Ruins of the Mind

by Jason Stadtlander

  “You need to know something, though. Something changed with me. Something changed with my generation. Mom taught me to kill, and to her, it was something she absolutely needed to do. She did it without remorse and would kill anyone that got in her way for no reason at all, simply because they crossed her path. I now am certain that her psychopathic nature was genetic as it was for those before her, but I found that I seem to be missing that. I needed to kill because it was something I had been raised to do. It was in my nature. Unlike my mother and those before her, though, I needed a reason to kill. I couldn’t just go out and murder the innocent. It is my firm belief…”

  “Elise, stop!” Ruth screamed.

  “Video paused,” Elise replied. “Are you okay, Ruth? I’m detecting an elevated heart rate. Would you like me to contact the paramedics?”

  “No, Elise, please go offline,” Doug told the computer system.

  “I am now offline. All monitoring is offline,” the system replied.

  Brick’s giant face was frozen on the screen.

  “How?!” Ruth yelled and jumped up. “How could I not have seen this? I don’t understand!” She was full-out crying as she stared at her son, who looked back at her, his face reflecting the anguish that she felt. He felt so sorry for her and wished his father had never told her about it. He broke eye contact and stared blankly at the empty fireplace. Why does she even need to know? What purpose does it serve for her to know this side of him? He’s dead. All this does is torture her and put everything she’s ever stood for in question for herself and possibly those around her. Never for me, though. I knew about dad’s past. I’ve understood why he has done what he did. At least, I’ve always felt I understood.

  His eyes slowly drifted up to his mother’s face. “Mom, you need to hear Dad out. Please.”

  She left the room and came back in a moment later with a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Ruth handed the water to her son and sat down beside him, taking a deep breath. “Elise, come online.”

  “I am here, Ruth,” the computer stated.

  “Restart at the last sentence in the video and continue playback.”

  “It is my firm belief that what I have done has saved countless lives,” her deceased husband continued. “I have ended the lives of two hundred and sixty-four people to date, and I am absolutely certain that two hundred and sixty-two of them deserved what I did to them. I do indeed have guilt about two of them. They were mistakes, tragic mistakes.” Brick paused, looking at the camera and then back down at his hands before looking back up again. “Such a mistake—one you can never take back—gives you a moment of clarity and forces you to reevaluate the choices you have made in your life as well as the impact that you make on those connected to you and the way you must move forward from that point.

  “I wanted to come clean with you about one moment of clarity, a point that has haunted me for decades. It isn’t so much a mistake I made as a much as a circumstance that would have played out much differently had I not been involved.

  “The year was 2001, and I had been hunting a man. A particularly gruesome man who had a history of beating his wife and was a closet alcoholic that also beat his two girls from time to time. I had collected video evidence and testimonials and knew the facts. His wife had tried to get a restraining order on him three times, but it was never honored because he was protected by the shield. He was a CIA agent that had an exemplary work record and was respected by everyone in his division. This man, Agent Karl Ruppert, had been on the trail of someone by the name of Mohammed Atta.” Brick paused again and continued while looking down at his hands.

  “Atta was one of the leaders in the terrorist attack on September 11. I knew that Ruppert had traveled to Spain in July of that year, but I had no idea why. It turns out he had been following Atta, who had traveled there to finalize the plans for the attack. Ruppert and several other agents had planned to intercept Atta and his travel companion, Abdul-Azzia Al-Omari, at Portland Jetport. I wasn’t able to get access to the information on the cases that Rupert was working on. I wish I had known.” Brick looked back up at Ruth. “He didn’t tell me about his mission until he lay dying on the floor of my van at 4:00 a.m. I had driven my knife deep into his shoulder and twisted it.”

  Ruth cringed both at the visual that it produced in her mind and the lack of remorse shown on her husband’s face. He spoke of his murder as if he was talking about nothing more important than stepping out the door to grab a newspaper off the doorstep.

  “Ruppert knew he was going to die. He knew his fate was sealed at that point, and he begged me to lean down closer to him. I thought he was going to apologize for the terrible things he’d done to his wife and his daughter. Instead, he whispered to me, ‘Mohammed Atta is going to kill thousands of people. I was trying to get to Portland Jetport. You have to stop them. You have to keep them from boarding that plane.’ And he passed out from the pain.

  “I didn’t believe Ruppert. I thought it was another story, another lie to try and distract from what was happening to him, as so many other people had done before. I sliced his throat, and he bled to death there on my van floor.

  “A little over four hours later, a plane collided with the North Tower of the World Trade Center, piloted by none other than Mohammed Atta. I wouldn’t know that specific detail until later.” Brick’s eyes squinted as he said, “Ruthie, I had a chance to prevent thousands of people from dying, and I let my own agenda interfere. I know I can’t do anything to change that. He was a monster in his own right, and I don’t regret killing Ruppert. But I stopped him from a mission that was much bigger, a mission that could have saved thousands of lives.

  “In the years that followed, I counted on Uncle Jansen to help me make sure that all of my choices were good ones and well-timed. Later, I trained two other family members how to follow in my steps when I realized that they too had this desire that had been carried down through our family like the darkness that plagued the Usher family in Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher.” Who knows, maybe my great-uncle Edgar knew about our family darkness and used that and his own darkness as an inspiration for his stories?

  “What I really want to tell you though, Ruthie, my beautiful, amazing wife…is that I vow to you I have tried to always be true in everything I do and to always do what I have done for good, not evil. I may not be remorseful for what I did to Ruppert, but I am eternally remorseful that my good begat another evil.

  “I will continue to train these two family members and teach them to do good for the world, to harness their talent for justice, not malevolence.

  “I love you, Ruthie. I always will.”

  The wall went blank and two pieces of artwork that had appeared to hang there before materialized out of thin air. Of course, they were only illusions created by the television system, but they looked very real. Ruth sat staring at the Renoir of the couple dancing, uncertain how to let the details she had just heard sink in.

  “The video is complete,” Elise stated after a moment.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ruth replied numbly. Doug watched as she slowly stood up, walked to the media reader and removed the DVD from the platform, placing it back inside its jewel case and stowing it in the box near the door of the living room.

  She grabbed the next DVD case from the box, glanced at it and then laid that one on the media reader. Ruth walked over and sat down beside Doug, laying the jewel case on the couch beside her. Doug turned his head to the side to read the title:

  My Protégés.

  Doug’s heart began to race.

  I feel it is worth mentioning a few thoughts concerning the stories in this book.

  First, the story “In the Shadows of a Moment” is a loose interpretation of a story my father told me several times. When I was a child (Frankie’s age), my grandfather was on his deathbed, dying of pancreatic cancer. My dad, who was a hundred miles away, called his hospital room to speak with him and had a very deep heart-to-heart conversat
ion with him for over an hour. My father hung up the phone, feeling like they both had gotten a lot off their chests. He later came to find that his father had been in a coma for days and wasn’t conscious when he was supposed to have spoken with him on the phone.

  Secondly, “The Ter’roc” is a story of greater depth than the short story preview portrays in this collection, Ruins of the Mind. There is an entire universe behind the civilization of the ter’roc that I have yet to touch on, including greater involvement of Heidi’s character. I am currently working on a novel with a working title of The Ter’roc. It expands on the short story, weaving in an elaborate history, renaissance-level culture and character development with a twist that no one will expect. Stay tuned…

  Also, I personally find the characters in “The Ter’roc” fascinating and compelling—especially Ranash. In my mind’s eye, I have a Dame Judi Dench persona attached to her. So, you can expect Ranash to be central in the upcoming ter’roc novel, as well as a new character named Har’loc.

  Third, “Feathers in the Wind” was written several months after 9/11 occurred. I am a pilot and also live in the Boston area. I was overwhelmed with emotion at the thought that one of my lifetime loves (flying) had been used as an instrument of death for so many of my fellow citizens. I can recall getting into the cockpit for my first time after 9/11 (about two months later). I sat there in the cockpit, the engine running and the GPS ready. I had just finished performing my run-up and was preparing to contact the tower to get clearance to the active runway when my hand froze over the microphone cue button. I was suddenly petrified to go up into the air, and I shut down the plane, tears filling my eyes. I wasn’t truly afraid to fly, I was simply overwhelmed with everything that had transpired over the last two months and had not allowed it to sink in until it finally culminated subconsciously on that dark tarmac under the red cabin light in my cockpit.

  Fourth, “Springtime Roses” was a story I wrote several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer. I was very close to her, and watching her die and wither away from the strong woman that she was hit me hard. This story was my way of coping and hoping that others may have happier endings than she did.

  Finally, as you may have guessed, “Chance—‘Don’t lose your head’” is actually one story of many that I have written with Chance. Chance is my own version of a detective mystery series, but only instead of a detective, he is an insurance examiner. Sometimes he stumbles on the very bizarre and unique, such as in this story.

  I hope you have enjoyed this compilation from my extensive collection of short stories. Look for new novels, story compilations and even a few children’s books—coming soon.

  This was the first book I ever began collecting my writing in, and it was a nerve-racking experience. How does one choose a few stories from a collection of over two hundred? For almost two decades I have written short stories, not with the intention of releasing them to the world but simply because I enjoyed creating the worlds and characters myself.

  While living in Bangor, Maine as a librarian, I met a very kind woman who told me that “stories were meant to be shared.” Were it not for the encouragement of this incredible author, who also happens to be the wife of the greatest horror writer of all time, I never would have put these stories into print. Thank you, Tabitha. It is amazing how a twenty-minute conversation can change your life.

  Vern and Joni, the brains behind the best publishing company. I know how badly you’ve wanted to get this collection out to the world. Let it be known that I am both honored and blessed it is BHC Press that is doing so.

  I feel a special acknowledgement should be given to my dear friends and family for their support and encouragement of my writing and my stories as well as this project in particular. It has at times been a difficult journey. My amazing parents have supported my efforts in far more ways than I could have ever imagined and continue to encourage me to reach for the sky (or outer space). My friends and family endured endless test readings: “Read this…tell me what you think.” Without them, this book would never have made it to completion.

  Originally from Ohio, Jason resides in northern Massachusetts. He has had a love for writing since he wrote his first story in sixth grade. Since then, he has written more than two hundred short stories, and he has published numerous articles and columns in newspapers, magazines, and The Huffington Post. He is also the author of the suspense novel The Steel Van Man and the upcoming science fiction novel Ter’roc Evolution. He enjoys connecting and philosophizing with his readers through book signings and speaking engagements.