by Dan Dillard
The Unauthorized Autobiography
of Ethan Jacobs
by Dan Dillard
Copyright © 2011 Dan Dillard
For our Summer Baby. We think of you often.
And to Stephanie.
Nightmares into Dreams.
I love you. Dan
All rights reserved. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.
The Unauthorized Autobiography of Ethan Jacobs
By: Dan Dillard
Digital ISBN: 978-1-4658-9733-6
Cover art by: Dan Dillard
Edited by: Ashley Davis
This book is work of fiction. Characters, names, place, incidents, or organizations are a product of the author’s twisted imagination and are fictitious.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my family first. My wife for her understanding, patience (however slight) and her honest opinion. To my children, I owe my imagination’s triumphant return.
Thanks to everyone who read this story—and any of my others—whether you loved,or hated them.
Thanks to Ashley Davis for helping me find the mistakes in the words and their meanings. You’re a great editor! If readers find any errors, I assure you, they are my fault.
Last, I’d like to thank the fans of the weird, the unusual, the things that make you stay up at night, afraid to check the closet door for fear of what might be waiting there. I’m right there with you.
..ooOOoo..
The Unauthorized Autobiography of Ethan Jacobs
Prologue
The alphabet looked odd scrawled on the top of his wooden coffee table, hovering just above the words ‘YES’, ‘NO’ and ‘GOOD BYE’. He’d drawn it there but couldn’t figure what exactly he was going to do with it. It wasn’t as if he could text his request to this monster for a quick reply. Of the three, ‘GOOD BYE’ was the one he needed most.
Ethan gripped the white paint pen and nervously took in the absurdity of it all. Reality swirled around him like a kaleidoscope. If not for the pain, he would’ve let it be and hoped to wake. How had things progressed this far?
To his knowledge, he'd never invited it. It just showed up one day as if interested in what he was studying. Maybe he was on the right track and they (it) simply didn’t want him to have the answers. What would a mortal do with the answers to the afterlife?
Nothing, he thought. He was no longer infatuated with the spirit world. They could keep the mystery.
Something from the depths of the darkest place was camping out in his crappy mid-town apartment. It had the most sinister of intentions. All that was left to do was escort it out, close the door and pray that it never comes back.
One day he would die, and then all questions would be answered, but today was not going to be that day.
For that day, he would wait.
Chapter 1
Several weeks earlier…
The apartment looked like the wilderness lair of the elusive t-shirted bachelor. Not so much filthy, but cluttered enough to be annoying. A pizza box here, an empty beer or soda can there: telltale signs of the single male's habitat. An outside observer needed to look no further than the couch to find the specimen in his natural state.
Ethan William Jacobs was conceived in Bloomington, Indiana, and born at the hospital on the corner of 2nd and South Rogers St. It was a rainy Tuesday evening.
He never left.
At first, it was a two bedroom house on the west side with his parents and a brother. Then at seventeen, he moved out of the Jacobs' home to go to college about an hour away. With his dreams intact and a degree in computer science in hand, he moved back home for work. For the past four years, he'd stared at a small monitor in a drab cubicle and updated line after line of uninteresting code.
At twenty-seven years old, there was no hurry to get married, although he would have liked to get laid more often. His life was quiet and boring, and most of the time, that’s how he’d grown to like it.
He considered himself an agnostic, leaning toward atheist, due to his need to see and hold things in his hands—but he was open enough to entertain any idea that had merit. Religions captivated him from an early age. He was fascinated by the different ideas of faith and the legends they created. More entertaining were the vast number of opinions on faith, and the way each clung to the “I’m right and you’re wrong” mentality.
Fascination with the supernatural was a diversion. It took him away from the mundane little town he would one day die in, but was something he felt he could shelve if it started taking up too much of his time. Lately it had taken a toll on his social life and caused the wreckage he now saw in his normally clean apartment.
Ethan took a break from molesting the remote long enough to watch a documentary about physics that anyone else would have flipped past. It was on a triple digit channel, wedged in between a shopping network and some local public access station. Something caught his attention and set his gears in motion.
“As we all know, energy is a constant in the universe and cannot be created or destroyed, only manipulated,” the disembodied narrator’s voice said.
On screen, clips of simple electronic circuits and computer rendered models came to life to exemplify the theory. The excitement of what was going through Ethan's head destroyed any thought of cleaning. Instead, he found himself typing some new notes into his laptop.
‘Electronic Journal of Ethan Jacobs, Entry #11’, it read, and he began to fill up the screen with questions.
From what I remember of high school science, energy is a constant in the universe. It can't be created or destroyed, so the overall amount is constant. If you turn on a light bulb, some of the energy is converted to light and heat.
Hasn't it also been proven that our brains transmit signals using electrical impulses?
Our nervous system is an electrochemical circuit for impulses to travel on controlling involuntary actions, motor functions etc.
Maybe ghosts are the leftover electrical energy from our bodies when we die?
Electrical energy lost from a dead person sits there like a charged capacitor until it finds a ground. That ground might be you. The charge releases a bit of energy in a perceptible form causing an encounter.
He ended that thought with a note to himself, [Do some research].
Original or not, he liked where the ideas led and intended to celebrate.
Looking at the dog, he said, “That’s genius, buddy. I need a beer.
“Come ‘ere, have a scratch on daddy.”
Ethan dug his nails deep into the dog’s fur and was rewarded with a look of most sincere gratitude. After a good scratch, Slobber gave a satisfied snort.
“That’s a gooood boy,” he cooed, patting his head.
Flipping the light switch just above the trash can, he crossed from carpet to ceramic tile, making the short trek to his empty refrigerator. It was tan, old, and it matched the stove in the tiny kitchen. The door creaked open, letting light wash over the lower half of the room. Shadows from the weak ceiling fixture vanished. While the living room looked like it was maintained by a teenager, his kitchen was spotless.
Ethan found five beers in a leftover six-pack and not much else. The bottles stood in their cardboard box like astronauts waiting to wake from a long, sleepy trip to an alien world.
How sad it would be to wake after a peaceful snooze only to have your head twisted off and your innards sucked out by a giant.
He completed the thought by
making one beer scream with fear, “Ah! Aaaaaaah!”
Then he took it from its paper container, pretending to make it struggle. The other four bottles quaked with disgust in his little play.
“No. Nooooo!” he chuckled and popped the cap off.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw: flash…flash…flash.
The clock on the microwave was blinking at him.
Maybe the power flickered while I was in the throes of paranormal and scientific brilliance.
As the little green numbers flashed at him, he wondered if maybe that electricity was once his great-great uncle or the High Elder from some ancient African tribe. Then he pressed the button that said ‘Time’, glanced at his cable box, copied in those same three digits, and pushed ‘Time’ again.
Back to cleaning.
The living room was covered in papers and books on the occult. All were suggested by Max, proprietor of “The Olde Scroll”, which was a used and rare book store downtown. Max was a strange bird who might have been in her mid-sixties. A little floaty, she reminded Ethan of a hippie who had stared at one too many crystals, and may have experimented medicinally in her youth.
In fact, she may have experimented a lot.
Slobber lay on the couch. He clocked in at about fifty pounds and grew thick, wavy fur that smelled funny, but didn’t shed. No pedigree or clear lineage, he was all heart all the time. Aside from Aaron, Slobber was Ethan's most reliable companion. He drooled a lot and seemed to enjoy shaking his head to distribute it on the walls, furniture and clothes.
Centered in the living room was a rectangular, wooden coffee table that was busy supporting a laptop which was energized and open. On its bright display, a file from a folder labeled ‘Electronic Journal of Ethan Jacobs’ was open. Next to the laptop were scattered magazines, an arsenal of remote controls, and the DVD case for The Exorcist, which was currently playing on his television, setting the mood nicely.
On screen, Linda Blair was still young and innocent, telling Ellen Burstyn about the antics of Captain Howdy and showing off her latest work of art.
Ethan looked around at the mess of his cluttered living room and laughed quietly at the organized chaos.
“Too much talking in this part of the movie,” he griped, while Slobber scratched himself.
Pushing a complicated series of buttons on the array of remotes allowed him to skip forward on the DVD to the end, his favorite part.
On screen, the demon Pazuzu was telling Father Karras how it was a perfect day for an exorcism. Ethan changed his voice and played both parts, speaking each word in perfect synchronization with Damien and Regan.
“I love this movie,” he exclaimed to the dog.
Slobber held his head up and panted in response. Then he adjusted his position and dozed back off. These activities took up the majority of his time.
With each swig of brew, Ethan cleaned up a few more papers and stacked the books that were lying around, until evidence of the tornado was gone. He scanned his surroundings once more for clutter and then nodded approvingly.
For a small celebration, Ethan popped open another beer and stood for a minute, admiring his little bit of handiwork. Slobber cranked out a snore. The thought of work gnawed at his insides a little and when he glanced back at the clock, he decided it was bedtime.
