PLAY ON

by Marilynn Halas

  The light grew slightly brighter in the hallway. There were no lanterns or torches and certainly nothing as nice as candlelight either. It was more like green phosphorescence embedded in the walls, like fossilized sea creatures that had died long ago but left a little bit of their light behind. As he continued down the hallway, it became more and more narrow and small, but the distant hum was growing louder all the time.

  It wasn’t too long before Dillon was faced with an unsettling choice: he would have to crouch down and crawl, maybe even drag himself along on his belly, or else turn around and return to the bone cavern. Even though every fiber of his being recoiled against the idea, he fell to his knees. When he was walking on the floor of the hallway, he hadn’t noticed just how soft and wet it really was. Now as he put his hand in front of him to begin to crawl, it felt as though he was crawling on some weird combination of wet sand and jelly. It wasn’t glass or shards of bone, but it was nasty and raw. As Dillon thought about it, he realized that raw was exactly the right word. As the hallway became more and more of a tunnel and the smell grew stronger, he felt like he was crawling along on some kind of rotting meat or flesh. The tunnel was getting tighter and tighter and he wasn’t sure if he could go on much farther. He closed his eyes and listened for the hum. Dillon instinctually knew to follow it. Still, he made no commitment to complete the journey, but in each moment, he made the decision to crawl one step further.

  A few minutes later he reached out his hand and was surprised that it didn’t land on more of the same, disgusting rot. Instead of feeling slime and decomposing flesh, what he felt was more like dirt. In fact, he realized that the stink was beginning to dissipate.

  It was such a relief not to touch the gore that he had been crawling through that Dillon opened his eyes. In his hand he held a fistful of rich, black soil. It was the perfect soil for growing things, his mother would say. Almost as if it was the compost of what he had crawled through. He crawled a little bit faster now, glad to get out of the filth and hoping against hope that the soil he was crawling in would bring him up to the surface on a farm somehow. Who knew? Maybe the worst of this dream was over and now he’d see his grandmother’s house in the distance or come up in the middle of Central Park.

  On he crawled, and slowly but surely the tunnel grew larger, and it wasn’t long before it gave way to something like a hallway again. The light changed from the green glow to more of a cool grey that almost reminded him of moonlight. Even the smell was better, and he realized that most of what he could smell from here was fresh dirt and maybe even grass clippings. Dillon was definitely feeling better as he rose to his feet, dusted off his pants, and began to walk. In fact he was so relieved, he picked up the pace and it wasn’t long before he was jogging. He expected an incline, or that at any moment he would turn a corner and see the sky, but every time he turned another corner all he saw was more hallway. Still, the smell was gone and the moonlight was growing brighter, so he went on. Dillon couldn’t tell if he had been down in this place for hours or if it had been only a few minutes, but it didn’t really matter: he was tired of it and he wanted out. His jog became a run, and he ran on and on with a rising panic. What if he was caught in some sort of inter-dimensional maze? There were no doorways, there was no incline, there was no reason to think that this wouldn’t just go on like this forever. Then he rounded the corner and couldn’t believe what he saw.

  It was a relief not to see more hallway, but only for a moment. Relief turned to frustration when he realized that his path was completely blocked by a large stone wall. The only good thing about this wall was that there was some moss growing on the bottom, and Dillon knew that in order for the moss to grow, the wall must be near the outdoors. This wasn’t the kind of stone wall you would see on a farm in Connecticut. These were not big rocks piled on top of each other to keep animals in or intruders out. This was a different kind of wall entirely.

  As he ran his fingers over the stones, he discovered more dirt between them. The stones were evenly placed, and it was soon clear that this was more than just a wall: this was the back of a building. Why would a building be blocking this underground tunnel? This made no sense. Why would he be brought here if it were only a dead end? What was he supposed to learn from being more frustrated than ever? Dillon felt trapped and toyed with.

  He ran his fingers between the stones and tried to trace the mortar. He was hoping to find the entrance to a doorway or some secret button that would open a passage and let him through. He couldn’t imagine that he was supposed to come all this way just to return back through the filth and try and find the merciless stairway that had dropped him into this place. He felt every inch of the wall from top to bottom and side to side. He traced the mortar with his fingers until they bled. He dug around the sides where the dirt of the hallway met the stones of the wall searching for an opening. Nothing.

  He kicked the wall in abject frustration, clenched his fists, and screamed at the top of his lungs. All he heard was the echo of his own voice as he turned around and slid down the wall to just sit there and try to get a hold of himself. He felt cheated that he had come so far and now there was this ridiculous obstacle in his way. He knew life wasn’t fair, but why lead him all this way just to leave him here, stuck and alone? Time passed, or at least he thought it did. Didn’t Thomas say time is relative? Maybe it existed here and maybe it didn’t. Dillon had no idea and he was getting to the point where he didn’t even care. He didn’t want to go back, but he didn’t think he could go forward, so he just sat there and stewed.

  Absentmindedly Dillon began pulling at the moss growing at the bottom of the wall. He was exhausted, his body ached, and as much as he tried to stay calm, he couldn’t quite quell the rising panic growing inside him. What if he really was trapped? What if this was it? He began to think that the only way out was back the way he had come, when he heard a rumbling and the hum got louder and louder.

  He stood up and squinted to look down the hallway from where he had come. He took a few steps and looked around the corner to where the hallway became the narrow tunnel. The thought of crawling back was terrifying. But he needn’t have worried about it because in that moment the hum grew into a roar. The walls around him began to shake, and the tunnel collapsed in a pile of dust and rancid smoke.

  Dillon turned and ran back toward the stone wall. He was scared that the hallway would be the next to go. What he saw when he rounded the corner again amazed him. Everything around him was vibrating, and the massive stone wall at the end of the hallway was shuddering. The roar was deafening now, and Dillon ran toward the wall, convinced that his head would explode from the noise before his body was crushed if the wall and hallway collapsed the way the tunnel had. Faster and faster, Dillon barreled down the hallway toward the wall, and as he raced toward it, he knew he should slow down, but he just couldn’t. He felt compelled to keep running. In the moments before Dillon hit the wall, he closed his eyes and braced himself for what he was sure would be a stunning impact.

  Dillon knew the wall was wet when he leaned against it moments before, but what happened next had him really confused. The cold, hard stones he had leaned against, dissolved into a fine mist. It was like running through a fog in the early morning. Dillon opened his eyes and discovered that his momentum and desperation had moved him through an obstacle that up until a few seconds ago, he believed was impassible. He looked behind him and there stood the stone wall, as impenetrable as ever. He reached for it and was met by the same cold, wet hardness that he felt while he was on the other side. But there was no denying the fact that he had passed through it.

  He was just about to congratulate himself. Dillon was already rewriting history to tell himself that he was more smart than desperate. He was so happy that his bravery pushed him through that he was already beginning to convince himself that the fear and desperation he had felt had nothing to do with his flight toward the wall. Then reality returned. The light changed again—not glowing green, not cool moonli
ght; this was sunlight, and he could see the dust motes floating in the air in front of what looked like a stained glass window. Was he in a church? He walked forward and pressed his face against the glass. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t see through it, and there was no recognizable picture depicted in the glass. It was just blue and red glass tiles surrounded in lead. There were two windows on either side of a large iron door. Dillon grasped the handle and was surprised to discover that it was unlocked. He had to pull with all his might because the door was twice his size and just as thick, but slowly, ever so slowly, it opened.

  As the sunlight filled the room he was in, Dillon realized for the first time where he was. This was not a church. This was a tomb. It wasn’t just any tomb either; this was the place where his grandparents and Uncle Joe were buried. Dillon felt cold all over.

  It had been many years since Dillon had been in this place. The last time he was anywhere near it, he was just a kid. Dillon was outside on the grass watching from a distance when his uncle was laid to rest. Now standing in the doorway of his family crypt, he looked around for the first time and realized the remains of his ancestors surrounded him. Some of them he knew through family stories, some of them he knew through the photographs that his mom kept around the house, some of them even visited his dreams, as his grandmother and Uncle Joe did, but he never imagined meeting them in this place. There was room inside the crypt for six bodies. His grandfather had it built years before so that his grandparents, their two kids, and their spouses could all be buried together. Dillon always thought the whole thing was seriously creepy.

  Now, looking over at the three vaults that filled half of the space, Dillon thought they were a lot less creepy than the three empty shelves behind him. He guessed that one was for Uncle Joe’s wife, but he had heard that she remarried years ago and moved to Florida. He didn’t think she’d have much use for her shelf anymore. Dillon guessed that the other two shelves must have been for his own parents, but it was clear that that wasn’t going to work out as his grandfather had planned either.

  Dillon stared at the bottom shelf. He didn’t want to, but he felt compelled to reach out and run his hand along the side. It was three inches thick and made of white Carrera marble from Italy. Dillon was surprised that there wasn’t more dust on the shelves, but then he guessed that tombs were usually sealed so that nothing could get in or get out, not even dust. Nervously, he looked over his shoulder to reassure himself that the door out to the cemetery was still open. Thankfully, it was.

  There’s something profoundly unnatural about seeing your own mother’s resting place from the inside. He wanted to leave, to run outside and never look back, but he couldn’t seem to tear himself away. In fact, he had to fight the urge to crawl into his mother’s place and wait for her. Dillon knew that was crazy, but there was something about this place that drew him in. He wanted to feel close to his mom, to feel safe, but most of all he wanted to reassure himself that she was still among the living.

  Dillon wished he could remember Uncle Joe better. The guy he met in the dream at his grandmother’s farmhouse had seemed so nice. He leaned down to get a closer look at the inscription beside Uncle Joe’s vault.

  Joseph S. Golden

  August 15, 1964

  September 11, 2001

  "The Truth shall set you free."

  John 8:32

  Dillon knew his family had chosen that Bible verse because they believed that knowing the truth; that we are loved, and forgiven when we screw up, means we can really live the life we dream about. Dillon had never thought about it much before, but he realized now that Uncle Joe had just turned thirty-seven when he died. He had had a lot of dreams he wanted to come true, but they were cut short. Dillon found himself wondering what those dreams might have been.

  Dillon looked again at the inscription on the tomb. The Truth shall set you free. Dillon wasn’t about to take any of it for granted. He was determined to figure out why he was there because he didn’t want to have to come back.

  Truth. What truth? Maybe it had something to do with the messages he had received. Dillon wracked his brain to remember all the words he had collected so far. Remember, Death, Honor, Living, Tell, and now, if he added the inscription to the list, The Truth shall set you free. What did it mean? What was so important?

  Dillon was lost in his thoughts when he heard music outside. This wasn’t the typical funeral music that you might hear at a cemetery. This was no trumpet player playing Taps. This was a guitar player strumming an old cowboy song. Dillon turned back toward the open door of the mausoleum.

  He stepped outside and was momentarily blinded by the sunlight. As he walked down the two steps and onto the grass, the door behind him slammed shut. Dillon reached for the handle to try and open it again but it was locked. There was no budging it, and there was no doubt he could not return the way he had come.

  “I guess even for a time traveler, there is just no going back,” Dillon muttered as he walked toward the sound of the music. He knew it was nearby, but he couldn’t quite see where the musician was. Still, he walked a little farther and found himself on a path that seemed to lead to the edge of the cemetery. There was a parking lot at the edge of the grass. The parking lot wasn’t particularly interesting to Dillon, but what caught his eye was the old Chevy pickup truck parked in front. It was just like the truck his uncle had driven, but that wasn’t his uncle behind the wheel. It was a much younger version of his mother, and she was crying.

  Dillon wanted to run to her but he didn’t even know if she could see him, and even if she could what would he possibly say? He walked closer and he could hear her crying with her head bent over the steering wheel. He could also hear the guitar and someone singing. He would have thought that it was the radio except for the fact that the voice was strangely familiar. Dillon just stood there. He didn’t know what to do. His mother raised her head and her tear-filled eyes met his face, but there was no sign of recognition. She just looked through him and off into the horizon.

  Dillon was relieved that she couldn’t see him, but he still felt like he had eyes watching him. At that moment the music stopped abruptly and the singing turned to laughter.

  “Hi, Dillon!” Uncle Joe came into focus on the seat beside his mother.

  Dillon was surprised and happy to see him. He had a good feeling just being around his uncle. Dillon came closer to get a better view, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. Uncle Joe had a guitar in his lap, but not just any guitar: it was the 1967 Fenson that Dillon played at home.

  “Uncle Joe, where did you get that guitar?”

  “Isn’t she a beauty? It was a gift from some guy I barely knew. I don’t think it’s true, but the guy told me it might have belonged to E. Princely and made me promise never to sell it.” Dillon didn’t know what to think.

  “Uncle Joe,” Dillon stammered. “I have that guitar right now in my room, but it wasn’t passed down in our family.”

  “What makes you think it wasn’t passed down?” Uncle Joe smiled.

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I got it in Nashville while Dad was on a business trip?”

  Uncle Joe winked at him. “You know what, Dillon? For a kid raised in New York City, you are pretty gullible. That guitar may not have come to you in the regular way, but it was most definitely meant to be yours. By the way, I get a real kick out of listening to you play.”

  Dillon was about to say something, to ask more questions, but suddenly they were distracted. His mother’s crying had stopped, but not because she was feeling any better.

  Uncle Joe explained. “The weeks after 9/11 were a really difficult time. People were taping plastic to their chimneys and windows and stockpiling food because they thought the Taliban was going to fly overhead and drop biohazard over us. People were afraid to ride the subways, and even being in New York City was a scary thing. Your dad wanted to take you far from here, and even though your mom thought it made sense, she just couldn’t wrap her mind arou
nd living anywhere else.”

  “Why did you show me this? Did my mom have some kind of break-down or something?” Dillon wanted to know. “I don’t understand any of this. Are you the one sending me the notes?”

  Uncle Joe reached out and squeezed Dillon’s hand and everything began to fade away. Dillon looked around and discovered he was in his own room, and the only thing from the dream that still existed was the guitar leaning against the wall.

  October 29, 2011

  Dillon was in his room again, and he just couldn’t bring himself to come out and sit in the kitchen with his mom. He decided he must have been getting better at this inter-dimensional travel because when he woke up yesterday, he was able to come back from his nightmare without a scratch. He left the blood and the bruises behind, but he couldn’t leave behind the knowledge of his mother’s terrible desperation. He had promised to tell Thomas about every one of his journeys, but to do that now seemed like an unforgivable betrayal of his mother’s privacy. Still, if he wasn’t straight with Thomas, they could miss some of the most significant clues they had so far.

  Dillon had thought about it all day yesterday at the park. He tossed and turned last night and called to Danny, but Danny didn’t come. Now here Dillon was, hiding in his room rather than going into the kitchen and talking to his mom about losing Uncle Joe and 9/11. Dillon was disgusted with himself because he knew he’d rather be a coward than have to deal with a discussion he knew he could not avoid forever. He had been avoiding a lot of discussions lately. He couldn’t even bring himself to talk to Marie about it. How could he explain this? He didn’t want to scare her away, and the truth was, he was a little scared of himself at this point.

  This was the first experience he had from this other dimension that didn’t involved Danny. The more Dillon thought about it, the more convinced he became that the guitar really was the key to the whole thing. Sometimes he couldn’t decide whether he loved it, or hated it. He felt as if his whole world had been turned upside down since the guitar had come into his life. The thing was, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t live without it. That guitar was more to him than just a musical instrument; it was a voice. In fact, it was more than just one voice; it was a whole chorus of voices from the past and the present, and maybe even from the future.