by Ian Lewis
The endless trees are stick figures; they wave at us as we blast through pockets of mist. There’s no one else out here, no travelers to get in our way. The road is ours.
I floor the accelerator and allow my thoughts to race. Clouds melt into the faces of people I used to know, now left behind. Years spent alive rush past like a pedestrian scene and vanish in the rearview.
The girl appears in my mind, racing out of the woods and into the field. The old man follows close behind. It nauseates whatever’s inside of me, watching her stumble and fall over and over as the scene replays in my mind.
Why did he do it? He had no reason. Only because he could… Should he die for this? Do I want him to die?
I struggle for control of myself. The wanderlings can’t see me upset. They’re here because of me, but I don’t want them emotionally involved. They’re only doing me a favor.
I’ve heard how wanderlings sometimes get too close to people’s dreams and accidentally manifest themselves as nightmares. That’s where the idea came from. The kind of terror the girl felt—and the boy. I want Mendelssohn to know the same panic and horror ten-fold, if I can get the wanderlings close enough to his consciousness.
Jasper doesn’t condone; to him it’s foolishness. It’s like I’m a small child throwing a tantrum. Still, he lectured me about the consequences of my actions.
Part of me thinks he’s right, but a sense of justice overrules. I know how far I can take this. I’m just going to scare Mendelssohn, that’s all.
Still, I don’t know if I’ll find satisfaction, but I have to try. Sleepless nights leave me scrambling for an elusive sanity. There has to be some way to get peace of mind.
The dense fog ahead demands my attention. It swallows the road and the car. A quarter mile inside and I steer straight for the sleeve. Speed doesn’t matter; as soon as the car hits, we momentarily stick. Then with a slow and steady pull, we dissolve.
For several seconds we’re in between and everything is black, but I have our destination clearly in mind. As smooth as we entered the sleeve, we exit and once again assume a substantial form.
The Mendelssohn farm waits in the darkness, black against field and sky. A single window burns with lamplight. I stop the car when we near the field adjacent to the house.
The wanderlings reach for the passenger-side door, and then step down out of the car. They begin to separate as I follow them to the edge of the field. After they free themselves from each other and stand on their own, a few advance toward the house while Conrad and I look on.
Soon I hear their children’s chatter amongst the darkening countryside, whispers and murmurs breaking the silence of winter’s hollow chorus. It’s beautiful.
Conrad is at my side, and looks to me for direction as the last of them depart for the house.
I quietly nod my consent, and watch him turn and follow, the prattle of his fellow wanderlings rising in urgency. Almost in unison, the burbling mass of them begins to gel into shadowy cohesiveness.
Their outline dissipates as they pass through the tired walls of the house; its ramshackle clapboard soaks them in like a sponge. They will enter Mendelssohn’s consciousness momentarily, saturating it.
I stand near and listen, waiting for him to feel the fear of children, and then I will be off to find my ghost.
