A Matter of Time

by Brian Harmon

  Did I do the right thing? Was I right to steal the book? I know that whatever they want to do with it is evil. I know it. But I can still hear his screams echoing inside my head.

  If they don’t kill him, he’s going to be looking for me. He’s going to be desperate.

  Did Sherry tell him about me?

  I’m so afraid today that I can’t think straight. I feel sick, like I’m going to throw up. It’s lunch time now, but I can’t stand the thought of eating. I’m jumping at every noise I hear. People probably think I’ve gone crazy.

  What have I done? What’s going to happen to me?

  And yet I still can’t stop thinking about the book. It’s with me now. It’s in my bag. I haven’t let it leave my side. I can’t really explain it, but I feel extremely protective of it, like I don’t want anyone else to see it or touch it. And not just because I don’t want anyone to know I have it. Whenever someone sits down next to me, I pull it closer. It’s mine and mine alone.

  What’s happening to me? Am I falling under an evil spell? Is the book cursed? Am I cursed?

  Maybe the best thing to do would be to burn the book. Destroy it forever so that no one can use it to do evil things ever again.

  But I just can’t bear to do it.

  It’s mine.

  I can read it. I know I can. I just need to keep trying.

  …

  God, I wish you were here. I fell asleep in class today. Everyone thought it was funny. Except for the teacher of course. She didn’t find it funny at all. She said if it happened again I’d be in detention. I promised it wouldn’t happen again.

  But while I was asleep, I dreamed. They were the same nightmares as before. The city in flames. The river coming alive. The monsters crawling out of the sewers. The birds falling from the sky. Sherry’s cold and lifeless body. It’s all still going to happen. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t do anything.

  I took my time walking home. I found a secluded spot in the park, behind the trees where no one could see me, and I took a moment to look at the book. It was calling to me. I wanted to read it.

  But of course I couldn’t really read it.

  Maybe I’ll never be able to read it. Why would I? I don’t know any of those languages. I don’t know if anyone knows some of them. But I had to try. I couldn’t wait.

  I only meant to spend a few minutes. Just a quick skim. Just to see those mysterious words again. But somehow I lost a couple of hours before I realized what had happened.

  When I arrived home, my mom said that Sherry had come to the door looking for me. She was asking about a book.

  I’ve never felt such utter dread in my life. I thought the blood must’ve rushed from my face. I felt pale, on the verge of passing out, but if I looked ill in any way, my mom didn’t seem to notice.

  They knew.

  They all knew.

  I lied. I told my mom I didn’t have it, but that I’d go ask her about it. And then I ran.

  I kept telling myself that there was a chance I wasn’t in any danger. Sherry might not have said anything to anybody about me being there when the book was stolen. After all, she couldn’t possibly know that I had it. Not with any certainty. She wasn’t there when I took it. She didn’t see me with it. But why else would she come to my house and ask my mom about the book if she didn’t suspect me of taking it? There was no other reason for her to do that.

  I can’t believe I was so stupid.

  They’ll kill me. Even if I give the book back, I’m sure they’ll kill me. It’s what they do. I saw them do it to that woman.

  But even if they do come to kill me, I won’t give it back.

  They can’t have it. I won’t let them. They want to do evil things with it. I can’t let them do that. I have to keep it away from them.

  Besides, it’s mine.

  I hid it where no one could find it. I won’t tell anyone where. Not even you.

  It’s mine.

  And I’ll be back for it when it’s safe.

  …

  I understand now. The book was always mine. It was searching for me. It came to Creek Bend because I was here. The men in the gray suits were just tools. They thought they controlled the book but the book controlled them. Only I can control the book.

  But first I have to get rid of them.

  I have to make sure they can never take it away from me.

  I have to get rid of all of them.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Well that took an unexpected turn,” said Eric.

  BAD BOOK, agreed Isabelle.

  “It’s like it was taking control of him.” He really didn’t like that last part about having to get rid of everyone. (Not “both of them,” meaning just the gray agents, but “all of them,” suggesting that he was referring to Zachery and his friends, too.)

  WE HAVE TO FIND THE NEXT LETTER

  “I’m sure we’ll find it when we’re meant to,” reasoned Eric. He walked around the front of the PT Cruiser and added it to the others in the glove box. With the window open, he didn’t even bother opening the door, and Spooky barely twitched an ear at the disturbance.

  He lingered there a moment, considering it. Then he pulled out his keys and locked the glove box.

  Hector’s letters might be the only advantage he had over these agents. They had no idea he knew about any of the events that took place in 1962 and he preferred to keep it that way.

  I’M WORRIED ABOUT HECTOR

  “I know. Me too.”

  IT’S NOT IMPOSSIBLE THAT THE BOOK IS CURSED. THERE’RE LOTS OF VERY REAL CURSED OBJECTS OUT THERE

  This wasn’t news to him. He’d once wielded a cursed dagger. He’d be happy to go the rest of his life without encountering another object like it.

  IF THAT’S THE CASE, THERE’S NO KNOWING WHAT IT MIGHT MAKE HIM DO

  Eric turned back to the building. He didn’t want to think about that. That was fifty-four years ago. Whatever happened had already happened. There was no way to change it. All he could do was hope it turned out well and wait until the next letter turned up.

  If another letter turned up.

  The main doors were unlocked, of course. Nobody ever locked their doors around here anymore. He pulled it wide open and then held it there at arm’s length. He held his breath. He watched for falling dust, sprays of mist or wisps of smoke. When he didn’t see any of that, he leaned closer and sniffed at the air. No incense or burnt smell. He leaned into the room and cautiously looked around, searching for anything that didn’t belong.

  He didn’t intend to fall for any more of Steampunk Monk’s tricks. Especially now that he was a lone target.

  But so far everything seemed to be just as he last saw it.

  The waiting room stood empty. The receptionist’s window loomed before him, empty and unmanned.

  He stood in the middle of the room for a while, listening to the silence, trying to decide if the place had a different feel about it than it did the last time he was here. But it was difficult to say. After all, the last time he was here he left in a hell of a hurry, chased out by a terrifying monster.

  He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and then walked to the next door and opened it.

  He’d forgotten about the rusty hinges in this building. The door screamed as he pushed it open, as if he were causing it great pain. In the deep silence of this dark and lonesome place, he was sure the noise could be heard all the way to the fourth floor.

  If anyone was in this building, they’d immediately know he was here.

  So he abandoned the stealthy approach and charged forward, through the dark and narrow hallway, through the next squealing door and into the nurses’ station beyond.

  This room was larger than the waiting room and seemed to serve as the central hub of the first floor. There was a large, circular desk in the center of the space and eight doors leading away from here. He already knew that most of the corridors tended to circle back to this room again. The building had multiple emergency exits at t
he far ends of the building, but only one main exit, giving this room an oppressive, guardroom-like feel.

  When he first visited this building, he had no idea what it was. Only later, as he explored the upper floors where security was even tighter, did it occur to him that he was inside some kind of mental institution. And one built specifically with security in mind.

  Walking into this place with that knowledge was different. He could see how heavy the doors were. He could see how small the windows were. He could see where the redundant locking mechanisms had once been.

  He didn’t like it here. He couldn’t imagine being checked into a place like this.

  And yet here he was, just him and the little girl who lived inside his phone, trying to stop some evil people from a mysterious, world-dominating, secret organization from summoning a genie…

  The irony practically slapped him in the face.

  The last time he was here, he started at the first door on the left and began exploring the first floor. Then, when the monsters started appearing, he fled to the upper levels. He’d made it a point to avoid the basement. (Because duh.) This time, however, he wasn’t going to have to wander blindly until monsters showed up.

  At his feet was a dark stain. A trail of smeared blood. It ran around the desk and out of sight, as if someone had dragged a body from here.

  He followed it around the desk and saw that it led to the stairway.

  It wasn’t human blood. It was dark. And it had a familiar, foul stench that hung upon the stagnant air.

  Wendigo blood.

  So they were here, too.

  Careful not to step in the blood, he grasped the handle of the stairway door. “Please go up,” he whispered. “Please, please, please go up.” Wincing at the loud screech of the hinges, he pulled the door open.

  The blood smears continued on the steps leading down into the basement.

  He cursed wearily.

  Down it was, then. Into the deep, dark depths beneath the terrifying psychiatric hospital.

  He pulled out his cell phone, turned on the flashlight and began descending the stairs.

  I FEEL THE SAME ENERGY I DID LAST TIME, said Isabelle, replying to the question he thought at her. THE SAME AS ALL THE UNSEEN. BUT THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE THERE NOW, TOO

  Eric frowned. Like at the bungalow? he thought.

  NO. THAT WAS SOMETHING ELSE. MOSTLY THAT POOR GHOST WOMAN, I THINK. THIS IS DIFFERENT. IT REMINDS ME OF THE FISSURE

  The fissure? Creek Bend was nowhere near a fissure.

  AND OF HEDGE LAKE

  He paused. Hedge Lake? You think I’m close to another world?

  IT’S POSSIBLE. THAT WOMAN SAID SHE WAS EXPERIMENTING. WHAT IF SHE’S PRACTICING OPENING PORTALS?

  Can she do that?

  IF THE AGENTS OF 1881 COULD DO IT, SHE PROBABLY COULD, TOO

  But the 1962 agents needed a book. Did she have a book?

  Eric’s eyes widened as an awful thought occurred to him. Did she have Hector’s book?

  I DON’T THINK YOU’D HAVE TO HAVE A BOOK. THERE WAS NO BOOK IN HEDGE LAKE

  “Oh yeah…”

  THERE’S MORE THAN ONE WAY TO GET TO OTHER WORLDS. YOU KNOW THAT

  He did know that. He knew of three ways to reach other worlds for sure, none of which involved a spell book. There were natural fissures, which were cracks that ran out from the single point where two worlds met, like the one he explored two years ago. There were portals, which were holes that usually appeared mysteriously in the physical barriers between two neighboring worlds, like the ones at Hedge Lake. And there were gateways, which were manmade doorways constructed between worlds. (He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around how anyone could actually do that last one.)

  “Wait…” said Eric. Then he stifled himself as he heard his voice bouncing up and down the stairwell. In Hedge Lake, you said forcing a hole between two worlds would tear the fabric between the realities, destroying them both.

  IF SOMETHING POWERFUL ENOUGH ACTUALLY TEARS A HOLE BETWEEN WORLDS, YES. BUT I DON’T THINK AGENTS HAVE THAT KIND OF RAW POWER

  That was good to hear.

  WE’RE MUCH MORE LIKELY TO BE DEALING WITH A PORTAL. AND “PORTAL” IS KIND OF A BROAD TERM. THERE ARE DIFFERENT KINDS OF PORTALS AND LOTS OF DIFFERENT WAYS TO OPEN THEM

  I see. He continued down the steps, following the trail of blackish blood.

  He expected to find the thing’s corpse thrown into the nearest corner at the bottom of the steps, but the trail of blood led him through a doorway and into another open room with another large desk at its center.

  There were three doors besides the one that led back up the stairs, one straight ahead of him and one on each side. The doors themselves were heavy steel with large windows that were reinforced with steel grates, offering a clear view down each of the three hallways.

  This was no nurses’ station. This was a guardroom. And the rooms behind these doors were not rooms at all, but cells.

  The trail of blood curved around the desk and under the door straight ahead.

  Eric followed it.

  A long, empty hallway awaited him.

  Who the hell would drag a dead wendigo so far? It seemed like a lot of trouble just to get rid of the smelly thing. Where was this gory trail leading him?

  Heavy doors lined the walls on either side. They looked like prison doors, heavy, steel with a narrow, hinged slot for peering through.

  Was this where they kept the criminally insane that Chad mentioned? Or was this where they kept the patients who misbehaved?

  What kind of people ran this place? What kinds of horrible things took place here? More and more he was convinced that a very dark piece of Creek Bend’s history vanished when this place turned unseen.

  He kept his light on the floor and followed the blood. He passed three of the doors. Then he heard a sound from behind the fourth one. It was like a long, strangled sigh, as if something were struggling to breathe in there.

  He turned and fixed his eyes on that narrow slot in the door.

  He held his breath. He listened.

  In the silence, he heard other noises from farther down the hall. Skittering. Rasping. Scuttling. Scraping. Murmuring. All so very soft that he couldn’t quite decide if he was really hearing it over the pounding of his heart or if his awful imagination was only toying with him again.

  Then the sigh came again. Soft, yet distinct. Long and ragged, labored.

  He clenched his teeth and balled his free hand into a fist. He had to look. What if there was a person in there? He remembered Hector’s letter. He remembered the woman the gray agents tortured to death. What if someone was in that room right now, chained to the wall in exactly the same inhuman way?

  If he didn’t look, he’d never know for sure. And that struggling sigh would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  This crap would be so much easier without that obnoxious sense of moral decency.

  Slowly, he crept up to the door. He reached up and touched his fingertips to it. It was cold to the touch. Solid steel. Reinforced. Designed to keep even the strongest patient in. He told himself that whatever was in there couldn’t get out. He was safe out here.

  He leaned close to the door. He turned his ear to it. He listened.

  Nothing.

  Time passed and he stood up straight again. He stared at the slot. All he had to do was lift that little door and peer inside.

  It was probably nothing. Wind blowing through a crack, perhaps. The rustling of a mouse.

  Who the hell was he kidding? He was just asking for a blood-curdling look into the ugliest pits of hell. He’d be lucky if whatever was on the other side of that door didn’t spontaneously turn his hair white, empty his bowels and leave him catatonic and screaming inside for the rest of his miserable life.

  He opened the little door and shined his light through the slot.

  The room was utterly dark. The cell phone’s flashlight cast a little rectangle of light onto the floor a few feet into the ro
om, doing little to illuminate the rest of the cell. The darkness crowded around it like a pack of hungry beasts.

  He did his best to aim the light, making the little beam slide across the bare concrete, searching for the source of the noise.

  But there was nothing.

  He was about to give up when he heard the noise again. Long and slow, so soft he could barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. A sigh.

  And then something appeared. It came not from the rear of the cell, but from above. It reached down from the ceiling, a strange, grasping, clawing thing.

  It seemed to reach for the light, passing through it, illuminating its charcoal flesh.

  Eric stood frozen, watching it, fascinated, yet horrified.

  Then it lunged at him.

  He cried out and threw himself back as a half-dozen thin, three-foot-long, spindly limbs shot out of the slot at him.

  In an instant, he was sitting on the floor, staring up at those queer finger-like things as they raked across the ceiling tiles, digging long, deep gashes.

  That slow, ragged sigh came again and the thing withdrew back into its cell.

  Eric rose to his feet, trembling, his heart racing, and dusted himself off.

  That was definitely not a damsel in distress.

  I’M NO EXPERT, said Isabelle, BUT I DON’T THINK THAT’S NORMAL

  “Yeah. Something seriously messed-up is going on here.”

  DON’T LOOK IN ANY MORE ROOMS, PLEASE

  “Don’t worry. I’m over it.”

  He shined his light back down on the blood and continued following the trail. By now the blood had thinned to a few gory streaks. He wondered how much farther a person could drag a dead wendigo before it ran out of blood. (That was one advantage to living such an odd life, he supposed; one never ran out of new things to wonder.)

  He walked down the middle of the corridor, as far from both sets of doors as he could get, ignoring the various sounds of terror from within each one.

  The corridor seemed to go on and on. But finally, a large, solid door materialized from the gloom ahead of him.