by A. R. Wise
No one craves fear. Some people think they do, but they’re wrong. For instance, people in line at a roller coaster might say that they enjoy the sense of fear they have before boarding the ride. They’ll claim that they enjoy fear, but what they’re really enjoying is the anticipation of a moment of terror from which they have an underlying sense of safety. True fear is different from terror, and it is far too disconcerting to be sought.
A child lost at a mall is experiencing fear. A woman that has found a lump in her breast knows what fear is. Alzheimer patients experience fear when they realize their most precious memories are decaying, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. Fear haunts you, it demeans you, it precedes most of the worst experiences we’ll ever have.
We have fear of death, not terror of it.
The demons in Widowsfield are less interested in terror than they are in fear. Every fracture they crafted was an attempt to recreate fear, and once terror took over they lost interest. They would rather murder a man in terror, but are happy to toy with his fears.
Chicago, Illinois
January 18th, 2007
Nia smiled at the man that had greeted them at the door, but her grin turned to a grimace as he ushered her inside. Mindy went first, undeterred by the creepy atmosphere, and Nia followed reluctantly behind into the room in the nearly abandoned building on Ashland, past the trail of blood on the floor behind them.
“They’ll be out for meeting with you soon,” said the haggard little man in his broken English. “Go in and sit. Sign the book on the table.”
Nia glanced over her shoulder and saw the man smile at her, a wicked and wide grin, with thin, purple lips surrounded by grey stubble. He closed the door and it creaked as it shut, then thudded in place like the lid of a coffin.
The room was rectangular and long, probably around twenty feet wide and forty feet long. There was a door on the opposite side, and framed pictures adorned the walls as if it were an art gallery, each of them illuminated by a steel, posable light that sprouted from the dingy white walls. The pictures seemed lower to the ground than they should’ve been. The room had a worn, beaten wood floor that amplified the sound of their footsteps. A chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, although it was smaller than what the room needed, almost as if it was a model designed to make the room appear even larger than it was. Combined with the low pictures, the illusion of a high ceiling caused a sense of discomfort and imbalance.
Mindy frowned as she looked up at Nia, and then laughed nervously. “Is it just me or is this room…”
“It’s not just you,” said Nia, interrupting her friend. “This place is messed up.”
Mindy looked back and then yelped as she covered her mouth and leapt a step away from the door. She nervously chuckled and then shook her hands as if disgusted. “Look.” She pointed above the door.
Nia looked at the area above the entrance and saw an animal head on a plague, but she couldn’t identify what it was. The two girls backed away from the door, closer to the center of the room as they examined the creature.
“What the hell is that?” asked Nia.
The creature had no hair, and its pink skin was dotted with red splotches, as if it had been burned. It had a piggish nose, but longer snout, and several white fangs protruded from its lips. The animal’s eyes were black and small, reminiscent of an underground dweller.
“Is that some sort of mole?” asked Mindy.
“It’s the size of a pig,” said Nia as she shivered in disgust. “Yuck, yuck, yuck. Can we leave now?”
“Leave?” asked Mindy, perplexed. “Why?”
Nia was exasperated and couldn’t help but let out a quick laugh. “Are you serious? Look around you! This place is a nightmare.”
“Oh, give me a break,” said Mindy. “They’re probably just renting the space anyhow. Besides, we got here, so we might as well get paid for the trip. Come on, let’s sign in.”
Mindy went to the podium in the center of the room, facing the door on the other side, to sign the ledger. Nia put her hands in her pocket, fearful to touch anything in this bizarrely decorated room, and walked over to the wall to inspect one of the pictures.
The first was a scene from what appeared to be a ghost town, sepia toned as if a still from a western. The picture was in an ornate, wooden frame with inlayed twine. The old, brown twine was discolored in spots, as if it had once been stained by something. Nia squinted at the picture and thought she could see a noose hanging from a tree in the background, but the scratches that marred the aged photo made it hard to discern. She was about to call Mindy to investigate when her friend waved her over.
“Check this out,” said Mindy as she inspected a painting a few feet away. “This picture is bizarre.”
“Par for the course,” said Nia as she joined her friend.
“Who would paint something like this?” asked Mindy.
The painting seemed to be of a crime scene. A woman was lying face down beside her blood-soaked bed, although the blood had been painted purple, an odd artistic decision in the otherwise still-life representation of what appeared to be a crime photograph. The woman was in a white nightgown, and was wearing one black stiletto pump while her other foot was bare. She had golden hair, although the right side was matted with the purple blood.
“I hate you for bringing me here,” said Nia. She was joking, at least partially.
“Just go sign in and let’s get going,” said Mindy. “We’ll answer their questions and get the heck out of here. Okay?”
Nia sighed as she went to the podium. The ledger was leather bound and its pages were yellowed by age. A list of names had been scribbled at odd angles on the lineless page and Nia looked down at it with her hands still in her pockets, hesitant to touch anything. She was frustrated with herself for not bringing her gloves.
Nia had lived most of her life blissfully ignorant of her apparent gift. Even after the moment that she learned the truth about her father’s infidelity, she still didn’t comprehend exactly what she was capable of. Even now she was still confused about what initiated the transfer of information. She rarely experienced visions, but would instead just be imbued with information that she shouldn’t have known. For instance, when handling money she would frequently understand that the bills had once been tossed at a stripper’s feet, or tucked into a g-string. Nia never purchased used clothing, despite her friends’ fondness for thrift shops. She rarely wore jewelry, because there was no telling what old sins were hidden in the baubles.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mindy.
Nia hadn’t realized she’d been staring at the book for so long. She grinned and shook her head, embarrassed of how nervous she was. Beside the ledger was a simple, black Bic pen. She was thankful that at least one object in this room was modern and not seemingly placed here to antagonize her fears.
Nia picked up the pen.
Widowsfield was a quiet town, inhabited mostly by seasonal hunters and fisherman that preferred a rural atmosphere to the hustle and bustle of the big city. It was a place where the residents got up early, knew each other’s names, and spent at least one day a week fishing on one of the many lakes that dotted the area. It was mired in local politics, but like most small towns across the country the debates held at city council usually involved property lines and noise complaints, with the occasional argument about outside investment corporations.
The nearby city of Branson had undergone an explosion in popularity in recent years, bringing with it an unwelcome influx of urban problems. The older generation that lived in Widowsfield did their best to keep their town simple, but the youth were drawn to the excitement of a faster culture. The parents and grandparents knew that the town would eventually succumb to the influence of Branson, but they did their best to cling to a simpler, more comfortable life.
There was a market on the edge of Widowsfield where most of the town’s residents bought their groceries, but the store also sold a myriad of other odds and ends, such as Bic
pens that came in six-count packs. One pack of pens in particular was purchased by the town treasurer, a woman by the name of Amelia Reven, who flavored her conversations with colloquialisms like, ‘She’s got on more makeup than Carter’s got pills.’
Amelia also had a habit of chewing on pen caps, and would often gnaw them into twisted monstrosities before tossing the entire pen in the trash and getting a new one from the six-pen packs she bought at the local independently owned grocery store. Amelia used to be a smoker, and her new pen-mauling habit was a necessary distraction to keep her from starting again.
Amelia was a victim of the fog that swept through Widowsfield on March 14th, 1996. They found a pen lodged in her throat.
Nia saw the teeth marks on the cap of the black Bic pen she was holding and knew it had belonged to Amelia Reven. She dropped the pen and it slid down the tilted top of the podium to rest on a lip near the bottom.
“I’m leaving,” said Nia.
“What?” asked Mindy. “What’s wrong?”
Nia put her hands back in her pockets and started to head for the door, determined to touch as little as possible on her way out.
The door opened before Nia got to it. She expected to see the creepy old man that had greeted them at the entrance, but instead saw a tall, slender young man with a square jaw dotted with black whiskers. He caught her by surprise, and Nia staggered to a stop just a foot away from him.
“Excuse me,” said Nia.
“Wait just a moment,” said the man with a pleasant, accommodating tone. He put his hands on Nia’s shoulders and grinned, his teeth gleaming white. “You’re the first person to show promise. I thought this entire trip was going to be a bust.”
“I just want to leave,” said Nia.
“Hold up,” said Mindy. “Are you saying we won the five hundred bucks?”
“Possibly,” said the man as he continued to hold Nia. “That depends on what you do next.” He looked directly into Nia’s eyes. He was the same height as Nia, and when he looked at her he kept his gaze steady, as if emphasizing that he was aiming his statement at her. He was nearly a handsome man, but was gaunt and pale, a victim of a bad diet and too much time indoors.
“I want to leave,” said Nia, although she didn’t speak with conviction, but more like a child pleading with her father to let her come home from school.
“Are you bonkers?” asked Mindy. “If we won the money, then we’re going to stick around to get it.”
“Well, now, this isn’t a contest,” said the man at the door. “It’s more of a job interview. I’m Oliver, by the way,” he let go of Nia’s shoulders and held out his hand for her to shake. She reluctantly took one of her hands out of her pocket to accommodate him.
“I’m Mindy, and her name’s Nia,” said Mindy after her friend stayed silent for longer than seemed appropriate.
“Hello, Nia,” said Oliver, still staring into her eyes.
“Hi,” said Nia, her nervousness evident in her quiet response.
“Come with me,” said Oliver. “I’m very excited to get the chance to speak with you. I really can’t tell you just how excited I am. You’re the very first person to display true psychometric ability.”
“True what?” asked Mindy.
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Nia?” asked Oliver.
She nodded as he led them back into the hallway.
“You do?” asked Mindy, surprised. “What is it?”
Oliver answered after Nia failed to. “Psychometry is the ability to pull information from inanimate objects.”
“No shit?” asked Mindy.
“No shit,” said Oliver with a smile, amused by Mindy’s enthusiasm. Then he turned to the old man that was waiting down the hall. “Leopold, could you do me a favor and grab the ledger and the pen from the room? Bring them to our office.”
“Indeed,” said Leopold as he walked back toward them.
“My office is down the hall here,” said Oliver as he led the girls away from the staged room.
Nia hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mindy as she almost bumped into the back of her friend.
“I don’t want anything to do with this,” said Nia.
“Let’s at least hear the guy out,” said Mindy.
“What’s the matter?” asked Oliver as he paused at a door further down the hall.
“I don’t want anything to do with this,” said Nia.
“You haven’t even heard what we’re offering,” said Oliver. He was still smiling, but his tone had been infected by desperation.
“I don’t care,” said Nia.
“Are you crazy?” asked Mindy before she turned to Oliver. “She cares, trust me. Just give us a second.” She looked back at her friend with pursed lips and an admonishing glare. “Are you on crack, girl?”
“You know how I feel about this,” said Nia. “I just want to go home.”
“We owe you money already,” said Oliver, interrupting them as he called loudly from down the hall. “You might as well collect it.”
“Seriously,” said Mindy. “I don’t know what bug crawled up your b-hole, babe, but we might as well get what’s coming to us. Don’t tell me we froze our butts off for nothing.”
“At least let me write you a check,” said Oliver.
Mindy took Nia’s arm and pulled her forward. “Come on, weirdo.”
Nia relented, feeling increasingly embarrassed by her trepidation. Oliver seemed nice enough, and he was one of the only people that Nia had ever met who knew about psychometry.
“What happened in Widowsfield?” asked Nia when she got to the door that Oliver was ushering them through. She waited for an answer before entering.
“Well now, that’s the million…” Oliver smiled and corrected himself, “Make that ‘billion’ or ‘trillion’ dollar question.”
“What’s Widowsfield?” asked Mindy.
“The town where that pen came from.” Nia looked back at Leopold, who had stopped in the middle of the hallway, a few feet behind them, after retrieving the pen and ledger.
Oliver clapped and then apologized, but couldn’t stop smiling. “This is truly spectacular. I really can’t explain how happy you just made me. I’ve been searching for years for someone like you.”
Nia dug her hands even further into her pockets. “Well, you’re going to have to keep searching. I’m just here for a quick buck. I don’t want to have anything to do with your experiments, or whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“No, no,” said Oliver. “Don’t say that until you hear what we have to offer. Please, just hear me out. If you came here for money, I can end all of your financial concerns just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “For both of you. For your whole family if that’s what it takes.”
“Nia, babe,” said Mindy. “Let’s hear the dude out.”
Oliver smiled and raised his eyebrows, feigning trustworthiness. Despite her growing discomfort, Nia needed the cash.
“Make it quick.” Nia walked into Oliver’s office where Mindy was waiting. It was a simple room, with white walls devoid of pictures. There was a desk in the center of the square room with scant papers beside a laptop whose power cord stretched to a socket on the wall. There were two simple chairs in front of the desk, similar to the type you might see at a table in a pub, with plastic cushions and metal legs.
“Have a seat,” said Oliver. “I know it’s nothing special, but we’re only here for a couple days, then it’s off to Detroit to see if we have any luck there. Although,” he spoke as he walked around to the other side of the table, “hopefully I can cancel the trip.”
“Your pen and ledger,” said Leopold from behind Nia.
“Yes, yes,” said Oliver. “Put them on the desk. And…” Oliver paused and squinted at Nia, as if making certain he discerned her properly. It was an uncomfortable inspection, and made Nia even more nervous than she was already. “Mitchell, why don’t you introduce yourself properly to these two?”
“Quit the act,” said Oliver.
Leopold hesitated. “Are we certain?”
“Yes.”
Nia looked over her shoulder at the odd little man. He shrugged and then gripped his front teeth. He grimaced as he pulled out a set of dentures, revealing that his yellowed teeth had been fake. “Ladies, my name’s Mitchell, and I’m not nearly as scary as you thought.”
“What?” asked Mindy with comical shock.
“Mitchell’s an actor,” said Oliver. “He’s dressed like this as part of the testing.”
“What testing?” asked Nia.
Oliver sat back in his chair, an ergonomic office seat that looked far more comfortable than what Nia was sitting in. He pointed in the direction of the other room, where the pen and ledger had been. “The blood in the hall, the room with the pen, all of it is part of the test. It’s just a way to provide the proper atmosphere to initiate a psychometric transference.”
“A manipulation,” said Nia, allowing the negative connotation of the word to reveal her distrust.
“A motivation,” Oliver countered her choice of words. “In our studies, we kept running into examples of subjects performing better when in duress. We obviously didn’t want to cause anyone harm, but by playing on certain long-held beliefs about fear, we hoped to influence the abilities of any subjects. All harmless, of course.”
Mindy got out of her chair to inspect Mitchell as the thin man started to peel off the plastic that clung to his skin, as if he’d pasted rubber cement to his face. “Whoa,” said Mindy as she peered at the laughing man. “That’s bonkers. You had me going, for sure. I thought you were some old homeless, eastern bloc immigrant or something.” She looked back at Oliver, appearing almost jubilant with the deception. “So everything in there was a set up?”
