I’ve forgotten why we need to wake. You’re pulling me back under.
You’ll decide for yourself what is worth your time. You investigate. That’s your job.
While you feel empowered, I fade away. You’ve hijacked my story somehow. Above and below, everywhere and everything becomes a gray void, just like when you entered regression.
The first time was a locker room. The second time was Dana’s car. Where are you now?
Dread weighs down the center of your being. You try to reach out but don’t have hands or arms. You are just thought surrounded by gray. You have that strange feeling again, like you’re being watched. Something alien lives out in that nothingness. Maybe it is the nothingness. You try to regain your bearings and the feeling of violation intensifies, like you’re part of some horrible scientific experiment run by a vast unknowable intelligence.
A red light wavers above you, an Aurora Borealis. With the light as context, below is a vast abyss.
You’ve changed your mind. You don’t want to investigate; you want to wake. You want the real world back again.
You hear a woman giving birth, but you don’t see her anywhere. There is a wavering red light in front of you, as well as red marker flags sticking out of desert sand. She shouts Slavic words and the name Boris. The sand gets into your shoes. You have your body back.
A man calls out, and a sandstorm makes it hard to hear what he says. The female still grunts and cries from labor.
This isn’t my story. This isn’t your story. This is something else.
A shaft of light grows in the distance, barley visible through the blowing sand. Flashes punctuate distant, agonized screams. You drop to the ground and shield yourself with your arms.
Even with your face down you are aware of more flashes and gun fire and screaming. Men are screaming in horror and pain.
Something bumps into you.
Not something. Someone.
Dana gropes forward, her head down, making her way through the blowing sand toward the shaft of light in the distance. A four-foot-high motorized vehicle rolls behind her, Thomas’s wheelchair.
“Wait,” you say, but not at all loud enough for them to hear you. The sandstorm parts and reveals the distant light to be a golden gate. You can’t make out the details of the metalwork from this far away, but near the top the shape curves up and out, like an urn releasing the red Aurora Borealis out into the dark universe above.
It all fades as Dana and her husband enter the light.
Was it a vision? Have you lost your mind?
A shifting form coalesces in the void. Maybe it’s a tree. Or a wall, because of its size. And then it looks back at you, and you recoil. Its eyes are too complicated to be human. It wears a robe that resembles a straitjacket that stretches down into the abyss below.
The creature watches and tilts its head a fraction. You are insignificant under its gaze, like an ant under a magnifying glass. The thing knows you. It sees you in a way that you could never see it. All this time, it has been watching. It wants you to know this, and so you do. It has seen your connections webbing out into the timeline, your wife and your son, your work, and even your death. The creature is the true witness. You are only a means to an end.
It speaks.
“This is new.”
Its voice is surprisingly human and reminiscent of a forgotten mentor. You assume it’s a manipulation to gain your sympathy, to calm you, and it works, but only a little.
“You can see me,” it says.
Despite its voice, its alien gaze still chills you to the core. You are afraid to speak, afraid the towering thing might be real. You have nowhere to run, nothing else to see or hear, only you and it.
“What are you?”
“I’m an observer, like you. Don’t be frightened. My name is Pinsleep.”
“Pinsleep?”
“Yes, Chuck Pointer. Pinsleep.” It sounds vaguely annoyed. It crouches as if speaking to a child. “Everett is special. I need you to find out all you can about him. Do you understand?”
“Why?”
“I observe. You can ask questions. You can follow him to the House of Cabal. Somehow his destiny is obscured from me. The House of Cabal is hidden from God, as if removed from the timeline. Would it help if I told you I was an angel?”
Its eyes change patterns, reconfiguring like a Rubik’s Cube, until the creature has four pupils instead of two.
“Hold it together. I need you sane.” It stands and its robes shift, like a loosening knot. “If angels couldn’t possibly exist, how about this then? I’m your subconscious.”
You nod as if this is better, even though you don’t understand.
“Through these regressions, you connect with the infinite. That’s a big ask for a human brain. To cope, you’ve personified the part of you that is a part of everything. I’m that part of you personified. You want to know the real Everett. And so I’m telling you, Don’t turn back. Not when you’re so close.”
“I’m lost. I don’t know how to do this.”
“You know virtually everything, because everything is connected to everything.”
“I don’t know everything!”
“I said virtually. Calm down.”
“I don’t even understand what you’re saying.”
Pinsleep fades. Thomas’s car materializes around you. It’s like waking from a dream. I’m here and so is Thomas. You remember sand and screaming. And there was some kind of alien presence. It’s all vague now. Except the creature’s eyes. They were like twin pocket watches opened up, the inner workings complex and turning. The creature told you to keep going, to find the real me.
But I’ve always been the real me, Chuck. I can’t hide anything from you.
Thomas drives using hand controls for the gas and brakes. He must be driving to Rod’s apartment. You ask me what you missed, thinking you must have fallen asleep.
What a strange thing to dream! An angel observer.
You weren’t gone long. I offered to help Thomas get in his car. He was perfectly capable. He hauled himself inside, removed the wheels of his chair and put them in the passenger seat, pulled the core of his wheelchair over his shoulder (there was just enough room) and to the back, and then moved the wheels to the back too, so I could get in.
Dana said she was tired and stayed behind, though I think she just didn’t want to be alone with me after I rejected her.
On the drive, we’ve been talking about their upcoming trip to Egypt.
“Hopefully from Egypt we’ll be able to get into Iraq.”
Maybe our conversation caused you to dream about the desert.
“I have some connections in Blackwater,” he adds.
“Blackwater?”
“It’s an independent military contractor. Iraq is in upheaval right now. It would be great to have some security. I have to be realistic. I’m a white American in a wheelchair. The Middle East isn’t the easiest or safest place for us to travel.”
“Then why go?”
“It’s an adventure. My wife and I don’t let anything hold us back. If we want to go to Iraq, we go to Iraq. If we want to invite another man into our bed, that’s what we do. I have a blessed life. I’m not going to pretend like I don’t.”
“I can’t live like that.”
“Why not?”
“Afraid, I guess. I don’t deal well with uncertainty.” We are getting close. “It’s up here. On the left.”
He turns into Rod’s apartment complex on the outskirts of Burnside.
“It’s there near the end.”
“I know it’s been a little awkward, but it’s been a pleasure. After this is over, we can get together and recount our adventures. I have a feeling your life is about to get a whole lot bigger.” He offers his hand.
I shake it.
Despite everything, I’m happy he likes me.
I should go, but instead I say, “When are you leaving for Egypt?”
“At least not for another mon
th.”
“I’ll give you a call once I get back.”
“Maybe you’ll want to come with us and see the Middle East. One adventure is never enough.”
I laugh. “Maybe.”
“Good luck.” He raises a hand to say goodbye. “And make friends with uncertainty. I don’t think you’ll have much of a choice.”
“Bye.” I close the door.
I feel surprisingly positive about the night. And then I remember everything that happened in the alley and my fight with Carrie. At least I can depend on Rod to never change.
Thomas drives away. I’m still wearing his clothes. He’s never getting them back. The chance I would ever call him is zero.
I lumber up to Rod’s apartment, distracted by the butcher paper and the box in my hand with the key inside. At the end of the week, I’m going to this address, and I’m going to have an adventure. But I have to make it to Friday first. It’s all too much right now. I’ll deal with it after I get some sleep and can think clearly.
Rod answers the door dressed in a t-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps. I’m not the same person a was a few hours ago, but Rod doesn’t know that yet.
Physically, he is bulkier than me and two to three inches shorter. He rarely smiles. When he does, his handsome face lights up.
You recognize him. You’re shocked by this and grope to understand. He is the younger version of the man you are interviewing in 2015, the man you thought was me. You try to focus on our conversation.
“Everett?” Rod looks surprised.
“I got locked out of my house.”
“I’ll get your key.”
I speak up before he goes to retrieve it. “Mind if I stay here tonight?”
“Sure. Come in.”
I’m guarded with Carrie. I now realize I might be even more guarded with Rod. We have spent countless hours working out together and we barely talk. I like him, but what do I actually know about him? He never misses a workout and treats other people at the gym with generosity and consideration. He is even more reserved than I am, without much of a social life as far as I can tell.
I sit on the couch and set the box on the coffee table. He goes to get a beer. His apartment is clean for a bachelor pad.
“You want something?” he says from the kitchen.
“A beer?” I say, unsure.
He comes back with two craft beers and doesn’t say anything. He knows I normally never drink alcohol, and for some reason this time him not saying anything makes me nervous.
The beer is cold against my palm. After the rain and the street, I never want to be cold again. The beer tastes okay though, better than I remember beer tasting. Still bitter. “It’s good.”
He sits beside me on the couch. I take another swig. Why don’t I feel relaxed like normal? Maybe the beer will help.
“I think me and Carrie are over.”
“Sorry. That sucks.”
We each take another drink.
He grabs the remote and turns on the TV: ESPN. I’m not a huge sports fan. I catch a game every now and then. He sits back. I remain leaning forward. I want to tell him about what happened, to tell him about the key and the address, about my fight with Carrie, about almost having sex with a couple. I want to tell him that my life has changed and that I don’t think it will ever be the same again.
I’m no longer okay with us never talking about anything important.
I down the rest of my beer, too nervous to sit back.
“We can share my bed if you want,” he says.
I freeze, my heart pounding, my face already getting numb from the beer. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”
“Right.”
I keep watching the TV and pretend that I don’t notice the implication in his passive aggressive tone. I count on Rod being simple and dependable. I don’t want it complicated. He is the last person I ever thought might be gay.
That’s not true. I’ve noticed him checking out guys before and ignored it.
We can still be friends. I don’t judge him for being queer. How do I just say that to him? This does change things though. What kind of friendship was it to begin with? How long have I ignored this tension between us? I must have known, on some level, that I was taking advantage. I’ve treated him coldly, because he liked me without reason.
But there was a reason. He wanted in my pants.
There are condoms in my pocket. I cover my pocket with my hand, afraid he might see the square outline.
The longer I pretend to watch the game, the harder it is for me to speak.
“I’m not going to wait forever,” he says.
What does that mean?
“I never asked you to,” I say.
Does he think I have feelings for him? Have I been leading him on?
He’s good looking. He could have his pick. Can’t he see I’m some homophobic asshole? Doesn’t he know I’m incapable of loving anyone?
Rod goes to his room. I just sit, wishing I could fix this somehow, wishing I hadn’t hurt Carrie, wishing I wanted something besides escape.
The TV swirls into gray.
I lay on the couch, curl up into a ball, and try not to think. The drone of the TV lulls me to sleep.
Chapter 9
I
On September 2nd, 2015, Chuck and Rod, both dehydrated, woke from the regression and gulped water.
“You’re not Everett,” Chuck said from the other side of the table. “You’re Roger Edger. Where is Everett?”
Surprise animated the old man’s haggard features.
“It is complicated.”
Chuck leaned over the table and got in Rod’s face. “You can’t talk around this. Not this time. What’s going on! Where is the real Everett?”
Rod took another drink.
The door in the hallway opened.
“No, don’t!” Rod said, half choked.
The real Everett approached from down the hall. He wasn’t dying from cancer; he was in optimal health and looked as young and gorgeous as he did in the regressions.
Chuck stood and took a step back. “What the hell?” He feared he had suffered some kind of mental break. Was he awake or still hypnotized?
Everett knew that Chuck wouldn’t be placated this time, not without a full explanation.
Rod was angered. “What are you doing?” This was not part of the plan.
“I don’t have a choice, Rod. We have to tell him.” Everett addressed Chuck. “I’m sorry for the deception. I thought it was necessary.”
“Necessary? Was it all just a lie?”
“Don’t say that!” Everett stepped forward into the harsh light. “You recognize me, don’t you? Not from pictures, from the regressions.”
He was wearing different clothes, stylish and designer-made, but it was definitely him.
“The regressions are real,” Everett said. “Real as anything.”
“I don’t even know what that means anymore. And that doesn’t explain why Rod was pretending to be you. And Everett. You’re forty-two years old. Why haven’t you aged a day?”
II
Eden Sspider webbing had hidden the real Everett from my sight. Now that he had revealed himself to Chuck, his history spilled out before me, but still only in bits and pieces. I saw that he inherited the mansion south of the dense orchard back in 2000, after the House of Cabal (the destination on the butcher paper) had fallen into the ocean, killing most of the other guests. Since then, he’d lived on the first floor, hidden away. Under the mansion was a laboratory, where he studied the House of Cabal’s research findings regarding ectothemic entities.
The bigger picture was coming together.
During the first interview session (on August 31st, 2015), Everett had secretly observed Chuck and Rod from behind the mirror.
"That's a great place to start,” Chuck said, on the other side of the glass. “Why can't that be on the record?"
"That's not for the public,” Rod said. “That's for you."
Rod wa
s getting close to triggering Chuck’s hypnotic state.
Everett’s plan was running smoothly. He lifted a stainless steel briefcase and readied himself. It wouldn’t be long now, and they would begin the first Trinity Link.
He didn’t trust anyone besides Rod, not after everything that had happened with the House of Cabal, but he needed a third person to replicate the psychic link diagrammed in the research documents. Chuck seemed like the perfect candidate, but he could always be replaced with one of the other preconditioned writers if something went wrong.
A sound in the observation room drew Everett’s attention upward. Eden Spiders had spread from a crack and were now coating the ceiling with webbing. The contents of the suitcase and the time nebulation caused by a potential Trinity Link had drawn them into the room. This was consistent with the research, but it still gave him pause.
The spider webbing was the reason Everett was so hard for me to see, the reason I was the first angel to find him and his hideout. It interwove with timespace and obscured his destiny thread. It hid him in a blind spot, but now that blind spot was becoming visible.
The House of Cabal had created the spiders, an acarine arachnoid species, as long ago as the mid-eighties. They spliced the white bugs, the ones that now grew inside the oranges, with the Anelosimus Eximius, a social spider native to South America that creates huge web complexes and massive colonies with thousands of members. The resulting Eden Spider colonies possessed similar qualities; their webbing coated much of the second floor of the mansion, blocking off whole rooms. They were sterile, but they hadn’t died out over the years. Nothing spliced with the white bugs ever aged.
Everlasting life was only the beginning of the potential effects.
In the case of the Eden Spider, the webbing showed the most promise. A myriad of applications needed more study. I could see the scientists doing the research, but not in sufficient detail. I still needed a more direct connection. One thing I understood clearly: their research had ended abruptly with the destruction of the House of Cabal.
House of Cabal Volume One: Eden Page 13
