancing back, making sure whatever or whoever was in the box didn't follow me.
I got to the last step, turned left, opened the locker, and stepped inside.
It felt like several hours passed during the hallways. But, for all I knew, it could have been days. Especially with the time being screwed up.
I never grew tired, though. I was mentally exhausted, but not physically. It wasn't any stranger than the rest of what was going on, but I wondered about it a lot. Was it a sign that I was asleep? I had tried multiple times to wake myself, but nothing worked.
So, I pressed on.
Several times, lockers would begin banging again. Each time, I looked around with worry, watching for another humanoid to come out of a locker and chase me. But they never did. The bangs from the lockers would always scare me regardless. No matter how many hours I walked. Like it was trying to make me lose count.
The very last coordinate led me to an actual door. As I approached, I could see the indent in the lockers, indicating a door. I sighed in relief when I recognized the change. The end, I hoped. I couldn't go further, according to the diagram, because soon after this door was a point where the parallel lines came to a point.
Suddenly, a locker just a few away burst open, and out dashed another humanoid. This one spun around and slammed the locker closed, pressing against it with its body. It had to have seen my bright flashlight, but didn't react at first. The locker it was holding shut attempted to open. It leaned against it hard.
"HELP!" He screamed. It wasn't one of them, it was a person. An actual, living person.
My mouth dropped open, and it took me some time to react. I hadn't seen anyone in what felt like days. Now he comes bursting out? It made me... suspicious.
"HELP ME HOLD THIS!" He yelled at me, holding up one hand to block the flashlight from his eyes.
"Who are you?" I said, barely audible over the slamming locker.
"IT'S GETTING THROUGH!" The man screamed as the locker began to slowly open, despite all his efforts.
I was frozen. Did I dare let go of the locker and lose count? The door was right there, I could find it. But what if the turn wasn't the door, but the locker before the door? What if the door was just a trick?
The maze had me questioning everything.
Suddenly, the door burst open, throwing the guy across the hall and into the far lockers.
One of the things stepped out, but lost its balance and fell. It writhed on the linoleum.
The guy was already on his feet and starting to run.
"DON'T RUN!" I shouted. He stopped, but the damage was done. The humanoid suddenly gained perfect control again and rolled to its feet. A single leap sent it flying towards the man, making a squeak on the linoleum floor from its bare feet.
The guy dove away from the wall, and the humanoid slammed against the lockers and slid to the floor. The impact didn't phase it, but it did slow down again, losing control.
"Do not run," I hissed, sweaty hand still pressed hard against the locker. The guy, started to stand up and nodded to me.
I lifted my hand and kept counting lockers. The guy noticed me counting but didn't say anything. He must know this is how you navigate.
While I counted, slowly approaching the door while the thing twisted around on the floor, the same rumbling from before started up behind us. The guy pulled out his own flashlight from a utility belt strapped tight around his waist. He flicked it on, and the hall was flooded with double the white light.
A snap brought his light down the hall, outlining the faintest of two figures, moving closer.
"I hope you have the next number," he said, watching all three. I nodded, not speaking so I could count. As I passed the thing on the floor, the guy followed slowly behind, watching all three behind us. The thing nearest us eventually got to its feet, and the rhythmic drumming picked up as it shuffled after us. I picked up the pace of counting.
The number led me right to the door. I kicked myself over not ditching the counting earlier, but there was nothing I could do.
The door was like the one I'd arrived through, but the word PRINCIPAL was written on the glass. Not stenciled, like it should have been, but drawn on crudely with a permanent marker. It looked eerie.
I looked back down the hallway before proceeding. The chorus of banging continued to advance on us. It was louder than it had been before. The hallway echoed the bangs, making it into a deafening roar. The effect made me believe I should expect a humanoid twice the normal size to come charging down the hall at me.
"Let's go," he urged, pressing into my back.
Eager to escape the cacophony, I opened the door and pulled it open. It was heavy, made from thick wood. When the door opened, I half expected to find that familiar set of stairs, but I found a regular principal's office instead. There was a massive desk in the middle of the room, with two guest chairs on my side and a massive, swiveling armchair where the principal would sit.
I stepped into the room, and the guy followed me, letting the door click shut. The sounds of the hall stopped immediately, like a cricket when you step too close. The sudden silence made me jump. Our two flashlights scoured the room.
It was quiet. Bookshelves filled two sides of the wall, perfectly mirrored. Even the contents on each shelf were mirrored across the room. Two diplomas hung on either side of the office chair behind the desk. Two windows reflected my flashlight around the room. There was nothing but blackness on the other side of their glass panes.
The room was large, but I could see everything in the room. There was no way out of here. Where was I supposed to go next? Out a window?
"Where do we go?" He asked, echoing my thoughts. I thought he was talking to me, but when I looked at him, he was fiddling with his utility belt.
I had a tool of my own. I set the flashlight between my legs and opened the journal. Grabbing the flashlight again, I held it over the book to see if any new bullet points had appeared.
The diagram had changed again. Somewhere along the parallel lines, a new box had appeared outside their reach, with two short lines connecting the nearest hallway with the square room. The room I was in, I guessed.
As I watched, the room finished drawing itself, then two fat, thick, diagonal lines scratched audibly across the box. A big, thick, X.
My mouth went dry.
A new bullet point wrote itself.
"Uh, hey," the guy tapped my shoulder, trying to get my attention.
"Yes, I see the chair moving, one second," I said, taking a step back to try and get the right timeframe for the bullet point.
"The room is crossed out, we shouldn't be here," the guy said, fear in his voice.
I threw us backwards, slamming the journal shut. Turning around, I shoved the guy into the door. He caught the handle, twisted it, and ran through the open doorway.
Running was a mistake.
I was forced through the door as the humanoid threw itself through the door faster than a car. It crashed headlong into the lockers, denting them into unusability. The force sent me skidding along the floor down the hall. I was more terrified than hurt, like being clipped by a speeding bicycle. My flashlight rolled noisily along the floor, light bouncing harshly off the lockers.
I saw the guy standing down the hall back where we'd come from. He was poised and ready to run, but the figures behind were closing in, and the one that had rushed us was regaining balance.
We needed time to get the door right.
"Knock on the door!" I shouted, before sprinting down the hallway. Not back the way we came, but forward. Toward where the parallel lines would close.
The new humanoid took up the chase. The linoleum screeched against its bare feet as it sprinted after me. I ducked at the last second and dove to the right, tucking and rolling. It stopped a few feet past me. The thing stepped back to face me, standing in the middle of the hall while my back pressed against the lockers behind. We were face-to-face across the hall from each other.
My running had also triggered the ones following us, and they advanced, getting closer to the man. He was running to the door when one of them collided into him. I looked away just as they hit the floor.
That's when I noticed that my head was several inches above the lockers. I was... growing. I scooted one step to the right, away from the door. My head went above the lockers by two feet now. The new humanoid watched me carefully and took another stumbling step forward.
The lockers were shrinking. I was heading to the point where the parallel lines collided. It was an illusion, the hall looked like it continued on forever, but I knew it wouldn't.
Don't go to small.
Don't go too small.
I crouched and ran forward, toward the shrinking lockers. It tried to anticipate my move and leapt forward to cut me off. Too far. It flew down the hall, shrinking from my perspective as it hit the ground. It spiraled, rolling up the lockers, onto the ceiling, then down the other side, all while continuing down the hallway like a slide. It eventually met the middle of the hall and disappeared into the vanishing point.
I released my breath and stepped back slowly from the end of the hall. The lockers restored themselves to their proper height. The effect was trippy. Unnatural. The hall looked perfectly normal. I was having a hard time believing what I'd just seen. Not only was time fucked up down here, but so was space.
When I spun around, ready for the new threats, I saw the man struggling with one humanoid that followed him out of the locker. The other two figures weren't far behind, and I finally got a good look at them. Another humanoid, and beside it was the box. Every few steps the humanoid took, it would roll over onto the next side, approaching us like a dice rolling itself. Every "step" of the box added to the thuds from the lockers.
The guy managed to roll on top of the thing he was wrestling and pull away. On his feet, he could get away from it while it squirmed on the ground. He was breathing heavy.
"Where'd the other one go?" He asked.
"Let's go," I replied, heading for my flashlight. The two were approaching my equipment fast, and I wasn't about to leave them behind.
As I leaned over to pick up the flashlight I guessed was mine, I noticed a second journal next to the guy's own flashlight. Same size, same leather binding. I looked up at the guy, who was picking up his own flashlight, questions rising. The noise of the approaching creatures made me pick up my journal and back away from the two who were now so close I could touch them. The guy grabbed his own flashlight and book, backing up beside me.
When we had backed up far enough, I closed the door to the principal's office. With my fist, I knocked on the glass. The door opened itself, and I moved aside so it could swing past me. On the other side was a set of perfectly kept stairs. White walls, a light switch, pristine carpet, and a rectangular door at the bottom.
I never thought I'd be so happy to see this staircase again.
Stepping inside, I flipped the switch to turn on the light. The guy followed closely behind me, obviously familiar with the stairs. He didn't hesitate. He knew what this was. I shut the door behind us, and walked downstairs. My adrenaline was high, but I felt capable now. That feeling left more and more as we descended. The guy glanced back at me a couple of times before we even reached the bottom. We met eyes, and I could see his expression. He was feeling it too. Hopeless.
When he reached the door at the bottom, he opened it without hesitation.
Part 4
submitted by GrandpasBasement to nosleep [link] [comments]
Part 2
My flashlight reflected back at me. It didn't spill over carpet, but over a hard, reflective floor. Linoleum.
Something new.
Thank God.
I stepped onto the linoleum and looked forward, flicking my flashlight across the new scene. A wall of lockers faced me only a few feet away. They extended into the dark in either direction, so far that my flashlight couldn't follow to the end. I held the door open so it wouldn't shut on me while I looked around. The ceiling was made of tiles with the occasional light fixture, each of them turned off. It was obvious to me where I was.
A school hallway.
Thirty basements led to... a school.
Or something that was supposed to look like a school.
"Jake?" I yelled into the empty hallway, hoping this would be the point where I could find him and go home. No response.
The echo of water began to trickle down the stairs behind me. I looked back up the stairs to see the glint of water as the carpet absorbed what it could, dumping the rest down each stair in series. There wasn't a choice. I had to continue.
I stepped backwards into the hall, and the door slammed shut on its own. The echo followed the length of the hallway in both directions. The closed door on this side resembled an old-time classroom door made of heavy wood with a large, frosted glass panel. No name was etched on the glass, and the nameplate beside the door was empty. There was a few feet of brick on either side and above the door, and the rows of red, metal lockers started after that. The door still existed and wasn't' just a painting of a door. I put my hand to the wood, feeling for the vibration of water pressure behind it. Nothing. No water seeped under the door either.
After turning around, my flashlight followed the row of lockers, but I still couldn't see the end in either direction.
Two options. Right or left.
I already had a guide that hadn't lead me astray so far. The linoleum was cool as I sat and leaned against a locker. Balancing the journal on my knees, I turned to my bookmark page, turned past the basement section and found a new diagram that I hadn't recognized before. It was several sets of parallel lines that formed a square in the middle with branches spreading out from there. Every branch devolved into parallel lines that were smaller and smaller until the two lines came together into a point.
A line was marked "Entrance" just like the stairs had been. The entrance was on the left arm of the large square. I assumed that's where I was.
Underneath the diagram was a list of numbers, followed by a letter, separated by commas. 30R, 15R, 45L, 180R and so on.
There was no designated exit or a goal marked on the diagram. Only the entrance was marked. I figured that the R and L, since they were the only two letters used, meant right and left. Directions. So, the first choice would be to go down the hallway to my right. But where else was there a chance to turn? I couldn't see any openings right or left beyond that. The diagram clearly indicated there were corners in this hallway, so where would I go? And what did the numbers mean? Number of lockers? Degrees to turn?
I turned back a page or two to hopefully get some context. To try and read the text again and see if I could make anything out. I frowned, confused, at how... clear the text now was. The pencil marks were dark and fresh. My fingers even smeared the pencil a little, as if I was handling writing that someone had just given me. The diagram of the basement was incomplete. Only ten marks and LOTS of chicken-scratch notes and arrows that had been erased thoroughly before, replaced with perfect cursive.
The journal was changing. I was looking at an earlier version of the basement diagram. A work in progress.
How?
The notes on the opposite page were much easier to read, though I still struggled through the handwriting. They were bullet points all jammed together and full of abbreviations. I didn't understand most. But some I could understand because of what I'd just gone through.
No light in the main room: aka don't use the fucking lightswitch. That would've been nice to know earlier. Fireplace is sealed, which I hadn't even thought to try and use as an escape. Don't sit on the furniture, which I hadn't done, and now suspected it was another trap like the lightswitch.
- Brng pencil
- Brng white light -- other specs absorb
- No light main rm
- 5 rms. All stairs
- Style changes number doors dont
- Dont sit on furniture
- Fireplc sealed
The notes seemed obvious to me now. Why would you spend time to write down how many doors there were in each room? I could see needing to specify bring a white light. The flashlight was definitely white. Was that why my phone hadn't worked? It wasn't white enough?
I suddenly remembered that I had my phone, and my stomach sank as I felt how wet my clothes were. Sure enough, when I fished my phone out of my pocket, it was dead. No response from any buttons. The water had killed it. I wondered what day it was, but realized it didn't matter anyway and put my phone back.
So the page in front of me was a work in progress by Grandpa. He'd only tested a few pathways. The journal, or this page at least, had gone... back in time.
In fact, the only consistent part of this entire experience seemed to be the messed up time. Skipping ahead several hours or days when I didn't even notice the change, certain pages of the journal going from super old and extremely faded to bright and fresh. Something was up with time down here.
There were other bullet points where I understood the words, but not the meaning.
There were many empty lines as well that had been full before. Grandpa must not have written those yet.
- Leave pg at door at enter
- Mem blank @ enter
- Leave & remember
- Emote chng stair
- Anx ^
- Depress v
Once I had deciphered all I could on that page, I went back to the diagram outlining the current hallways. The numbers had to be lockers. Degrees wouldn't tell me how far to go. I had a direction and a distance. I could start.
Standing up, I wanted to get going fast. Jake could still be in this part of the basement. The more time I took, the further away he got. I glanced at the numbers along the top, but they were all the same. 146. Repeated on every locker over and over.
Fine, counting by hand would have to do.
I pulled out the journal and re-read the first number so I could remember and count without distractions. The page containing this diagram had changed. The text was partially finished again, with fresh pencil lead smearing the opposite page. The first few measurements were still there, and both of the bullet points were legible.
The last one was the freshest and the most worrying. A drop of blood glistened at the end, slightly smeared. It had been almost dissolved before, to the point that I hadn't noticed it. Now, it was fresh. Don't go to small what? What was small here?
- Dont lose count
- Dont go to small
I took a couple of steps back, aiming my flashlight down each side of the black hallway. Nothing but lockers and reflective metal.
When I looked back down, I saw that the pencil markings had gone backwards. The blood was gone, so was the second bullet point. I stepped forward, and watched with fascinated horror as the text wrote itself with every move forward. It erased itself when I went backward. The diagram also grew and reduced in size with the movements.
I was living the writing this time.
Five steps forward increased the range of the diagram. The lines imprinted themselves on the pages.
Okay, I could do this.
With the journal held open in front of me, I walked forward, using my fingers to count off the lockers as I tapped each one. Every ten lockers, I put a finger in a new page to mark how many sets of ten I had done. As I walked, I felt myself feel... better. Pausing, I looked at my hurt arm and realized that the bruising was going away. My ribs felt fine. They were... healing. The further I went, the better they felt.
At 30, I stopped and looked around. There was nothing but lockers. I should have a right turn here. While I looked around, a new bullet point scrawled itself onto the page.
Choose a locker.
- Choose the right one
I glanced at the locker my hand was on. I had to turn right. The lockers on either side of it were almost identical. No way to tell if I was right or wrong.
Choose the right one.
Lowering my hand, I set my fingers to the latch and lifted while pulling. The metal rattled as it spun on hinges to reveal a black space. The flashlight showed me that the inside started out as a normal locker, but then changed to be mirrored. The other side was another locker door. I could pass right through the wall and open the other side.
Cautiously, I squeezed my shoulders into the locker, reached my free arm through, and felt for the latch on the other side. It clicked, and the other locker swung open freely. Once the confined space became a pathway instead, I gained courage and ducked through the opening. Two awkward shuffles took me out the other side, metal pressing on my still wet clothes.
I stumbled through to the other side, and found myself in an identical hallway to where I had just come from. With a deep sigh, I consulted my journal. Next direction was another right. This was going to take forever.
After a few turns, I began feeling confident. Every time I approached the end of the list of directions, a new one appeared along with new lines in the diagram. I was starting to line up the diagram with the directions, and understood that every time I approached a point where the parallel lines converged, I would turn one direction or another. I was avoiding those points for some reason. There was no indication in real life that there was anything there. The hallways went on forever, so far as I could tell.
I was counting up to a thousand, when a loud metal BANG in the locker my hand rested on broke my concentration. My heart jumped into my throat, and I moved forward three lockers to finish my set of ten and mark my place. With my fingers securely stuck into the journal, I looked back. The locker that had jolted looked normal. Nothing out of place.
BANG
The one I was touching made the sound this time. After a single noise, the locker fell silent. I hesitated for a few seconds, keeping my hand where it was so I wouldn't lose measurement. Down the hall where I had come from, I could just make out the outline of the open locker door where I'd left.
Even as I pointed the flashlight down the hall, a low rumbling began to rise. A rhythmic drumming. My heart started to pound, expecting a burst of water from the open locker, or for the ceiling tiles to collapse. As if the sound was a drumroll, something emerged from the open locker I'd left behind. Something short. Something humanoid.
My jaw clenched as it stumbled out of the locker with very little grace. Almost fell over, but it got moving. Its legs twirled awkwardly along the linoleum. The drumming increased, and I realized that the lockers were banging in unison over where it was.
I wanted to run. I wanted to get away. But my feet stayed obediently, not losing count.
I opened the journal and counted how many sets I had done. There were only six more sets to go. The thing was pretty far behind. I could make it.
- Dont lose count.
I set my hand solidly on each locker as I counted under my breath, following along with my fingers..
Ten.
Twenty.
It was slowly gaining, but I could still make it. The drumming was getting louder as the lockers it passed took up the rhythm.
Thirty.
Forty.
The journal's text jittered forward in time and backward in time. A letter would appear, only to reverse. My body went through flashes of pain. A new bullet point began to write itself. The next direction also appeared.
Fifty sets done.
- Do
- D
- Don
- Do
- Don
Don't run.
- Dont
- Do
- Don
- Dont r
- D
- Dont ru
- Dont run
- Dont ru
- Dont run
SIxty steps. My hand was sweaty against the locker. With one motion, I threw open the door. It was open gap with the inside of a locker door on the other side, as expected. I glanced back. The figure was still stumbling along, maybe twenty feet behind. It was coming straight at me, I was the obvious target. Its body looked emaciated, like a person starved down to skin and bones. Its face was still too far away to make out. The brightness of my flashlight didn't help either. The bright light obscured its features.
The pounding was louder now as the thing got closer and closer.
I shoved through the opening and lifted the latch on the other side. Inside the locker, the noise was deafening. The door swung open, clattering against the locker next to it. I had my hand on the wall, pulling myself through, when something moved in front of me.
Another one.
Another one approaching the locker on the other side. There wasn't time. I grabbed both locker doors, having to duck low and spread myself thin to fit in the double locker. The flashlight and journal both fell out of my grasp as I gripped the interior of the locker doors on either side and slammed them shut. The metal banging started immediately on both sides. They pulled at the locker doors, but I held them closed. They weren't very strong.
My muscles started to cramp as I stooped inside the double locker, holding both doors. The metal on my chest and my back felt like it was closing in around me. The roof forced me to crane my neck to the side. Darkness was thick and oppressive. I never thought I had claustrophobia until I was in that locker space. I started to scream, unable to cope any other way. The banging on each side was perfectly synchronized. They mirrored each other with every attempt on the door and fist on the metal.
I closed my eyes, sucking in ragged breath while I figured out what to do.
The journal laid open at my feet. I prayed to Grandpa, please tell me what to do. What do I do?
The journal responded. A new bullet point was scribbled on the paper.
I sobbed angrily. A little late for that.
- Dont get trapped
Another note appeared, but this one wasn't scribbled as a bullet point. It was in all caps, just like Grandpa's "DONT GIVE UP".
PUSH
Push? Push what?
I looked at the doors I held shut. The two things were switching between pulling on the door and banging their fists. In fact, the iteration was predictable. A loop. Mirrored.
BANG BANG BANG PULL PULL BANG BANG BANG
Over and over.
I waited for my opportunity. I could only put my weight behind one door, so I opted for the one I needed to go through. I'd have to be fast, because the one behind would be pulling again right after I got out.
BANG BANG BANG
Wait.
First attempt to pull.
I leaned into it. Second attempt to pull, the latch was loose. I threw myself into it as best I could. The force of the door opening shoved the thing backward. The force was great enough to knock it against the far locker. It writhed on the ground, struggling to right itself. Reaching back into the locker, I snatched up the flashlight and the journal. The far locker door didn't open, however. I wasn't about to investigate why.
Equipment in hand, I started to run, but halted after only a few steps.
Don't run.
So I didn't.
Hesitantly, I went back to the locker door, and began to count the lockers. I kept a close eye on the humanoid, who was struggling to stand up again. The lockers continued to bang in unison where it laid. My hand tapped each locker quickly, leading me away from it.
Ten.
Twenty.
It took its sweet time to get up. The thing was slow.
Thirty.
Forty.
The humanoid was up and coming after me now, but the distance was enough to calm my heart.
Fifty.
Sixy.
Seventy.
Something loomed out of the darkness ahead as I approached. I hesitated, but it wasn't moving. Every step brought me closer, until I could make out its shape. A box, sitting in the middle of the hallway.
Eighty.
The box had some writing on the side facing me.
HIDE was written in fat, permanent marker. The E was backwards, and the letters were awkwardly drawn in childish lines. I swallowed hard, approaching the box and unable to turn away or avoid it. If I deviated from my line, which was slightly to the right of the box, my measurement would be off.
I looked back, and the thing was far enough away that only its faint outline could be seen.
As I came to the box, I watched it carefully. It didn't budge. My eyes flickered to the journal, looking for any advice.
On cue, it added a bullet point.
Not that hiding in the box sounded appealing. But it was nice to know that my decision was a safe one.
- Dont hide
As I passed the box, which looked like the size of a shoebox before, but had grown to the size of a dishwasher, I noticed holes cut in the side for gripping and lifting the box. Long rectangles with rounded edges. As I passed, looking the box over with the flashlight, the light suddenly reflected off of two eyes in the box, staring at me. The eyes were white, moist, and reflective. I flinched, my back leg leaving its spot. I managed to keep my front foot down firm, even as the rest of my body jumped against the nearest locker.
Don't run. Don't run.
The eyes followed me until my angle hid them from view. They blinked a few times, watching me without fear.
My heart was a battering ram on my ribcage. I kept glancing back, making sure whatever or whoever was in the box didn't follow me.
I got to the last step, turned left, opened the locker, and stepped inside.
It felt like several hours passed during the hallways. But, for all I knew, it could have been days. Especially with the time being screwed up.
I never grew tired, though. I was mentally exhausted, but not physically. It wasn't any stranger than the rest of what was going on, but I wondered about it a lot. Was it a sign that I was asleep? I had tried multiple times to wake myself, but nothing worked.
So, I pressed on.
Several times, lockers would begin banging again. Each time, I looked around with worry, watching for another humanoid to come out of a locker and chase me. But they never did. The bangs from the lockers would always scare me regardless. No matter how many hours I walked. Like it was trying to make me lose count.
The very last coordinate led me to an actual door. As I approached, I could see the indent in the lockers, indicating a door. I sighed in relief when I recognized the change. The end, I hoped. I couldn't go further, according to the diagram, because soon after this door was a point where the parallel lines came to a point.
Suddenly, a locker just a few away burst open, and out dashed another humanoid. This one spun around and slammed the locker closed, pressing against it with its body. It had to have seen my bright flashlight, but didn't react at first. The locker it was holding shut attempted to open. It leaned against it hard.
"HELP!" He screamed. It wasn't one of them, it was a person. An actual, living person.
My mouth dropped open, and it took me some time to react. I hadn't seen anyone in what felt like days. Now he comes bursting out? It made me... suspicious.
"HELP ME HOLD THIS!" He yelled at me, holding up one hand to block the flashlight from his eyes.
"Who are you?" I said, barely audible over the slamming locker.
"IT'S GETTING THROUGH!" The man screamed as the locker began to slowly open, despite all his efforts.
I was frozen. Did I dare let go of the locker and lose count? The door was right there, I could find it. But what if the turn wasn't the door, but the locker before the door? What if the door was just a trick?
The maze had me questioning everything.
Suddenly, the door burst open, throwing the guy across the hall and into the far lockers.
One of the things stepped out, but lost its balance and fell. It writhed on the linoleum.
The guy was already on his feet and starting to run.
"DON'T RUN!" I shouted. He stopped, but the damage was done. The humanoid suddenly gained perfect control again and rolled to its feet. A single leap sent it flying towards the man, making a squeak on the linoleum floor from its bare feet.
The guy dove away from the wall, and the humanoid slammed against the lockers and slid to the floor. The impact didn't phase it, but it did slow down again, losing control.
"Do not run," I hissed, sweaty hand still pressed hard against the locker. The guy, started to stand up and nodded to me.
I lifted my hand and kept counting lockers. The guy noticed me counting but didn't say anything. He must know this is how you navigate.
While I counted, slowly approaching the door while the thing twisted around on the floor, the same rumbling from before started up behind us. The guy pulled out his own flashlight from a utility belt strapped tight around his waist. He flicked it on, and the hall was flooded with double the white light.
A snap brought his light down the hall, outlining the faintest of two figures, moving closer.
"I hope you have the next number," he said, watching all three. I nodded, not speaking so I could count. As I passed the thing on the floor, the guy followed slowly behind, watching all three behind us. The thing nearest us eventually got to its feet, and the rhythmic drumming picked up as it shuffled after us. I picked up the pace of counting.
The number led me right to the door. I kicked myself over not ditching the counting earlier, but there was nothing I could do.
The door was like the one I'd arrived through, but the word PRINCIPAL was written on the glass. Not stenciled, like it should have been, but drawn on crudely with a permanent marker. It looked eerie.
I looked back down the hallway before proceeding. The chorus of banging continued to advance on us. It was louder than it had been before. The hallway echoed the bangs, making it into a deafening roar. The effect made me believe I should expect a humanoid twice the normal size to come charging down the hall at me.
"Let's go," he urged, pressing into my back.
Eager to escape the cacophony, I opened the door and pulled it open. It was heavy, made from thick wood. When the door opened, I half expected to find that familiar set of stairs, but I found a regular principal's office instead. There was a massive desk in the middle of the room, with two guest chairs on my side and a massive, swiveling armchair where the principal would sit.
I stepped into the room, and the guy followed me, letting the door click shut. The sounds of the hall stopped immediately, like a cricket when you step too close. The sudden silence made me jump. Our two flashlights scoured the room.
It was quiet. Bookshelves filled two sides of the wall, perfectly mirrored. Even the contents on each shelf were mirrored across the room. Two diplomas hung on either side of the office chair behind the desk. Two windows reflected my flashlight around the room. There was nothing but blackness on the other side of their glass panes.
The room was large, but I could see everything in the room. There was no way out of here. Where was I supposed to go next? Out a window?
"Where do we go?" He asked, echoing my thoughts. I thought he was talking to me, but when I looked at him, he was fiddling with his utility belt.
I had a tool of my own. I set the flashlight between my legs and opened the journal. Grabbing the flashlight again, I held it over the book to see if any new bullet points had appeared.
The diagram had changed again. Somewhere along the parallel lines, a new box had appeared outside their reach, with two short lines connecting the nearest hallway with the square room. The room I was in, I guessed.
As I watched, the room finished drawing itself, then two fat, thick, diagonal lines scratched audibly across the box. A big, thick, X.
My mouth went dry.
A new bullet point wrote itself.
The chair in front of me suddenly moved, spinning slowly in my direction.
- K
- Kn
- Kno
- Kn
"Uh, hey," the guy tapped my shoulder, trying to get my attention.
"Yes, I see the chair moving, one second," I said, taking a step back to try and get the right timeframe for the bullet point.
One of those humanoids stood up from the chair, following me with its eyes as it stumbled to the end of the desk.
- Knoc
- Knock
- Kno
- K
- Knock f
- Knock fir
"The room is crossed out, we shouldn't be here," the guy said, fear in his voice.
"Shit."
- Knock first
I threw us backwards, slamming the journal shut. Turning around, I shoved the guy into the door. He caught the handle, twisted it, and ran through the open doorway.
Running was a mistake.
I was forced through the door as the humanoid threw itself through the door faster than a car. It crashed headlong into the lockers, denting them into unusability. The force sent me skidding along the floor down the hall. I was more terrified than hurt, like being clipped by a speeding bicycle. My flashlight rolled noisily along the floor, light bouncing harshly off the lockers.
I saw the guy standing down the hall back where we'd come from. He was poised and ready to run, but the figures behind were closing in, and the one that had rushed us was regaining balance.
We needed time to get the door right.
"Knock on the door!" I shouted, before sprinting down the hallway. Not back the way we came, but forward. Toward where the parallel lines would close.
The new humanoid took up the chase. The linoleum screeched against its bare feet as it sprinted after me. I ducked at the last second and dove to the right, tucking and rolling. It stopped a few feet past me. The thing stepped back to face me, standing in the middle of the hall while my back pressed against the lockers behind. We were face-to-face across the hall from each other.
My running had also triggered the ones following us, and they advanced, getting closer to the man. He was running to the door when one of them collided into him. I looked away just as they hit the floor.
That's when I noticed that my head was several inches above the lockers. I was... growing. I scooted one step to the right, away from the door. My head went above the lockers by two feet now. The new humanoid watched me carefully and took another stumbling step forward.
The lockers were shrinking. I was heading to the point where the parallel lines collided. It was an illusion, the hall looked like it continued on forever, but I knew it wouldn't.
Don't go to small.
Don't go too small.
I crouched and ran forward, toward the shrinking lockers. It tried to anticipate my move and leapt forward to cut me off. Too far. It flew down the hall, shrinking from my perspective as it hit the ground. It spiraled, rolling up the lockers, onto the ceiling, then down the other side, all while continuing down the hallway like a slide. It eventually met the middle of the hall and disappeared into the vanishing point.
I released my breath and stepped back slowly from the end of the hall. The lockers restored themselves to their proper height. The effect was trippy. Unnatural. The hall looked perfectly normal. I was having a hard time believing what I'd just seen. Not only was time fucked up down here, but so was space.
When I spun around, ready for the new threats, I saw the man struggling with one humanoid that followed him out of the locker. The other two figures weren't far behind, and I finally got a good look at them. Another humanoid, and beside it was the box. Every few steps the humanoid took, it would roll over onto the next side, approaching us like a dice rolling itself. Every "step" of the box added to the thuds from the lockers.
The guy managed to roll on top of the thing he was wrestling and pull away. On his feet, he could get away from it while it squirmed on the ground. He was breathing heavy.
"Where'd the other one go?" He asked.
"Let's go," I replied, heading for my flashlight. The two were approaching my equipment fast, and I wasn't about to leave them behind.
As I leaned over to pick up the flashlight I guessed was mine, I noticed a second journal next to the guy's own flashlight. Same size, same leather binding. I looked up at the guy, who was picking up his own flashlight, questions rising. The noise of the approaching creatures made me pick up my journal and back away from the two who were now so close I could touch them. The guy grabbed his own flashlight and book, backing up beside me.
When we had backed up far enough, I closed the door to the principal's office. With my fist, I knocked on the glass. The door opened itself, and I moved aside so it could swing past me. On the other side was a set of perfectly kept stairs. White walls, a light switch, pristine carpet, and a rectangular door at the bottom.
I never thought I'd be so happy to see this staircase again.
Stepping inside, I flipped the switch to turn on the light. The guy followed closely behind me, obviously familiar with the stairs. He didn't hesitate. He knew what this was. I shut the door behind us, and walked downstairs. My adrenaline was high, but I felt capable now. That feeling left more and more as we descended. The guy glanced back at me a couple of times before we even reached the bottom. We met eyes, and I could see his expression. He was feeling it too. Hopeless.
When he reached the door at the bottom, he opened it without hesitation.
Part 4
2017.10.30 23:09 secret_online /r/Factorio is participating in Extra Life this weekend
Come and watch us make delicious spaghetti
There's only a few days until the Extra Life charity livestreams. Join us in raising money for the Children's Miracle Network Hospitals, who are helping those that need it most. 100% of the money raised from Extra Life goes towards research, new equipment, and making sure that the children can be cared for even when the families can not pay.
How you can help
If you're a streamer, or want to be, join our Extra Life team. All donations you receive will go directly to the hospital you choose (Extra Life FAQ). You do not need to stream for the whole 24 hours, or all in one session. Play at your pace, to your schedule.If you're going to stream, leave a comment (or send me a message) and I will add you to this post.
Otherwise, you can watch the streams from our participants and donate to Extra Life through them. This is an opportunity for our fantastic community to come together and support those who need it.
What is the moderation team doing?
The /Factorio and Factorio Discord moderators have joined together to help out. Since we are from many parts of the world, we will be running for a full 24 hours (and maybe a little more). We have some ideas for what we will be doing, as well as some raffle prizes to be given out.Our stream will start at 3pm GMT (Countdown). Swan will be providing the main stream, and a couple more of us may provide some alternative views at different times.
One of the Discord Admins, Ceraphix, will match any donation up to our goal (which currently stands at $5000), effectively doubling all of the donations made to our team.
Some links
/Factorio teamReddit superteam
Previous thread
Reddit Blog #1
Reddit Blog #2
Factorio Discord Server
Participants
/Factorio Team
Reminder: All donations to people in the Factorio Team will be matched dollar-for-dollar to a total of $5000| Name | Stream | Donate | Times | Extra Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Swan | Twitch | Extra Life | 3pm GMT Saturday, trying to go for 24 hrs | Moderation Team |
| AgentEightySix | Twitch | Extra Life | 3pm GMT Saturday, for 24 hrs | Moderation Team |
| CodenameDuckfin | Twitch | Extra Life | Mid-afternoon Saturday, Eastern time | November Community Map, aiming for highest SPM |
| Xterminator5 | Twitch | Extra Life | Saturday, maybe Sunday | Megabase, two rockets for every dollar donated |
| jdplay5 | Twitch | Extra Life | Late Sunday, AEDT | |
| GDH5 | Twitch | Extra Life |
Other Participants
| Name | Stream | Donate | Times | Extra Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Innomin8 | Twitch | Extra Life | 10pm PDT Thursday (with sleep in middle somewhere) | Matching donations up to $500 |
| Proumf | Twitch | Extra Life |
2016.07.31 19:42 DoubleDoorBastard The Devil Came To Walkerton
I was a military brat when I was younger, always had been. You barely notice it at that age, every move is an adventure, a window into a new part of the country. Fort Rucker. Camp Cooke. Camp Navajo. They're never all that different. The only thing that ever really changed was the weather - and even then, not much.
My father, Col. Calvin Richardson, was a decorated military veteran. No matter where we went, my dad was telling someone what to do, and it seemed as though everyone outside of our immediate family was terrified of him. He could reduce a squadron of hard-ass Marines into nervous chihuahuas with one of his icy, prolonged stares.
The soldiers working under my father had a funny nickname for him. They called him, "The Scarecrow" on account of his missing leg (blown off at the knee while he was serving in the Gulf War), though it never seemed to bother him. In fact, I seem to remember him kind of liking it, as though becoming a scary myth among new recruits was a badge of honor. He relished in their discomfort around him.
Dad's missing leg was a grim fascination for me back then, though most of the time there'd be no way for a casual observer to even tell that it was gone - he almost always wore a lifelike prosthetic.
After a childhood of constant movement, followed by a brief period of remaining sedentary, my life had finally started taking root. I was fifteen years old; I had myself a good network of friends, a happy school life, and, most important of all, a sense of personal identity. All things considered, it was quite possibly the worst time for another spontaneous move to set in and jangle my world out of order. That, however, would be exactly the case.
Something was different this time, though. Our next location wasn't a military base, or somewhere even faintly associated with the military. It was the small, backwoods village of Walkerton, nestled discretely into the mountains of Colorado, just North of Denver. It'd been established during the mass-mining period after precious metals were discovered in the nearby mountains, but commerce quickly withered once the local gold reserves were depleted.
By the nineties, which is when we took residence there, it was nothing more than a little husk of a town in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.
"Why do we have to live here, mom?" I remember whining a number of times.
"It's for your father's work, sweetie," she would always reply, never giving me her full attention, "It's what's best for all of us."
I'd never whine to dad, though. He spent most days cooped up in his office, drinking cups of coffee and chain-smoking like he wouldn't live past tomorrow. Whenever he'd emerge, shrouded in a pall of tobacco and coffee-fumes, an order of "silence" seemed to be etched into every crease lining his stony face.
Even dad's facial expressions had deep shades of ironclad authority to them.
It was an unseasonably hot summer when we first arrived, and school was already out, so I spent my abundant free time trying to make friends. I was a new kid in a town where the last new, exciting development was the advent of cable television, and before that the steam train, so I quickly became an object of curiosity for the local kids.
Before I knew it, I had three friends: Bobby, Richard, and Susan. Naturally, they were all full of questions about me, my family, and all the places I'd been.
"What are the army bases like?"
"Have you ever seen your dad shoot anyone?"
"What do your parents even do around here?"
The answers were always the same: "boring", "no", and "I'm not really sure." We were all the same age, but sometimes they felt sheltered enough to be a few years younger. Bobby and Richard had never been beyond the Walkerton town borders, and Susan was only beating them by a nose - she'd once had a four day vacation in Denver with her family when she was eleven, and tried out some of the local ski slopes. Nothing more.
"What exactly is there to, you know, do around here?" I asked once.
"Not much," I remember Susan replying, "This place is practically a retirement village. Old people come here to live out their last five without all the pressures of the city."
"It's true," Bobby chimed in, "My brother, Francis, he left this place as soon as he could. He's a mechanic in Boulder now."
I groaned and silently cursed my dad for bringing us here, and my mom for always giving in to him.
"There are some things you can do," Richard added, seeming to be the only one willing to stand up for that one-horse town, "We could hang out by the creek."
"That's lame," said Susan, sneering, "Only babies hang out at the creek. Besides, the water stinks, it gets full of pond scum this time of year."
Richard shrugged and looked defeated.
"All we really do here is wait until we're old enough to leave," Susan said, "This place is a nightmare. It's like living inside the color beige."
When I turned around to Bobby to see if he had anything to add, he was shooting insulin into his wrist.
"Walkerton sucks. When I'm eighteen, I'm gonna move to Boulder with Francis." He said, "What about you, Sue?"
"I don't care," she replied, "I'll settle for anywhere that isn't here."
Richard, who I'd pegged as the quiet one, spoke up.
"My sister got an NES for her birthday. If she's not home, we might be able to play it."
Susan's eyes lit up.
"Holy shit, really?" She asked, enthusiasm bleeding into her tone, "What do you think are the odds of her not being home?"
"Pretty high. She's always with her boyfriend."
"Sweet! Sounds like we've got our afternoon planned." Susan said with a chuckle.
Seems like a stupid memory to keep, doesn't it? 20 years and I still remember an afternoon of playing Super Mario Brothers and Contra with three dumb kids, just like me, not a care in the whole world. It's funny what sticks with you.
"Alright, we're going for flu shots," my dad said in his commanding monotone, "I set the date with Dr. Hale earlier in the week."
It felt like the first thing he'd said to us since we arrived, and it just made me despise him more.
"Dad, we've been here for two weeks, it's not even flu season."
"Every season is flu season, Tabby."
"I told you not to call me that, dad, it's Tabitha! I'm fifteen now!"
He offered a chuckle and knelt down, kissing me on the forehead and ruffling my hair.
"But you'll always be my little Tabby-cat, sweetie. Now, let's get going, it's rude to keep a doctor waiting."
It was foolish to argue. Anyone who knew my dad was aware that he was the personification of the metaphorical "immovable object." There was no room for persuasion or bargaining, if he said something, that meant it simply was to be.
And so we drove to the cramped office of Dr. Ben Hale, and he administered three painful shots into the arms of myself, my dad, and my mother. It had a kind of aching kick to it, like having rabbits in your veins. That's how I always remembered it.
"So," Bobby said, with all the grave seriousness of a world leader at a UN meeting, "Who would win in a fight, Batman or Superman?"
"That's a stupid question, dork," Susan replied nonchalantly, looking at herself in a pocket mirror, "Anyone with a brain could tell you that Wonder Woman would kick both of their asses."
Bobby turned his eyes to me, pleading for cooperation with his stare.
This was all typical cafeteria debate for us.
"Sorry, Bobby," I said, a smile coming to life on my lips, "I'm gonna have to side with Susan on that one."
Richard was being quieter than usual. He picked languidly at the food on his plastic tray with a fork, never eating it, just shifting it from place to place. He was facing downwards, but his vacant, wide-eyed stare seemed to be looking past the table and the floor. Gazing intently at some undetermined point.
"You gonna back me up, Richie?" Bobby asked.
Richard seemed to jolt, like he'd been given an electric shock.
"Sorry, sorry, what were you saying?" He said, still appearing absent from the conversation. His mind wandered elsewhere.
"Everything okay, Rich?" I asked, "You look like a zombie."
He sighed and put down his fork.
"It's my sister, she got real sick last night. Throwing up and stuff."
"That's nothing new," Bobby said, "People get sick all the time, you've got nothing to worry about."
"You didn't see her, Bobby," Richard said, an unusual coldness clinging to his voice, "You didn't see her. She was as white as a ghost, and she was making this horrible face. I've seen a face like that before."
"Where?" I asked.
"My aunt's funeral. Open-casket."
We issued a collective shudder, and fell silent. I think we were all secretly praying that things would turn out alright, but we never shared a word about it. Not once.
Sometimes - as all children, on some level, believe - saying a deep, ugly fear out loud could make it real.
For the first time since we arrived, dad had joined us for the family dinner. We said our prayers, filled our plates with roast beef and string beans, and sat across from one another at the table. Dad had a tendency to eat in silence, and I wasn't the exactly the talkative type either - I suppose you could say I got that from him.
"Funny thing at work today," Mom said, while trying to wrestle a chunk of string bean out from between her teeth with her tongue, "I had to fill in for Martha, she was off sick. Again. This has been the second day in a row."
My eyes met my father's, and he gave a knowing smile.
"What did I tell you, Tabby, flu season! I bet you're glad you got inoculated now."
I rubbed my bicep, feeling the residual pain spike again with the memory. It hurt to admit it, but he was right.
"You didn't let me finish," mom whined, "Martha was meant to be filling in for Anna, who's been off too. So I had to do two people's work, plus my own. It's a nightmare."
"Better than the alternative, I imagine," dad said, effortlessly cutting a cube of beef from his thick steak, "Flu's a bigger nightmare. Once you get it in the barracks, it can put your whole unit out of commission for a few days at a time. Goddamn nuisance."
"Richard's sister was sick too." I added.
"Huh. You hear that, Joan? Seems like it's going around."
My mom nodded and swallowed her mouthful, "It's strange. You don't normally see flu till October."
"Hmm. Yeah." Dad replied.
The rest of the night went by in relative quiet. We all had plenty to think about.
Later in the week, the real bad news finally began to hit. I felt as though I'd been watching a long fuse slowly burn up before my eyes, but I stayed blissfully ignorant. Until the bomb went off under my feet.
The classroom was looking unusually empty, with only a few students sitting around on desks far apart from one another. Bobby and Susan were both there, but Richard was absent. Hell, even the teacher was gone, and we had a hungover-looking substitute writing his name up on the chalkboard.
There was a dark cloud hanging over Bobby and Susan. She was quiet, and Bobby had red halos around his eyes, and cheeks still puffy from tears.
It was abundantly clear that they knew something I didn't.
"Guys, what's wrong?" I asked, turning back to them, "Why isn't Richie in today?"
Bobby looked like he might start bawling at any minute. Susan spoke up on his behalf.
"It's his sister," she said, biting her lower lip, "She, uh, didn't...she didn't make it through the night."
"Wait, what? What the hell do you mean she didn't make it through the night?" I asked, finding it almost impossible to process.
"My mom just said she fell unconscious and just didn't wake up. Her heart just stopped."
"But that's...no, it can't...come on, Bobby, this has got to be some kind of joke."
Bobby didn't provide any reassurance, he just nodded his head meekly and fell into his arms, sobbing again. Susan awkwardly patted his back in an attempt to comfort him.
"Everyone's getting sick," Susan said, concern audible in her voice, "School's at like half attendance today. It's just getting worse."
"I'm sure it'll get better, these things always do."
"No," Susan said, "You just only hear about them when they do."
I felt a chill crawl down my back and went quiet. Susan tried to comfort Bobby, to no avail, and the substitute teacher seemed to collapse into his desk chair.
At that moment, I thought I'd hit rock bottom. Nobody could have guessed that it was only the beginning.
"The most terrible thing happened today," my mom was saying in her usual shrill tone, "You wouldn't believe it."
"Try me," dad replied, putting pepper on his plate of lasagna.
I'd lost my appetite completely. I just sat there, taking half-hearted prods at my food.
"Martha passed away. It's terrible! She was on her way out of the house, and she just collapsed. Rosa said she had cardio pul...pull...something to do with her heart, anyway. It was like she just went to sleep, and died at the hospital."
Dad's thin eyebrows raised in a grim expression of curiosity. I think if he made another "I told you so" jibe about my flu shots, I'd have stabbed him with my fork.
"Seems we've got an outbreak on our hands."
"Can you and your people do anything about it, Calvin? Martha isn't the only one, you know. I heard on the grapevine that a few other people have died under similar circumstances - mostly elderly, granted - but one was a seventeen year old girl."
I felt my throat tighten. I knew who they were talking about.
"I'll pass something up the chain of command," he said, taking a sip of his coffee, "It's really more the CDC's department than mine, but I'll put my feelers out. I can't have my two special girls worrying about these things."
Dad ruffled my hair again, and got up from the table. He quarantined himself in his office for the rest of the night, and shortly after that, I made my way up to my bedroom.
In bed, I managed to steal a few tiny fragments of tortured sleep, but I couldn't get to any kind of consistency. My head was full of hornets, I had thoughts and worries that nothing could assuage.
First and foremost, the way Bobby looked in class earlier that day. He was heartbroken - maybe he'd had a crush on Richie's sister for years, who knows - but there was more to it than that. He didn't just look sad...he looked sick.
When I finally got to the precipice of actual sleep, I was startled by noise outside my window that sounded vaguely like screaming. I drew back the curtains, my heart full of panic and trepidation, and saw flashing lights all across town, tearing into the night sky.
Ambulances. Ambulances everywhere.
Locals started calling it "The Night The Devil Came To Walkerton". 83 deaths - young and old, rich and poor, men and women - all near-enough simultaneous. They'd experienced severe flu-like symptoms for a day or two, then just slipped into unconsciousness, and finally off the mortal coil altogether. It was an unprecedented event, something that should have made national headlines. Even at that age, I felt a sense of terror and frustration at the fact that nobody seemed to be coming to help us.
Worse still, once the dust had settled, I came to know that Richard was among the people of Walkerton now wearing toe tags.
The next day at school was quiet. In class, it was just me and a few other random students, people who I'd never taken the time to know. Everyone else was either sick or had somebody to mourn. You could feel death in the air, like the aftermath of a lightning strike, it hung heavy with the smell of it.
Bobby...Susan...was it already too late for them?
After school, I decided to walk the back way home and dodge whatever was passing for "crowds" in the other direction. Even in my short time spent there, I'd learned enough routes from Susan, Bobby, and Richard to help me get around with ease. I tried my very best to keep them pushed from my mind while I walked - all that thoughts of them gave me was heartache.
Suddenly, I felt a pair of hands tighten limply around my shoulders. I shrieked in shock, tumbling forwards into the ground, and started crawling away from whoever was behind me.
It was Susan, ghost-pale and slick with sweat, eyes burning with fear and agony.
"Bobby's dead, Tabitha," she squeezed out another breath, barely managing to stay standing, "He went unconscious in the bath, drowned before his mom found him. My mom just told me."
Susan looked to be at death's door herself.
"Susan, I need you to calm down, I don't want you to hurt yourself."
"Hurt myself? Ha! What a fucking laugh. I'm going to die, Tabitha, I can feel it in my bones. In a few hours, I can tell I'm gonna go to sleep, just like Richie and Bobby and all the fucking others, and I'm not gonna wake up. That'll be that, dead at fifteen, and I'll never get to leave this shithole town!"
She started shambling towards me like a living corpse, but all I could do was crawl away in terror while Susan's words devolved into a bastard mix of laughter and tears.
"Come back, Tabitha!" She screeched, tears streaming down her face, "I don't want to die alone, Tabitha! Please, just please, don't let me die alone! I'm so fucking scared!"
Soon enough, I found my feet and started bolting down the narrow path away from her. I looked over one shoulder and saw Susan trying to follow me, but she quickly fell over and crumpled up on the ground, sobbing and screaming like it was the end of the world.
The bitter truth then dawned on me that, for her, it was.
For 20 years I've wished that I'd gone back to her and consoled her in her final moments, but I was a coward. I couldn't bear to see the last of my new friends die right in front of me.
That's probably my biggest regret of them all.
I got home shortly afterwards, tears welling up in my eyes. I didn't want my mom and dad to see me crying, so I was surreptitious - gently opening and closing the front door, and slinking in through the lounge.
Mom wasn't there to greet me, and for a moment I feared the very worst. Susan's death had shaken me to my core, but death was everywhere now, it felt like a permanent resident of Walkerton, CO. I think we were all on the verge of growing numb to it.
I heard a muffled shout resonate from behind the door of my dad's office. Swallowing my emotional pain, I pressed my ear to the door and listened closely, until my mom and dad's voices were clear to me.
"You fucking asshole!" I heard my mom yell at him, the sound of sobbing underlying her voice.
"Don't make me the bad guy here, Joan. I'm doing what's right for this family."
"Don't. You. Dare! You don't get to talk about what's right anymore, Calvin. You lost that fucking privilege."
"Oh, come on, you know I have to deal with enough bleeding hearts on the job, I don't need you standing here and fucking moralizing to me! I get enough of that with the bastards at work."
I'd joined their confrontation half way through, and so lacked the benefit of context. I wanted to listen longer, but I heard my mom's enraged footsteps thundering towards the door, and had to sprint up the stairs before she stormed out of dad's office and into the back room.
The whole world seemed to be going insane.
The rest of the night was uneventful. Mom and dad were still giving each other the silent treatment, and I ate dinner in my bedroom. It was inevitable that soon someone was going to find Susan's body on that narrow path, curled up and contorted in pain and misery. When they did, it'd be because I left her there.
When we were all meant to be asleep, I heard mom crying through the wall. She got up just past midnight, still crying, and walked downstairs. I fell asleep before I could hear her walk back up. If she did.
The next morning, I woke up to a scream coming from the lower hallway - it was, unmistakably, my father's.
I sprang from bed and started tearing my way downstairs, and I saw dad, paralyzed, in the hallway. He seemed to register my presence on some level before he could even properly see me.
"Tabitha, don't come down here! Stay in your room!"
But it was too late, I always already half way downstairs when I heard him, and my legs didn't have enough time to stop. Though it didn't take me long to realize why he'd told me to go.
I saw my dad, dressed in his pajamas, his false leg visible, with tears dripping from his chin. Across from him, my mom's body was dangling by her neck from a light fixture.
"No, no, this wasn't meant to happen," Dad said, sounding utterly broken, "This wasn't meant to happen. For fuck's sake, this wasn't meant to happen!"
He slammed his body against the wall, collapsing to his knees, and began hammering his fists into the floor until they left bloodstains. He was yelling and screaming like a monster, while I stood in the middle of the hallway, unable to take any of it in.
"Goddamn it, Joan, I loved you, I only ever did anything for you," Dad screamed at the top of his lungs, sitting at the locus of depression and rage, "Why would you do this to me, to your only daughter! This wasn't meant to happen!"
As dad sobbed and I tried to break from my state of catatonia, I saw a scrap of paper crumpled up near the base of the stairs. I grabbed it and quickly unfurled it, trying to look for some kind of answer.
There were two words, scrawled in my mom's distinctive cursive handwriting.
"He's lying..."
I stuffed the piece of paper into my pocket and looked up at dad, still smashing his hands against the floor and crying like a madman. I didn't even know who I was looking at anymore.
Then, I fainted.
When I woke up, I was looking at the familiar face of Dr. Hale, shining a penlight into my eyes.
"How's she doing, doc?" A police officer standing behind the doctor asked.
"It was touch-and-go for a little while, officer, but things are looking up a little now," he replied, "This little girl is very brave, she's been through an awful lot lately."
I resented being called a little girl, and looked away from the doctor's wrinkled face. I saw my father across the hall, standing against the wall, his hands bandaged up and some semblance of composure back in his face.
Shortly after, a pair of paramedics, assisted by Dr. Hale and my father, carried me up to my bedroom and laid me in bed. They were convinced I'd be alright with time (in a physical sense, anyway) if I got plenty of rest. The local hospital was filled with the dead and the dying, it was no place for a young girl who'd just lost her mother.
The same words, my mother's words, kept echoing through my head all day.
He's lying...
He's lying...
He's lying...
I couldn't bear to face my father, not yet. Mom's note was the answer to a question some part of me, deep and hidden, had been asking ever since our first conversation at the dinner table. Since Richie's sister got sick, and started this whole surreal nightmare.
My dad and I had plenty to talk about, and we would. But there, laying in bed, silently mourning the death of my mother, I made a promise to myself that for once in my short life it'd be under my terms, not his.
That night, when I could be sure my father was in bed, I skulked out of my bedroom and headed downstairs. I had to be smart, I knew that much, you don't get to be a colonel in the US military without being as crafty as a fox, and twice as vicious.
But I did have one thing on my side: dad had always underestimated me, taken my wits for granted. I knew more about him than he thought, including, perhaps most importantly, where he kept his gun.
Around ten minutes later I was walking back up the stairs and sneaking towards my father's bedroom door, in one hand a snub-nose revolver, and in the other a fold-out stool.
Dad didn't stir when I crept in - he was probably taking something to help him sleep - but his eyes started to flutter open once I'd unfolded the stool and sat at the foot of his bed, the stunted, silver barrel of the revolver pointed directly towards him.
"Hey, dad," I said to him through gritted teeth, "We're gonna have a little chat."
He squinted, registering my shape in the room.
"Tabby?" He asked, seeming utterly bemused, as he reached for his prosthetic leg.
Then, he saw the glint of the revolver in the semi-darkness.
"Don't be reaching for anything, dad. Besides, you don't need to walk anywhere right now."
"Dear god, Tabitha, what are you doing?"
"Funny. I was about to ask you the exact same question. You've been bullshitting me, dad, you've been bullshitting a lot of people."
"Tabitha, language!" He barked, his voice full of righteous indignation.
"Shut the fuck up, dad!" I screamed with startling intensity, surprising myself and him, "As if you give a shit about what language I use, you never even speak to me! You barely ever had the time of day for me or mom."
He sat in silence for a moment, now both of our eyes had adjusted to the darkness. I could see the look of pain and confusion in his eyes, and he could see the fury in mine.
"Tabby, I know this has been hard for you, I loved your mother more than life itself, it destroyed me to see her like that. But we can't be playing these stupid games, Tabby, people get locked up for things like this! I don't want my daughter going off the rails too!"
I fired a warning shot that blasted through the headboard.
"For the love of fuck, Tabby!"
"Don't you dare try to fucking spin this around dad, I heard you doing it to her. Mom did what she did because you drove her to it, and I want to know why. You fucking owe me a reason."
"This is insanity, Tabitha. You don't know what you're talking about!"
"Oh, that's where you're wrong, dad. For once, I know exactly what I'm talking about, I know that you've got something to do with why people have been getting sick - with with my friends have been getting sick, and dying as a result. I want to know what exactly you've got to do with it, dad, or I'm gonna shoot you dead."
There was another pause where dad did nothing but stare at me in condescending disbelief.
"Tabitha, I understand that you're upset, but I have nothing to do with-"
I fired another shot, this one perforating his shoulder with a sickening crunch. Dad yelped in pain, his free hand shooting to the wound and grasping at it, gouts of blood pouring between his fingers.
"The next one's going in your head, daddy," I said, realizing then that I was crying too, "I'll give you ten seconds. Ten, nine, eight, seven..."
For the first time ever, I saw true fear dawning on my father's face.
"Six, five, four..."
"Okay, Tabitha. Okay."
I stopped counting, and held the gun on my lap.
"I guess you out-foxed your old man. I'm proud of you, honey, even if you have gone crazy. I just want you to understand that everything I did, I did for the good of this family, for the good of the free world. I did it because I love you and your mother so much, and didn't want any of this to happen."
I continued to stare blankly at him while more blood soaked into the duvet.
"It's called Influenza-Invictus, or II. It's the bioweapon of the future: fast-acting, lethal, incredibly contagious. I oversaw its development in the eighties and watched the studies they performed on chimps, and by god, Tabby, the rate at which it worked was astonishing. It could devastate a group of insurgents in days, reduce a terrorist organization to a nest of dead plague rats. There were isolated clinical trials on humans, which I oversaw and sponsored personally with military capital, and the effects were equally potent."
Dad's attention drifted from his growing laundry list of atrocities to the quantity of blood he was losing, as panic began to set in.
"Tabby, we need to call an ambulance, daddy is in real trouble here and-"
"We're not done yet."
Dad opened his mouth to appeal to my better nature, but quickly realized that there was no better nature to appeal to. He gulped down his fear and carried on.
"I knew we needed more funding from the Department of Defense if we were ever going to deploy it internationally - none of the others saw its potential for good, its potential for peace. I was alone in soldiering its cause, so I...I thought up a study that would prove II's efficacy in a real-life situation. Its ability to spread, to collapse infrastructure, to kill en masse," he said that last part with a grim chuckle of realization, "And you know what, Tabby? It worked like a charm. It worked like a fucking charm. Walkerton was the perfect pilot study."
For a moment, I sat there in stunned silence, my shaking hands squeezing the grip of the revolver.
"Y-you killed all of them...you murdered all my friends, you made mom hang herself, and you put all our lives at risk just to test your stupid fucking weapon, so you could kill more people with it abroad. You slaughtered all these innocent people for a fucking experiment."
"We were never at risk, Tabby," he choked out, rushing to defend himself, "I had the vaccine administered before the virus was ever deployed. We were safe as houses. What happened to your mother was just a tragic mistake on her part. A terrible, terrible tragedy."
"And the rest weren't? Are you listening to yourself, you fucking monster? You're a sociopath! You killed these people to further your own stupid goals, and you don't give a shit about any of them!"
"I did it for you, Tabby! And for all the innocent people the world over! II can be an indispensable tool for peace and prosperity now that I've got this example to support it! We can use it to protect the good people of America and the world from any evil it encounters."
My body was practically convulsing with rage. I held up the revolver, and drew a bead on my father as he lay bleeding and begging in bed.
"You want to talk about evil, dad? The way I see it, the only evil this world needs protecting from is people like you."
"You're too young to comprehend my reasoning, Tabby. It was such a small sacrifice, in the grand scheme of things."
"But it wasn't your sacrifice to make!"
Perhaps it was madness, perhaps it was desperation and blood loss, but dad just started laughing. A dry, wheezing, pitiful laugh, like a hyena with punctured lungs.
"Some day, Tabby. Some day you'll understand why I did this. You'll understand why the lives of the people in this tiny, insignificant fucking town were worth nothing compared to the bigger picture."
"They were my friends, dad. They were our neighbors."
"They were externalities, Tabby. They were collateral damage. I can believe you'd value the lives of these people, people who you've barely known, over the life of your own fa-"
I fired the gun four times, screaming while I did it, every round ripping through my father's bare chest and smashing into the headboard. He jolted back like a crash test dummy, a look of utter shock plastered onto his face, before hitting the wall and slumping forwards. A blanket of dark crimson was spread out over his lap.
For all his big talk and grandiose claims, Col. Calvin Richardson, my father, The Scarecrow, was dead within the minute.
The rest played out almost like a dream. I called the police myself, it seemed like the courteous thing to do.
"Hello, I'd like to report a homicide. It's Tabitha Richardson, 18 Bergen Street, I just shot my father dead in his bedroom."
It was a blur of shocked faces and flashing lights, but I don't regret that part. If given the chance, I think I'd have shot him again for good luck, or maybe just to watch his body twitch. Not that reason ever really mattered.
20 years was quite a light sentence for what I'd done, but I could thank my lawyer for that. The girl who was driven to temporary insanity by her mother's death, and the death of all of her friends, killed her father in a botched murder-suicide attempt. My dad died an honorable man with a murderous daughter, the only one of the Walkerton deaths to ever reach beyond the borders of the town.
I'm not sure Walkerton even exists anymore. It's like those towns and villages in Europe that were just wiped off the map by the plague. Only husks left over.
The murder was cathartic, but who knows if it ever made any tangible difference to the grand scheme of things. Perhaps someone else came and picked up the Influenza-Invictus mantel, perhaps research is going on right now, producing newer, deadlier strains in some secret lab under miles of desert. All of that hardly matters to me now, I've realized my relative insignificance too, just like daddy told me to.
The handy "crime of passion" defense was probably the only reason none of dad's friends in high places didn't have me murdered in prison.
No, the only reason I'm telling this story, no matter what happens to me, is that I don't want the memory of the innocent people my father murdered to fade from the history books. They deserved so much better than what happened to them.
For Bobby, Susan, Richie, and my mom.
For everyone who lived and died in that little mountain town.
The truth is, the devil really did come to Walkerton - and I should know, he was my dad.
X
submitted by DoubleDoorBastard to nosleep [link] [comments]
My father, Col. Calvin Richardson, was a decorated military veteran. No matter where we went, my dad was telling someone what to do, and it seemed as though everyone outside of our immediate family was terrified of him. He could reduce a squadron of hard-ass Marines into nervous chihuahuas with one of his icy, prolonged stares.
The soldiers working under my father had a funny nickname for him. They called him, "The Scarecrow" on account of his missing leg (blown off at the knee while he was serving in the Gulf War), though it never seemed to bother him. In fact, I seem to remember him kind of liking it, as though becoming a scary myth among new recruits was a badge of honor. He relished in their discomfort around him.
Dad's missing leg was a grim fascination for me back then, though most of the time there'd be no way for a casual observer to even tell that it was gone - he almost always wore a lifelike prosthetic.
After a childhood of constant movement, followed by a brief period of remaining sedentary, my life had finally started taking root. I was fifteen years old; I had myself a good network of friends, a happy school life, and, most important of all, a sense of personal identity. All things considered, it was quite possibly the worst time for another spontaneous move to set in and jangle my world out of order. That, however, would be exactly the case.
Something was different this time, though. Our next location wasn't a military base, or somewhere even faintly associated with the military. It was the small, backwoods village of Walkerton, nestled discretely into the mountains of Colorado, just North of Denver. It'd been established during the mass-mining period after precious metals were discovered in the nearby mountains, but commerce quickly withered once the local gold reserves were depleted.
By the nineties, which is when we took residence there, it was nothing more than a little husk of a town in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.
"Why do we have to live here, mom?" I remember whining a number of times.
"It's for your father's work, sweetie," she would always reply, never giving me her full attention, "It's what's best for all of us."
I'd never whine to dad, though. He spent most days cooped up in his office, drinking cups of coffee and chain-smoking like he wouldn't live past tomorrow. Whenever he'd emerge, shrouded in a pall of tobacco and coffee-fumes, an order of "silence" seemed to be etched into every crease lining his stony face.
Even dad's facial expressions had deep shades of ironclad authority to them.
It was an unseasonably hot summer when we first arrived, and school was already out, so I spent my abundant free time trying to make friends. I was a new kid in a town where the last new, exciting development was the advent of cable television, and before that the steam train, so I quickly became an object of curiosity for the local kids.
Before I knew it, I had three friends: Bobby, Richard, and Susan. Naturally, they were all full of questions about me, my family, and all the places I'd been.
"What are the army bases like?"
"Have you ever seen your dad shoot anyone?"
"What do your parents even do around here?"
The answers were always the same: "boring", "no", and "I'm not really sure." We were all the same age, but sometimes they felt sheltered enough to be a few years younger. Bobby and Richard had never been beyond the Walkerton town borders, and Susan was only beating them by a nose - she'd once had a four day vacation in Denver with her family when she was eleven, and tried out some of the local ski slopes. Nothing more.
"What exactly is there to, you know, do around here?" I asked once.
"Not much," I remember Susan replying, "This place is practically a retirement village. Old people come here to live out their last five without all the pressures of the city."
"It's true," Bobby chimed in, "My brother, Francis, he left this place as soon as he could. He's a mechanic in Boulder now."
I groaned and silently cursed my dad for bringing us here, and my mom for always giving in to him.
"There are some things you can do," Richard added, seeming to be the only one willing to stand up for that one-horse town, "We could hang out by the creek."
"That's lame," said Susan, sneering, "Only babies hang out at the creek. Besides, the water stinks, it gets full of pond scum this time of year."
Richard shrugged and looked defeated.
"All we really do here is wait until we're old enough to leave," Susan said, "This place is a nightmare. It's like living inside the color beige."
When I turned around to Bobby to see if he had anything to add, he was shooting insulin into his wrist.
"Walkerton sucks. When I'm eighteen, I'm gonna move to Boulder with Francis." He said, "What about you, Sue?"
"I don't care," she replied, "I'll settle for anywhere that isn't here."
Richard, who I'd pegged as the quiet one, spoke up.
"My sister got an NES for her birthday. If she's not home, we might be able to play it."
Susan's eyes lit up.
"Holy shit, really?" She asked, enthusiasm bleeding into her tone, "What do you think are the odds of her not being home?"
"Pretty high. She's always with her boyfriend."
"Sweet! Sounds like we've got our afternoon planned." Susan said with a chuckle.
Seems like a stupid memory to keep, doesn't it? 20 years and I still remember an afternoon of playing Super Mario Brothers and Contra with three dumb kids, just like me, not a care in the whole world. It's funny what sticks with you.
It felt like the first thing he'd said to us since we arrived, and it just made me despise him more.
"Dad, we've been here for two weeks, it's not even flu season."
"Every season is flu season, Tabby."
"I told you not to call me that, dad, it's Tabitha! I'm fifteen now!"
He offered a chuckle and knelt down, kissing me on the forehead and ruffling my hair.
"But you'll always be my little Tabby-cat, sweetie. Now, let's get going, it's rude to keep a doctor waiting."
It was foolish to argue. Anyone who knew my dad was aware that he was the personification of the metaphorical "immovable object." There was no room for persuasion or bargaining, if he said something, that meant it simply was to be.
And so we drove to the cramped office of Dr. Ben Hale, and he administered three painful shots into the arms of myself, my dad, and my mother. It had a kind of aching kick to it, like having rabbits in your veins. That's how I always remembered it.
"That's a stupid question, dork," Susan replied nonchalantly, looking at herself in a pocket mirror, "Anyone with a brain could tell you that Wonder Woman would kick both of their asses."
Bobby turned his eyes to me, pleading for cooperation with his stare.
This was all typical cafeteria debate for us.
"Sorry, Bobby," I said, a smile coming to life on my lips, "I'm gonna have to side with Susan on that one."
Richard was being quieter than usual. He picked languidly at the food on his plastic tray with a fork, never eating it, just shifting it from place to place. He was facing downwards, but his vacant, wide-eyed stare seemed to be looking past the table and the floor. Gazing intently at some undetermined point.
"You gonna back me up, Richie?" Bobby asked.
Richard seemed to jolt, like he'd been given an electric shock.
"Sorry, sorry, what were you saying?" He said, still appearing absent from the conversation. His mind wandered elsewhere.
"Everything okay, Rich?" I asked, "You look like a zombie."
He sighed and put down his fork.
"It's my sister, she got real sick last night. Throwing up and stuff."
"That's nothing new," Bobby said, "People get sick all the time, you've got nothing to worry about."
"You didn't see her, Bobby," Richard said, an unusual coldness clinging to his voice, "You didn't see her. She was as white as a ghost, and she was making this horrible face. I've seen a face like that before."
"Where?" I asked.
"My aunt's funeral. Open-casket."
We issued a collective shudder, and fell silent. I think we were all secretly praying that things would turn out alright, but we never shared a word about it. Not once.
Sometimes - as all children, on some level, believe - saying a deep, ugly fear out loud could make it real.
"Funny thing at work today," Mom said, while trying to wrestle a chunk of string bean out from between her teeth with her tongue, "I had to fill in for Martha, she was off sick. Again. This has been the second day in a row."
My eyes met my father's, and he gave a knowing smile.
"What did I tell you, Tabby, flu season! I bet you're glad you got inoculated now."
I rubbed my bicep, feeling the residual pain spike again with the memory. It hurt to admit it, but he was right.
"You didn't let me finish," mom whined, "Martha was meant to be filling in for Anna, who's been off too. So I had to do two people's work, plus my own. It's a nightmare."
"Better than the alternative, I imagine," dad said, effortlessly cutting a cube of beef from his thick steak, "Flu's a bigger nightmare. Once you get it in the barracks, it can put your whole unit out of commission for a few days at a time. Goddamn nuisance."
"Richard's sister was sick too." I added.
"Huh. You hear that, Joan? Seems like it's going around."
My mom nodded and swallowed her mouthful, "It's strange. You don't normally see flu till October."
"Hmm. Yeah." Dad replied.
The rest of the night went by in relative quiet. We all had plenty to think about.
The classroom was looking unusually empty, with only a few students sitting around on desks far apart from one another. Bobby and Susan were both there, but Richard was absent. Hell, even the teacher was gone, and we had a hungover-looking substitute writing his name up on the chalkboard.
There was a dark cloud hanging over Bobby and Susan. She was quiet, and Bobby had red halos around his eyes, and cheeks still puffy from tears.
It was abundantly clear that they knew something I didn't.
"Guys, what's wrong?" I asked, turning back to them, "Why isn't Richie in today?"
Bobby looked like he might start bawling at any minute. Susan spoke up on his behalf.
"It's his sister," she said, biting her lower lip, "She, uh, didn't...she didn't make it through the night."
"Wait, what? What the hell do you mean she didn't make it through the night?" I asked, finding it almost impossible to process.
"My mom just said she fell unconscious and just didn't wake up. Her heart just stopped."
"But that's...no, it can't...come on, Bobby, this has got to be some kind of joke."
Bobby didn't provide any reassurance, he just nodded his head meekly and fell into his arms, sobbing again. Susan awkwardly patted his back in an attempt to comfort him.
"Everyone's getting sick," Susan said, concern audible in her voice, "School's at like half attendance today. It's just getting worse."
"I'm sure it'll get better, these things always do."
"No," Susan said, "You just only hear about them when they do."
I felt a chill crawl down my back and went quiet. Susan tried to comfort Bobby, to no avail, and the substitute teacher seemed to collapse into his desk chair.
At that moment, I thought I'd hit rock bottom. Nobody could have guessed that it was only the beginning.
"Try me," dad replied, putting pepper on his plate of lasagna.
I'd lost my appetite completely. I just sat there, taking half-hearted prods at my food.
"Martha passed away. It's terrible! She was on her way out of the house, and she just collapsed. Rosa said she had cardio pul...pull...something to do with her heart, anyway. It was like she just went to sleep, and died at the hospital."
Dad's thin eyebrows raised in a grim expression of curiosity. I think if he made another "I told you so" jibe about my flu shots, I'd have stabbed him with my fork.
"Seems we've got an outbreak on our hands."
"Can you and your people do anything about it, Calvin? Martha isn't the only one, you know. I heard on the grapevine that a few other people have died under similar circumstances - mostly elderly, granted - but one was a seventeen year old girl."
I felt my throat tighten. I knew who they were talking about.
"I'll pass something up the chain of command," he said, taking a sip of his coffee, "It's really more the CDC's department than mine, but I'll put my feelers out. I can't have my two special girls worrying about these things."
Dad ruffled my hair again, and got up from the table. He quarantined himself in his office for the rest of the night, and shortly after that, I made my way up to my bedroom.
In bed, I managed to steal a few tiny fragments of tortured sleep, but I couldn't get to any kind of consistency. My head was full of hornets, I had thoughts and worries that nothing could assuage.
First and foremost, the way Bobby looked in class earlier that day. He was heartbroken - maybe he'd had a crush on Richie's sister for years, who knows - but there was more to it than that. He didn't just look sad...he looked sick.
When I finally got to the precipice of actual sleep, I was startled by noise outside my window that sounded vaguely like screaming. I drew back the curtains, my heart full of panic and trepidation, and saw flashing lights all across town, tearing into the night sky.
Ambulances. Ambulances everywhere.
Worse still, once the dust had settled, I came to know that Richard was among the people of Walkerton now wearing toe tags.
The next day at school was quiet. In class, it was just me and a few other random students, people who I'd never taken the time to know. Everyone else was either sick or had somebody to mourn. You could feel death in the air, like the aftermath of a lightning strike, it hung heavy with the smell of it.
Bobby...Susan...was it already too late for them?
After school, I decided to walk the back way home and dodge whatever was passing for "crowds" in the other direction. Even in my short time spent there, I'd learned enough routes from Susan, Bobby, and Richard to help me get around with ease. I tried my very best to keep them pushed from my mind while I walked - all that thoughts of them gave me was heartache.
Suddenly, I felt a pair of hands tighten limply around my shoulders. I shrieked in shock, tumbling forwards into the ground, and started crawling away from whoever was behind me.
It was Susan, ghost-pale and slick with sweat, eyes burning with fear and agony.
"Bobby's dead, Tabitha," she squeezed out another breath, barely managing to stay standing, "He went unconscious in the bath, drowned before his mom found him. My mom just told me."
Susan looked to be at death's door herself.
"Susan, I need you to calm down, I don't want you to hurt yourself."
"Hurt myself? Ha! What a fucking laugh. I'm going to die, Tabitha, I can feel it in my bones. In a few hours, I can tell I'm gonna go to sleep, just like Richie and Bobby and all the fucking others, and I'm not gonna wake up. That'll be that, dead at fifteen, and I'll never get to leave this shithole town!"
She started shambling towards me like a living corpse, but all I could do was crawl away in terror while Susan's words devolved into a bastard mix of laughter and tears.
"Come back, Tabitha!" She screeched, tears streaming down her face, "I don't want to die alone, Tabitha! Please, just please, don't let me die alone! I'm so fucking scared!"
Soon enough, I found my feet and started bolting down the narrow path away from her. I looked over one shoulder and saw Susan trying to follow me, but she quickly fell over and crumpled up on the ground, sobbing and screaming like it was the end of the world.
The bitter truth then dawned on me that, for her, it was.
For 20 years I've wished that I'd gone back to her and consoled her in her final moments, but I was a coward. I couldn't bear to see the last of my new friends die right in front of me.
That's probably my biggest regret of them all.
Mom wasn't there to greet me, and for a moment I feared the very worst. Susan's death had shaken me to my core, but death was everywhere now, it felt like a permanent resident of Walkerton, CO. I think we were all on the verge of growing numb to it.
I heard a muffled shout resonate from behind the door of my dad's office. Swallowing my emotional pain, I pressed my ear to the door and listened closely, until my mom and dad's voices were clear to me.
"You fucking asshole!" I heard my mom yell at him, the sound of sobbing underlying her voice.
"Don't make me the bad guy here, Joan. I'm doing what's right for this family."
"Don't. You. Dare! You don't get to talk about what's right anymore, Calvin. You lost that fucking privilege."
"Oh, come on, you know I have to deal with enough bleeding hearts on the job, I don't need you standing here and fucking moralizing to me! I get enough of that with the bastards at work."
I'd joined their confrontation half way through, and so lacked the benefit of context. I wanted to listen longer, but I heard my mom's enraged footsteps thundering towards the door, and had to sprint up the stairs before she stormed out of dad's office and into the back room.
The whole world seemed to be going insane.
When we were all meant to be asleep, I heard mom crying through the wall. She got up just past midnight, still crying, and walked downstairs. I fell asleep before I could hear her walk back up. If she did.
I sprang from bed and started tearing my way downstairs, and I saw dad, paralyzed, in the hallway. He seemed to register my presence on some level before he could even properly see me.
"Tabitha, don't come down here! Stay in your room!"
But it was too late, I always already half way downstairs when I heard him, and my legs didn't have enough time to stop. Though it didn't take me long to realize why he'd told me to go.
I saw my dad, dressed in his pajamas, his false leg visible, with tears dripping from his chin. Across from him, my mom's body was dangling by her neck from a light fixture.
"No, no, this wasn't meant to happen," Dad said, sounding utterly broken, "This wasn't meant to happen. For fuck's sake, this wasn't meant to happen!"
He slammed his body against the wall, collapsing to his knees, and began hammering his fists into the floor until they left bloodstains. He was yelling and screaming like a monster, while I stood in the middle of the hallway, unable to take any of it in.
"Goddamn it, Joan, I loved you, I only ever did anything for you," Dad screamed at the top of his lungs, sitting at the locus of depression and rage, "Why would you do this to me, to your only daughter! This wasn't meant to happen!"
As dad sobbed and I tried to break from my state of catatonia, I saw a scrap of paper crumpled up near the base of the stairs. I grabbed it and quickly unfurled it, trying to look for some kind of answer.
There were two words, scrawled in my mom's distinctive cursive handwriting.
"He's lying..."
I stuffed the piece of paper into my pocket and looked up at dad, still smashing his hands against the floor and crying like a madman. I didn't even know who I was looking at anymore.
Then, I fainted.
"How's she doing, doc?" A police officer standing behind the doctor asked.
"It was touch-and-go for a little while, officer, but things are looking up a little now," he replied, "This little girl is very brave, she's been through an awful lot lately."
I resented being called a little girl, and looked away from the doctor's wrinkled face. I saw my father across the hall, standing against the wall, his hands bandaged up and some semblance of composure back in his face.
Shortly after, a pair of paramedics, assisted by Dr. Hale and my father, carried me up to my bedroom and laid me in bed. They were convinced I'd be alright with time (in a physical sense, anyway) if I got plenty of rest. The local hospital was filled with the dead and the dying, it was no place for a young girl who'd just lost her mother.
The same words, my mother's words, kept echoing through my head all day.
He's lying...
He's lying...
He's lying...
I couldn't bear to face my father, not yet. Mom's note was the answer to a question some part of me, deep and hidden, had been asking ever since our first conversation at the dinner table. Since Richie's sister got sick, and started this whole surreal nightmare.
My dad and I had plenty to talk about, and we would. But there, laying in bed, silently mourning the death of my mother, I made a promise to myself that for once in my short life it'd be under my terms, not his.
But I did have one thing on my side: dad had always underestimated me, taken my wits for granted. I knew more about him than he thought, including, perhaps most importantly, where he kept his gun.
Around ten minutes later I was walking back up the stairs and sneaking towards my father's bedroom door, in one hand a snub-nose revolver, and in the other a fold-out stool.
Dad didn't stir when I crept in - he was probably taking something to help him sleep - but his eyes started to flutter open once I'd unfolded the stool and sat at the foot of his bed, the stunted, silver barrel of the revolver pointed directly towards him.
"Hey, dad," I said to him through gritted teeth, "We're gonna have a little chat."
He squinted, registering my shape in the room.
"Tabby?" He asked, seeming utterly bemused, as he reached for his prosthetic leg.
Then, he saw the glint of the revolver in the semi-darkness.
"Don't be reaching for anything, dad. Besides, you don't need to walk anywhere right now."
"Dear god, Tabitha, what are you doing?"
"Funny. I was about to ask you the exact same question. You've been bullshitting me, dad, you've been bullshitting a lot of people."
"Tabitha, language!" He barked, his voice full of righteous indignation.
"Shut the fuck up, dad!" I screamed with startling intensity, surprising myself and him, "As if you give a shit about what language I use, you never even speak to me! You barely ever had the time of day for me or mom."
He sat in silence for a moment, now both of our eyes had adjusted to the darkness. I could see the look of pain and confusion in his eyes, and he could see the fury in mine.
"Tabby, I know this has been hard for you, I loved your mother more than life itself, it destroyed me to see her like that. But we can't be playing these stupid games, Tabby, people get locked up for things like this! I don't want my daughter going off the rails too!"
I fired a warning shot that blasted through the headboard.
"For the love of fuck, Tabby!"
"Don't you dare try to fucking spin this around dad, I heard you doing it to her. Mom did what she did because you drove her to it, and I want to know why. You fucking owe me a reason."
"This is insanity, Tabitha. You don't know what you're talking about!"
"Oh, that's where you're wrong, dad. For once, I know exactly what I'm talking about, I know that you've got something to do with why people have been getting sick - with with my friends have been getting sick, and dying as a result. I want to know what exactly you've got to do with it, dad, or I'm gonna shoot you dead."
There was another pause where dad did nothing but stare at me in condescending disbelief.
"Tabitha, I understand that you're upset, but I have nothing to do with-"
I fired another shot, this one perforating his shoulder with a sickening crunch. Dad yelped in pain, his free hand shooting to the wound and grasping at it, gouts of blood pouring between his fingers.
"The next one's going in your head, daddy," I said, realizing then that I was crying too, "I'll give you ten seconds. Ten, nine, eight, seven..."
For the first time ever, I saw true fear dawning on my father's face.
"Six, five, four..."
"Okay, Tabitha. Okay."
I stopped counting, and held the gun on my lap.
"I guess you out-foxed your old man. I'm proud of you, honey, even if you have gone crazy. I just want you to understand that everything I did, I did for the good of this family, for the good of the free world. I did it because I love you and your mother so much, and didn't want any of this to happen."
I continued to stare blankly at him while more blood soaked into the duvet.
"It's called Influenza-Invictus, or II. It's the bioweapon of the future: fast-acting, lethal, incredibly contagious. I oversaw its development in the eighties and watched the studies they performed on chimps, and by god, Tabby, the rate at which it worked was astonishing. It could devastate a group of insurgents in days, reduce a terrorist organization to a nest of dead plague rats. There were isolated clinical trials on humans, which I oversaw and sponsored personally with military capital, and the effects were equally potent."
Dad's attention drifted from his growing laundry list of atrocities to the quantity of blood he was losing, as panic began to set in.
"Tabby, we need to call an ambulance, daddy is in real trouble here and-"
"We're not done yet."
Dad opened his mouth to appeal to my better nature, but quickly realized that there was no better nature to appeal to. He gulped down his fear and carried on.
"I knew we needed more funding from the Department of Defense if we were ever going to deploy it internationally - none of the others saw its potential for good, its potential for peace. I was alone in soldiering its cause, so I...I thought up a study that would prove II's efficacy in a real-life situation. Its ability to spread, to collapse infrastructure, to kill en masse," he said that last part with a grim chuckle of realization, "And you know what, Tabby? It worked like a charm. It worked like a fucking charm. Walkerton was the perfect pilot study."
For a moment, I sat there in stunned silence, my shaking hands squeezing the grip of the revolver.
"Y-you killed all of them...you murdered all my friends, you made mom hang herself, and you put all our lives at risk just to test your stupid fucking weapon, so you could kill more people with it abroad. You slaughtered all these innocent people for a fucking experiment."
"We were never at risk, Tabby," he choked out, rushing to defend himself, "I had the vaccine administered before the virus was ever deployed. We were safe as houses. What happened to your mother was just a tragic mistake on her part. A terrible, terrible tragedy."
"And the rest weren't? Are you listening to yourself, you fucking monster? You're a sociopath! You killed these people to further your own stupid goals, and you don't give a shit about any of them!"
"I did it for you, Tabby! And for all the innocent people the world over! II can be an indispensable tool for peace and prosperity now that I've got this example to support it! We can use it to protect the good people of America and the world from any evil it encounters."
My body was practically convulsing with rage. I held up the revolver, and drew a bead on my father as he lay bleeding and begging in bed.
"You want to talk about evil, dad? The way I see it, the only evil this world needs protecting from is people like you."
"You're too young to comprehend my reasoning, Tabby. It was such a small sacrifice, in the grand scheme of things."
"But it wasn't your sacrifice to make!"
Perhaps it was madness, perhaps it was desperation and blood loss, but dad just started laughing. A dry, wheezing, pitiful laugh, like a hyena with punctured lungs.
"Some day, Tabby. Some day you'll understand why I did this. You'll understand why the lives of the people in this tiny, insignificant fucking town were worth nothing compared to the bigger picture."
"They were my friends, dad. They were our neighbors."
"They were externalities, Tabby. They were collateral damage. I can believe you'd value the lives of these people, people who you've barely known, over the life of your own fa-"
I fired the gun four times, screaming while I did it, every round ripping through my father's bare chest and smashing into the headboard. He jolted back like a crash test dummy, a look of utter shock plastered onto his face, before hitting the wall and slumping forwards. A blanket of dark crimson was spread out over his lap.
For all his big talk and grandiose claims, Col. Calvin Richardson, my father, The Scarecrow, was dead within the minute.
The rest played out almost like a dream. I called the police myself, it seemed like the courteous thing to do.
"Hello, I'd like to report a homicide. It's Tabitha Richardson, 18 Bergen Street, I just shot my father dead in his bedroom."
20 years was quite a light sentence for what I'd done, but I could thank my lawyer for that. The girl who was driven to temporary insanity by her mother's death, and the death of all of her friends, killed her father in a botched murder-suicide attempt. My dad died an honorable man with a murderous daughter, the only one of the Walkerton deaths to ever reach beyond the borders of the town.
I'm not sure Walkerton even exists anymore. It's like those towns and villages in Europe that were just wiped off the map by the plague. Only husks left over.
The murder was cathartic, but who knows if it ever made any tangible difference to the grand scheme of things. Perhaps someone else came and picked up the Influenza-Invictus mantel, perhaps research is going on right now, producing newer, deadlier strains in some secret lab under miles of desert. All of that hardly matters to me now, I've realized my relative insignificance too, just like daddy told me to.
The handy "crime of passion" defense was probably the only reason none of dad's friends in high places didn't have me murdered in prison.
No, the only reason I'm telling this story, no matter what happens to me, is that I don't want the memory of the innocent people my father murdered to fade from the history books. They deserved so much better than what happened to them.
For Bobby, Susan, Richie, and my mom.
For everyone who lived and died in that little mountain town.
The truth is, the devil really did come to Walkerton - and I should know, he was my dad.