by Ian Lewis
Ezra steps into the room and sits down at the other end. He stares at me but doesn’t say anything.
I look away and try to sit further back in my chair, but he can still see me.
A few of the ladies start to get up.
Mom turns to me and says, “Honey, I have to help clean up in the kitchen, okay?”
I nod and watch her leave. Dad is already in the front room with the other men, and I don’t want to stay in the dining room with Ezra. So I go to the back room to watch Ted, Jim, and Joey from the window.
The three of them climb on the back of the wagon and Mr. Witherspoon starts the tractor with a jerk. They’re all smiling and having fun, and soon they disappear heading toward the back of the property.
I can’t have fun right now. I just want to leave. Could Ezra have taken Starla? I’m scared if he did. My parents won’t know about it. Nobody will.
There’s a couch across from the window. I sit down on it, and it’s lumpy. This whole house makes me afraid. I’m not used to the way it smells or anything in it. Hopefully my parents won’t want to stay much longer.
I’m alone for a few minutes before Ezra is standing in the door. I turn to watch him come into the room and sit down in a wooden chair next to the window.
He doesn’t say anything; he only looks at me. The sun is going down, and it shows the fuzz on the top of his head. His little mouth is like a bump with a line drawn in it.
I want to look away but there’s nothing else to look at. I can’t pretend to look out the window because I’ll just see him, hunched over and not moving.
Ezra’s eyes never move away. They’re so mean like they hate what they see.
I feel a hot tear roll down my cheek. Should I run? What would I say to Mom and Dad? What would Ezra say? Does he know what I’m thinking?
Before I make up my mind, Ezra stands and moves toward me. His eyes are bright but everything else about him is dead. He doesn’t move his mouth or make a sound as he falls on me. His hands are reaching out.
I sink back into the couch and try to stop him, but I can’t hold him off. He grabs at my neck with his bony hands. The sleeves of his sweater are itchy on my chin.
There’s no way I can scream, so I try to pull my head from side to side. It doesn’t work, and I swing my arms harder. A few times I hit part of Ezra’s face, but he continues to squeeze. He’s stronger than he looks.
Mom! Dad! I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for not minding my manners. And I’m sorry for going into the woods with Starla. I don’t want to die! God, I’m so sorry. Please don’t let me die!
The room gets darker, and I can’t make a sound. I reach up one more time to grab anything I can. My thumb lands on the soft part of Ezra’s throat, the place beneath his Adam’s apple, and I press.
There’s a popping sound. His skin is soft like a wet paper towel. This surprises me because I don’t feel like I pressed that hard.
Ezra lets go and falls to the floor. His eyes are wide like he can’t believe what happened.
There are footsteps coming down that hall as I stand and move away from the couch. What have I done? What will I say to Mom and Dad?
In Defense
November 29th, 1986
Inside the Driver’s Camaro
It’s morning and I’m parked in the Camaro, waiting for Jasper outside a brick, three-story structure. It’s how an apartment building might have looked when I was alive. I’m told it’s another waypoint for travelers.
The street is clear except for a run-down school bus parked at the curb. On either side, there are drab, cookie-cutter bungalows and vacant storefronts without a name. They sit in silence, all devoid of life.
There’s a numbing quality in the way the sun comes up. With the driver-side window down, I expect it to be accompanied by faint warmth, but I’m fooled. There’s no sensation on my arm. Another reminder that I’m dead…
Today Jasper and I will cross over into the physical world…it will be my first assignment. He’ll stand nearby in case I need help, and to make sure I actually go through with it. Otherwise, I’m on my own. There won’t be anything between me, the boy, and his murderer.
The car idles for two minutes before Jasper emerges on the front step, his complexion ruddy. He lumbers down the walk and wedges himself into the car with some effort.
“What’s with the bus?” I ask.
“There was a fellow in much the same predicament as you. He found his ghost yesterday, and left the bus behind. I snagged it because it makes getting around easier.”
I nod and wait for him to indicate we should begin, to say something full of purpose.
Instead he turns to me and says, “Are you ready?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I put the car in gear and steer away from the curb, disappointed there’s no pep talk. I guess there’s still time for that, between here and where we’ll cross over.
We’re heading for the fog again. There are pockets of it all over the Territory, and hidden within are a countless number of “sleeves.” These are the windows between the Territory and the physical world. Jasper made me practice going in and out of them; I found it easy after awhile.
Hoping to ground myself in something familiar, I grip the wheel with both hands. The street is bereft of traffic, and I haven’t seen anyone since arriving in this neighborhood which belongs to someone else.
The overgrown structures are evidence of other people’s memories. Scenery appears when someone’s been in the Territory for too long and starts to decay if there’s no one around to remember it. It’s unsettling, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
Out of habit, I alternate between the road and the rearview mirror. When I check the rearview for the third time, I hear Jasper swear. I turn my eyes back to the road to see a figure standing in our path about two blocks ahead.
“It’s Tickseed,” Jasper says. “Gun it—don’t stop.”
“What?!”
“Run him over!”
I floor the accelerator, and the transmission drops a gear in response. The car closes the distance between us and Tickseed in a matter of seconds.
Tickseed’s grin is all I see before we connect with a “whump.” He rolls up and over the roof of the car.
“Don’t stop!” Jasper is manic.
Confused, I obey and glance in the side mirror to see Tickseed is already on his feet, running after us.
He’s transformed again like he did that day in the field, blackened and wolfish. Somehow he’s gaining, as if we’re slowing down.
Jasper looks over his shoulder to see Tickseed’s loping strides. “You know what to do. Just keep on heading towards the drop-off point; I’ll try to slow him down.”
I watch in disbelief as Jasper opens the door and hurls himself into the road. In the rearview, he rolls three times before coming to his feet. He meets Tickseed head-on with surprising quickness, and they collide into a mass of swinging limbs.
Stopping to help Jasper never occurs to me. The pedal is as flat as it will go, and I continue on, desperate to reach the drop-off point. I want to get this over with. No stalling.
Both sides of the street are a blur, and I’m reacting faster than I ever thought possible. The car seems to respond to my sense of urgency. I can’t tell what speed I’m going, but somehow I’m traversing miles when I should only be traversing feet. I see where I’ve been and where I’m going at the same time.
Soon the city is gone and the fog engulfs the car. Visibility decreases and motion comes to a crawl when the hood hits the sleeve. Inside there’s darkness. This is the time to focus.
I picture a farm like the one Jasper told me about. On the northern end of town, there are empty fields and long stretches of road, gradually rising and falling. The scene forms in my mind before I find myself slowly cruising past the actual farm.
I made it. I crossed over. Firm pressure on the brakes brings the car to a halt along the shoulder. Can anyone see me? This is my primary concern, and I refuse to get ou
t of the car at first.
Panicking, I struggle to recall everything Jasper said about staying out of sight. He said I have to hold myself in like I’m holding my breath. It’s the only trick that will work. No one will see me then.
I exit the car, determined not to be seen, pretending not to be seen. The house seems like it’s a mile away. I force myself to walk and I feel closer to implosion. I must be a freakish sight, dead and moving across a never-ending yard.
Jasper said to go to the rear of the house, where I can expect to find the boy in the back room. I pass the cars in the driveway, and count steps to calm myself. There’s still time to turn back even as I round the corner of the porch.
In the side yard, I’m afraid to peek in the windows. I’m also afraid to run. So I’m deliberate in my movements, focused on holding in, trusting that no one will see me. Invisible strides, invisible placement of my feet…
The back yard comes too fast. A decaying barn sits at the rear; behind it are fields choked by weeds. I feel stark against them, like I’m made of something less substantial. The urge to turn and run is at its peak, but in all my wavering I decide I have to stay.
I said I’d do this. Jasper can trust me. My word is solid, and I won’t break it. I turn and face the house, the unwelcome sight it is. The faded white paint and empty windows impress upon me the filthy work at hand.
With caution, I traverse the few feet between me and the rear of the house. I flinch as my foot passes through wood and plaster, dissolving into it like salt in water. It’s easy, just like Jasper said it would be. I don’t feel anything as I move my leg, then the rest of my body through the wall.
On the inside, I find myself in the back room. The afternoon sun is filtered through dingy, yellow drapes. There’s a couch, drab and threadbare…stained carpeting…a stage for murder.
The boy is squirming on the couch, like he’s trying to sink into it. His wet eyes are pleading.
A gnarled man stands across from him, his back to me. He advances toward the boy as I slowly walk around, wanting to see his face, to understand him.
No…no, no, no! Not this man. Not him. The discolored blotches on his forehead make him seem so frail, but I know better. I’ve seen the hellish strength in him once before. I watched what he did to the girl in the field. And now he’ll kill this boy.
There’s no way I can do this. I know better than to just stand here and let this happen. But Jasper—what would he say? I’m not supposed to interfere…
The man is on top of the boy now. He forces his hands past the boy’s flailing arms and grasps his throat. There’s no expression in his features as he squeezes.
I shake the unwillingness from my mind. All I have to do is reach for the boy’s spine near the base of his neck, and I will receive his soul. It’s that simple. I don’t have to watch—just receive. It will be over soon.
No, this is insane—how can I not watch? This is as real as it gets. The shivering boy, the old man’s grip, it’s too much to ignore. I’m ashamed yet keyed up. I know I shouldn’t be so intent, taking in every detail, but there’s a rush from all of this.
The high doesn’t last. It boils over into something different—a twinge of disgust, a sensation of superiority. This is my breaking point. I block out everything but the boy’s gurgling. Instead of reaching for his spine, I guide his hand to the old man’s throat and help him to press.
Something Less Storied
February 7th, 1999
August Burroughs somewhere in the Upper Territory
Halfacre and I walked with Tickseed for a day before we reached this little town. Tickseed says it’s a commune where a lot of travelers stay sometimes. I lost track, but I’d say we’ve been here about a month.
There are other folks about. Most congregate in this faded bar downtown, even though there’s nothing to drink—not that anyone could. Others keep to themselves in one of the flimsy houses sprinkled here and there. Tickseed seems to know a lot of them.
One thing I can’t make sense of is why the Territory looks so much like the real world. Sure, some of the sounds aren’t there, and nothing has a smell, but otherwise I’d swear it was the land of the living.
People act the same, for the most part. They hang together in little pockets, all buddy-buddy. Sometimes they have spats or a falling out. Other times they just move on. All types of people, though…men and women, young and old.
I’m more restless than ever, and so is Halfacre. There doesn’t seem to be a point in what we’re doing here, seeing as the others come and go so often. Plus, I’ve got to deal with Tickseed telling me one thing, and the man from the cottage telling me another.
Tickseed calls him the Driver, and acts like he doesn’t care for him that much. Tickseed still wanders off at night, though, saying he has business to check up on. This is when the Driver usually shows up.
The Driver has conflicting views on a lot of things—Conrad and the wanderlings, for one. Where Tickseed says they’re little cannibals, the Driver says they don’t mean harm to anyone. I can’t say I’ve seen aggression from any of them except Conrad—and that was directed at Tickseed.
I get the feeling the Driver doesn’t care for Tickseed either, because he makes it a point to leave before Tickseed returns. The Driver still says he needs my help, but I won’t let him explain until he’s answered all my questions. We usually meet at the bar.
Tonight, the Driver and I are sitting at one of the wobbly tables in the rear. Halfacre is next to me on the floor. Even lying down, he can almost put his head in my lap. His size makes people keep their distance.
I can’t think of what to ask the Driver, and I’m tempted to re-hash the parts I don’t understand. The super-physical stuff doesn’t make sense. And I’m still coming to terms with why Halfacre is here. He isn’t supposed to have a soul, and as far as I can figure, my soul is the only reason I’m here.
When I asked about this, the Driver said things aren’t always straightforward when someone crosses over. Instead of just grabbing a snapshot of me, he grabbed one of Halfacre as well. The chemicals and electrical impulses in the dog’s brain got in the way or something like that.
The Driver also told me we’re not biological organisms. We don’t have to eat or sleep, and we can’t feel hot or cold. That’s the confusing part. I’m not alive as much as when I was, well, alive, but I’m still vertical. I guess I don’t know what classifies as biological. “So what happens to the dog when I find my ghost?” I nod at Halfacre.
“Common practice is to destroy your body. Since the dog is more or less part of you…” the Driver says before trailing off. He sits with his elbows on the table, the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt rolled up. “We don’t have to talk about that now. I can tell you how it’s done when it’s time.”
I agree to change the subject. “Alright, so I’m not convinced about this Fold business. Why’s it so important?”
The Driver nods. “It’s a fair question. For one, I can tell you it’s ordained by the Father.”
“I don’t know the Father.” I haven’t been to Sunday School since Grandma stopped making me go.
“That doesn’t matter. The Fold doesn’t require it. There will always be a need for us.”
“You mean as long as people are gettin’ murdered,” I say.
“Yes.” The Driver pauses. “We could use you, but I won’t twist your arm. There’s something else—the reason why I need your help.”
Stalling isn’t getting me anywhere. If helping the Driver can get me out of here, then I’m all ears. “Alright, I’ll listen.”
The Driver lowers his voice. “There’s a phenomenon sometimes observed among the living, where one of them is a bit more in tune with the Territory than he or she should be. We call them skeleton keys.”
I hold out my hand, signaling him to stop. “What do you mean, in tune?”
“I mean that if someone wanted, he could travel between the Territory and the real world by way of a skeleton key.
It’s one thing to slip in from the coffin, but a skeleton key would permit someone to roam freely.”
“Hey, remember I’m the new guy here. I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
“Sorry,” the Driver says. “I thought maybe you picked up on some of the slang by now. I mean that you can’t just cross over whenever you feel like it. There are limited places where it’s possible to do so. A skeleton key changes that, which makes for easy abuse. Now here’s the deal. There’s a skeleton key in Graehling Station. Well, it’s not there anymore—but it’s coming back soon.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it. What’s important is that conditions will be favorable to retrieve the key,” the Driver says.
“Slow down; you’re losing me. Retrieve the key?”
The Driver shakes his head. “Sorry. This fellow—the key—he was supposed to die thirteen years ago. His name is Culver. It’s too dangerous for him to continue to wander around, because people like your friend Tickseed want to find him and are getting closer.”
“What are you saying—that he has to die?” This conversation is going off the deep end.
“Don’t look at it that way. Remember—he should already be dead,” the Driver says.
I cut in. “And you want me to kill him?”
“No, I want you to gather his soul.” The Driver says this like he’s afraid I’ll misunderstand.
“Will he be alive after I gather his soul?”
“Not in the sense you’re asking, no.”
“Then you do want me to kill him,” I say.
“Just think of him as already dead.”
I don’t respond at first. I still wonder who the good guys are. Everyone has their own agenda here. “Why not someone else from the Fold?”
“It has to be someone who knows the area—someone who can sneak in and out without Tickseed knowing about it.” The Driver looks around to see if anybody is listening. “I’d do it, but Tickseed would expect that.”
“But how would he know?” I ask.
