by Weston Ochse
Danny just didn’t know.
He’d taken himself right to the edge of a new universe, then backed away. There’d been something about leaving his own body that had terrified him.
It would have been easier for him to be the first person to the bottom of the sea or the first man in space. Both places had been studied and mapped. The science was a known quantity and people knew what to expect. The ocean, although terrestrial, was a little less understood, but still, people knew of its existence. They understood that the ocean had a bottom even if they’d never seen it, their beliefs anchored in science and rational thought. But where was rational thought when you were out of your body? What science governed The Land of Inside-Out as Maxom called it.
Danny sighed, rolled over. Everything had become so complicated. He remembered a time when things were simple. When his sister was still around. He let his eyes follow the outlines of the shadows upon the walls.
He wondered if he’d ever been up this late.
There was a starkness about his bedroom he’d never noticed before, as if all the edges had become more prominent, sharper. Even the shadows seemed deeper—three-dimensional. The moonlight brightened the empty spaces with a blue-white glow, washing out color until everything was a slate gray.
Whether it was from the cold or the strangeness of the once familiar, Danny shuddered. He didn’t like the way things looked. This was the time of night called The Witching Hour, a time where sacrifices and evil deeds were conducted. He’d read about these things. Even Tennessee had some evil—like the Bell Witch. Doug had once told him how he and two other friends had tried to invoke her.
It was at Camp Chicamauga late one night where, according to Doug who was prone to exaggeration at times, he and two other boys had left the Ghost Tale Hour around the campfire and gone to the latrine. Often, as was the case when Danny was there, the boys left the light off at night and the door open. After all, what boy didn’t know where it was. By turning off the lights, the mega-swarm of moths were thankfully absent from the boy’s latrine, hovering instead around the girls’ latrine.
During the day, the four screen windows lining the long walls of the boy’s latrine were open. At night, because of the possibility of mischief, the wooden latches were lowered and locked into place. This made the interior almost pitch black.
The invocation for The Bell Witch of Tennessee wasn’t hidden in some dusty old tome. There were no secret signs or sigils. No candles were needed. No sacrifices were required. All in all, one would think the Bell Witch was a frequently visited spirit.
So Doug and his two friends stood in front of the mirror. In unison, they said the words: ‘I call upon the Bell Witch to come into this place.’ The first sign it was working was supposed to be that a green image would appear in the mirror and get closer as the invoker chanted the invocation. Doug said that they managed to say it eight times before they bolted and ran like screaming sissies. He said the other two boys cried and were so scared they couldn’t get the door open, forgetting they’d latched it. He said that the green image appeared in the mirror after they’d chanted the invocation three times, and just like the tale said, each time they recited the chant, the eerie visage of the Bell Witch came closer until on the eighth time they saw her smile.
Goosebumps shot up along Danny’s arms as he remembered Doug’s tale and the look on his friend’s face as he told it. Danny turned and buried his face into his pillow. He hadn’t meant to think of the Bell Witch, it had just happened. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and concentrated on his breathing. He’d scared himself good. The Witching Hour was upon him and the Bell Witch was in his mind. He could almost hear her low mean voice ordering him to get up, walk into the bathroom, close the door, and call out her name.
But it was all in his imagination. He concentrated harder on his breathing, this time remembering what Maxom had said. Danny inhaled, mentally following the air through his system. He became the air. He became the blood. He became the exhalation and the next inhalation. It was a cycle and he became part of it. Almost of their own accord, his feet seemed to disappear, then his legs. Too late, Danny realized what was happening to him. Before he could even think of a reason not to do it, he found himself floating in The Land of Inside-Out.
Floating, because that’s what Danny was doing, like in water, but not so thick. He began to rise toward the ceiling. Danny brought his arms up to protect his head. As he turned away from the impact he saw himself lying beneath him on the bed, face buried in the pillow. His body was so still—still enough to be dead. Danny’s vision blurred slightly. Afraid of the ceiling, he craned his head around to see where it was, and in the process passed through it.
Picking up speed, he rose through and over his parent’s bed where he spied his mother sprawled across the Southwestern style comforter. She was still in her bathrobe. Beside her lay a book, her glasses open and resting on the open pages. Must have fallen asleep reading, thought Danny. She seemed so tiny in the bed, but then there should have been another person there.
Danny began noticing the colors and the shapes of things. What should have been dark was light, like everything was a negative image. But there was something else that was different, something else he couldn’t pinpoint. Before he passed through the roof of his house, he saw it. A small tugging at the edges of his mother’s face, warping it just enough to be wrong, as if she was made of more than three dimensions. Multi-hued eddies of swirled just beneath the surface. Like oil in a pool of water, the colors were equally beautiful and deadly. He didn’t understand how he knew it, he just did. Something was wrong with her. Something he’d have to find a way to fix.
But that was a problem he needed to save for another time, because right now he found himself rising higher and higher, his house shrinking to doll-size and smaller. Shapes of differing sizes glowed brightly from places on the ground and in the trees. Some sped across the sky leaving trails like supersonic jets.
And still he rose.
Danny stared to where he knew the moon should be. Confusion mixed with fear as an abyss appeared where the silver of the moon should have been. This thing was black, the deepest black he’d ever seen, like the maw of some great creature—a world eater from the stars.
Danny had been afraid, but the newness and wonder of it all had kept him from dwelling upon the danger. Before, the possibility of not making it back to the real world had been something nebulous, something to worry about later. He didn’t really know how to stop himself, or what dangers there were in this Land of Inside-Out, but how bad could it be? His worry about the strange coloration around the edges of his mother’s face was obliterated a hundred-fold by his sudden and intense terror of the black moon.
He pushed his arms out in a desperate attempt to slow down, but instead of slowing, he found himself speeding up. He tried to swing his legs around, feet first to gain some sort of traction, but this only made things worse and within seconds, Danny found himself tumbling across the sky. He arched his back and threw his arms out behind him, but found no purchase. He began to cartwheel uncontrollably toward the black moon.
He started crying. A great pit of despair opened inside him. He was going to die.
Jesus, Boy. What the hell are you trying to do?
Danny stopped sobbing. He wasn’t sure if he’d really heard a voice or if his mind was playing tricks on him.
And did you have to come naked? Jesus. Get some clothes on why don’t ya.
Maxom?
What’s with this gymnastics routine? See any judges out here? Hear any funky music to gyrate your ass to.
Is that really you?
Who do you think it is out this late at night? Hell, I thought you would’ve worked up your nerve hours ago. They sure don’t make white kids as tough as they used to.
Maxom, tell me how to stop. Please, tell me.
That’s easy. Just think it.
What? Danny tried desperately to see where the voice was coming from. In this pla
ce, however, sounds traveled differently and the words seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at all. It was so frustrating not to be able to control himself and Maxom wasn’t helping at all.
Where are you?
You better stop your tumbling, boy. You ain’t no Mary Lou Retton and the way you’re going, the bad old Dark Sun is gonna get you. Don’t want that. No sir, don’t want that.
From the inside out, Danny screamed for his body to stop spinning, concentrating as hard as he’d ever concentrated. He didn’t stop, but he did manage to slow a little. That was all the encouragement he needed. He concentrated harder still, remembering Maxom’s earlier lessons.
Paying attention to his feet and the muscles of his legs, he fed them power. He allowed his imagination to traverse the capillaries of parts of his body he’d only heard of and some he’d never known a name for. To each of these places, he sent one harsh command: STOP!
Danny slowed in increments, his tumble aborting into a twisting upward fall. The black moon—the Dark Sun as Maxom called it—filled his vision from edge to edge. He felt as if he were falling into it, rather than rising towards it, the huge ebony void, a moon-sized bottomless pit.
Perspective. It was all a matter of perspective.
Danny closed his eyes. He ignored his twisting. He ignored his idea of up and down. His only thought was on the balance. If he could think it, as Maxom had said, then this must be the way. Finally it was as if he’d turned off a switch—there was no gradual slowing, no momentum. After all, he wasn’t even really here.
Danny just stopped.
He opened his eyes and smiled. Maybe he’d make it after all.
See? Wasn’t so hard. To tell you the truth, you figured it out a lot quicker than I did. Good job.
Maxom was suddenly there in front of him. At least Danny thought it was Maxom. No longer was he the scarred, single-limbed version of a man, but rather a man-shaped thing. He was featureless, the color of quicksilver.
Is that you?
A lot better than the real me, huh?
Maxom moved his arms and legs as if a puppeteer had pulled on all four strings at once.
I think you look like a doll.
You don’t know the half of it, said Maxom. He turned side-ways and disappeared. Lo Lo never taught this to me. I figured this one out on my own. There are things in the Land of Inside-Out that are dangerous, and I wanted a way to hide from them.
Wow. And Danny meant it. Maxom appeared two-dimensional.
I don’t really disappear, I just get real thin. Comes in real handy when you don’t want things to see you.
I never knew it was going to be like this.
It’s not like we advertise.
Still, this is incredible.
Enough ogling. Now that you’re here, there are a few things you need to learn. Come on.
Maxom soared off into The Land with Danny tumbling behind him.
CHAPTER 16
Wednesday—June 27th
Sierra Vista, Arizona
Brother Simon’s contact over at the FBI office in Tucson had finally come through. Not that the man had been completely ignoring him, but since it was a favor for a friend of a friend, it was mutually understood that the investigation was a spare time thing at best. Simon had received the call last night and arranged to receive a fax this morning at the Safeway service desk.
It would have been simpler for him to have received the fax at the Retreat House, but then Father Roy might have seen it. Simon just didn’t have the time to deal with the old man’s accusations. Politically correct or not, Simon needed to get to the bottom of the problems in his area of responsibility. He knew in his heart that Brother Dominic had given his life for just that. In the great grand scheme of things, lying to Father Roy was a sin he could deal with.
Simon pulled the station wagon off Highway 92 into the entrance to Carr Canyon. He drove to where he’d let Billy out earlier and coasted to a stop. Initially, Simon had searched for Billy Bones near the man’s Sierra Vista haunts, but neither the well-meaning assistants at St. Vincent De Paul nor the other Dirty Birds harvesting meals from various dumpsters had seen Billy in the past week. This worried Simon. One could usually set a clock by Billy’s actions. That the man had gone missing was desperately serious.
And just when Simon had finally learned the man’s real identity.
Simon turned off the ignition. Before the air conditioning belt on the eight-cylinder Detroit engine whined to a stop, Simon was trudging through the chest-high creosote bushes. He held his arms high, unwilling to touch the vegetation, especially the inch long thorns of the mesquite. So, dipping and slipping sideways, he made his way to the home of Billy Bones, which was just as he remembered it.
Bubble-shaped and covered in tattered white garbage bags, it was like a desert igloo. From his previous inspection, he knew the living space to be almost totally below ground level, so the comparison to an igloo wasn’t far off. The interior would never reach arctic levels, but the disparity in the conditions inside and outside was substantial.
As before, there was absolutely no sign of Billy. He poked his head inside and saw the dog sleeping atop a worn Mexican blanket. That was a good sign. Simon headed towards the Scarecrow Gods.
Keeping his eyes and ears attuned for the slightest hint of a rattle, Simon began picking his way towards the circle of saguaro. He wasn’t about to get bitten this far from medical attention. Especially wary of tarantulas, he began picking his way towards the grove. Twice he was almost victimized by the needle-sharp tips of yucca.
Staring up at the Scarecrow Gods, he realized he’d forgotten just how enormous they were. Even more than before, they reminded him of a living version of Stonehenge. Surely these had been planted here by some long ago Native American Shamans, unknowingly duplicating the efforts of Celtic Druids half a world away.
But was it for the same reason?
A nexus maybe?
Or a gathering place?
Simon realized that he couldn’t remember anyone else ever talking about the saguaros. Not a single person had ever mentioned the odd, supposedly naturally occurring formation—strange for a town that prided itself on knowing and reporting the interior workings of every family within the city limits.
As his breathing slowed and his heartbeat returned to normal, the sounds of whistling came to his ears—the voices of the Scarecrow Gods. He noticed a human figure kneeling in the center, swaying with the wind. The man’s position reminded Simon of a picture he’d seen in a book about World War II. In a grainy photo, probably taken by a Japanese soldier who believed in his cause, an American soldier had been forced to kneel. The photographer had captured the exact second before a Japanese officer’s sword fell and severed the head from the neck, the figure kneeling on the ground both defiant and proud.
This was how Billy Bone’s knelt, now. His back was to Simon. The ends of his lanky brown hair whipped gently in the wind. He wore dirty jeans, a shirt that had once been yellow and red flip-flops.
He couldn’t tell if Billy Bones was alive or dead, so still and yet part of the wind was he. Simon squatted beside Billy Bones. Grasping the gaunt face, he turned it towards him. The man’s cheeks were hollow, his face was a mass of peeling skin, rough with the redness of windburn and sunburn. His blue eyes stared straight through Billy. If he hadn’t had his finger on the man’s pulse, he would’ve thought him dead.
Simon slapped Billy Bones twice, but it was like hitting a leather punching bag. Not a blink or twitch disturbed the placid countenance of a face that was usually a convulsive, eruption of animated responses.
Staring up at the sun, Simon had but to wonder. Brain fried is what the prospectors called it. Slobber-knockered is what his Dad would have called it. Living dead is what it looked like.
Suddenly, in the heat of the desert Simon felt a chill as goosebumps erupted along his arms.
* * *
The Lincoln Towncar slid sideways as it fought for traction. Horn
s blared as Fry Boulevard’s eastbound traffic swerved to avoid the long golden vehicle suddenly blocking their paths. Simon stomped on the accelerator. The huge 4.6 liter V8 engine roared, the rear wheels gripped the asphalt, and the Lincoln shot down El Camino Real.
Thirty seconds later, Simon staggered into the emergency room of the Sierra Vista Regional Health Center with Billy Bones in his arms.
“Can I get some help over here?”
The inside of the emergency room was brightly lit. The white floor shone from deep waxing. Simon stared at the squares, momentarily lost. The emergency staff converged on him. A doctor with stethoscope. Two nurses, one with a clipboard. An orderly pushing a portable bed. A moment later, Simon was relieved of his burden. So fast had everything happened, Simon was slow to catch up as they wheeled Billy Bones away. By the time he made it to the room the emergency staff had taken Billy into, they were fully engaged.
“Temp’s 104 doctor.”
“Patient’s unresponsive.”
“Hyperthermia. Let’s start with lactated ringers, wide-open. Let’s get a urine sample and do a drug screen. Ernesto, after you intubate, take a blood sample and run it over for a CBC, chem panel, coagulation panel, alcohol level, CPK, electrolytes, and a magnesium. Then let’s get him on ice. Susan, is the cooling blanket ready?”
“Sure is,” said a tiny red haired woman.
She’d rolled a cart over to the bedside and plugged it into the wall. Atop the cart was what appeared to be a blanket with tubes running its length.
Suddenly, Simon felt a hand at his elbow. He turned. An athletic black nurse, clipboard in hand, smiled at him, “Father, if you would, we need some information.”
