314 Book 2 (Widowsfield Trilogy)

by A. R. Wise

  “Just about,” said Oliver. “We fabricated the pictures.”

  “And the pig-mole above the door?” asked Mindy.

  “Fiberglass and neoprene,” said Oliver, enjoying Mindy’s fascination. “Although he serves a purpose.” He spun his laptop around to reveal a video feed from cameras that had been hidden in the sign-in room. “We watch what people react to in the room. After they sign in, we allow the subjects to linger in there for a bit, and see what they get interested in. Then I go in there and interview them about the things in the room, asking which objects they have any sort of connection to. It’s all faked though. We manufactured everything in there, except this.” He reached across the table and picked up the black, Bic pen.

  Nia winced.

  Oliver saw her reaction and sat back, intrigued and oddly appreciative of the girl across the table from him. “This pen came…”

  “Out of the throat of a woman named Amelia Reven,” said Nia.

  Oliver was quick to speak after Nia’s revelation. “Mitchell, let me get you your check so you can head home.” He opened the drawer of his desk and produced a white envelope that he handed to the actor.

  “It was nice meeting you ladies,” said Mitchell to Mindy and Nia before walking to the door.

  “Please close the door behind you,” said Oliver. Just as Mitchell was about to close the door, Oliver added, “And send Lee in, please.” Then he looked at Nia and explained, “Lee is a personal assistant I had to hire to help me keep track of everything we’re doing. Every year it seems like it gets harder and harder to keep everything straight up here.” He tapped his temple and Nia smiled and nodded as if she knew what he meant.

  “So, was Nia right about the pen or what?” asked Mindy.

  Oliver nodded.

  “So that means you owe us five hundred bucks,” said Nia. “Or five fifty, if you add in what you owe my friend.”

  “Money’s not an issue,” said Oliver. “In fact, I’ll write you a check for ten times that amount, if you’ll help us.”

  The door of the office opened and the man that entered acted humble and apologetic, like a student showing up late for class. He was Asian, and very thin. His black hair was cut in a bowl shape, but was styled well, and he was wearing black pants and a button up, white dress shirt. “Hello,” he said meekly.

  “Ladies, this is Lee.”

  Mindy ignored Oliver’s assistant and focused on the money that had been offered. “Ten times that amount? Are you for real?”

  “Not interested,” said Nia.

  “Yes we are,” said Mindy. “Are you out of your gourd?” She looked back at Oliver. “What do you need help with?”

  “I’m serious, Mindy,” said Nia. “I just want to get the money and go. I’m not comfortable with any of this.”

  “That’s our fault,” said Oliver. “We designed that room to screw with your head. I’m sorry for that. It’s just a technique to stir up your absolutely stunning ability.” He spoke as if complimenting her beauty. He couldn’t stop from smiling and staring. “I’m flummoxed, truly. You have completely blown me away.”

  Mindy elbowed Nia in the side as they sat beside one another in front of Oliver’s desk. “I knew you were something special, babe.”

  Nia still had her hands in her pockets and murmured, almost to herself, “Lies.”

  “What’s that?” asked Mindy.

  Oliver spoke before Nia could respond. “We’re looking for help with what could very well be the most significant discovery in human history. And you, my dear, are the final key we need. The corporation I work with is willing to pay whatever it takes for someone with your talent.”

  “Like, what are we talking here?” asked Mindy. “How much?”

  “How much do you need?” Oliver kept his eyes on Nia when he spoke.

  Nia just shook her head.

  Mindy waited for her friend to answer, and then rolled her eyes and spoke up for her. “How much time do you need?”

  “That’s really hard to say,” said Oliver, still focused on Nia.

  “Ten grand a week,” said Mindy as a joke.

  “Done,” said Oliver.

  “Holy fuck!” Mindy nearly leapt from her seat. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” said Oliver.

  “Ten grand for her, and ten grand for me,” said Mindy. “Or no deal.”

  Oliver chuckled, and then grimaced. “Sorry, but we need her, not you.”

  “How are you sure?” asked Mindy. “How do you know if maybe she can’t do shit without me around? For all you know, we only work as a team. Isn’t that right, Nia?”

  Nia stayed silent.

  “I’m sure Vess would approve,” said Lee. “He said you didn’t have to get this sort of expense approved. You can approve that amount without even contacting corporate.”

  Oliver rocked his seat and chewed on his lower lip as he watched Nia. “Does that sound good to you, Nia? You could make more in a month than most people make in a year.”

  Ten thousand dollars a week. Nia wasn’t a greedy person, but that was an awful lot of money. She looked at her friend, and saw Mindy staring back at her, wide-eyed and hopeful.

  “Don’t you dare say no,” said Mindy.

  Nia closed her eyes, sighed, and then said, “Tell me more.”

  Chapter 5 – I See You, Rachel Knight

  In the late 1970’s, researchers theorized that it might be possible to influence psychokinetic abilities in children that were raised to believe such things were not only possible, but as much a part of the human experience as learning to walk. The researchers proposed an experiment where a baby would be raised in a controlled environment, devoid of any interaction with the outside world. In this environment, the researches would use simple illusions and projected images to make it seem as if the child’s parents were gifted with psychokinetic powers. They would treat these abilities as if they were mundane; just a regular part of the human experience.

  The researchers hypothesized that an environment such as this might propel the child to unlock abilities that humans formerly hadn’t tapped into. It was a bold theory, but not without merit. It has been proven that the human mind is capable of altering perception based on what it believes should be true.

  A rather controversial example of this is the idea that ancient humans had a vastly more muted visual spectrum than we do today. The color blue, for instance, was not something that ancient man could distinguish from other colors. Only a select few people were born with the ability to identify the color spectrum that we all accept today, but it wasn’t until the written word was developed that this became startlingly apparent. In ancient texts, oceans are referred to as great black or green swathes of liquid, not because the author took artistic liberties, but because they simply couldn’t see a difference. Then, when people with a wider color spectrum began to describe the color blue, and differentiate it, the rest of the world took notice. It wasn’t an evolutionary change, but a societal one. The human race altered their perception of a color based solely on the desire to experience what others knew as a truth.

  The next time you look at the blue sky above, realize that it is colored by your adherence to what you think is true. Truth and lies do more than simply guide us through our social lives; they literally shape the world around us.

  I wonder if those researchers ever got funding for their experiment.

  Lost in Widowsfield

  Rachel Knight walked into her home after a long day at work. Her feet were killing her, a side effect of wearing pumps in an attempt to be taller on camera, and she pulled them off with a sigh of relief. She tossed the shoes to the side of the door where they tumbled over other shoes that had been neatly lined up.

  “Hard day at work?” asked her father, who was sitting on the sofa, reading a newspaper. He looked dapper, dressed in a pinstriped suit like a gangster from the 1940’s. His bowler hat had a silver ribbon around it, and he tipped it in her direction when she smiled at him. Then he
folded his newspaper and dropped it on the coffee table.

  “You can say that again,” said Rachel as she looked around.

  This wasn’t her house.

  “I wanted to call you,” said her father. “But I didn’t want him to hear me.”

  Her father looked taller than usual, and younger. There was no grey in his short beard, and his eyes were blue instead of brown. He grinned, but his teeth chattered as if he were cold.

  “Daddy?” asked Rachel. “What did you do to my house?”

  “She redecorated,” said Rachel’s father as he pointed up the stairs.

  Rachel and Stephen lived on the first floor of a duplex, yet now she was in a home where the bedrooms were up the stairs. The kitchen was to the right of the entrance instead of the left, and there was a simple, small tube television in the den instead of the obscenely large flat screen that Stephen had bought. This was not her home, yet she was too confused to admit it.

  “Who redecorated?”

  “The little blonde girl, with the tattoos,” said Rachel’s father.

  The house smelled like burned plastic.

  “What’s her name?” asked Rachel’s father as he came to stand behind his daughter. He put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them, his teeth chattering in her ear. His fingers carried a chill with them. “I guess it doesn’t matter. She’s the same as all the others. He always loved those little blonde girls.”

  “Is something burning?” asked Rachel, trying to hide the tears in her eyes as she walked to the kitchen. There was a pot of boiling water on the stove and she put her face into the steam, but it felt cold to her. “I think something’s burning.”

  “Aren’t you going to confront him?” asked her father, still shadowing her.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “I’ve been waiting all day for you to get home,” said her father. “I think you need to tell him how you feel.” He reached past his daughter, as if about to embrace her from behind, and put his index finger on the handle of a butcher knife that was lying on the counter beside the stove. His long, thin finger toyed with the knife, twisting it left and right before positioning it so the handle faced Rachel.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do.” Rachel wiped the mix of vapor and tears from her cheeks.

  “Do what comes naturally.”

  Rachel picked up the blade and turned to speak with her father, but saw that he was leaving. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to see a friend.” He opened the door and Rachel heard a dog barking in the distance. Smoke wafted in through the open door, thick and with weight, rolling across the carpet as if liquid. “I can’t stay here.”

  “Okay,” said Rachel, forlorn.

  “One last thing,” said her father before he walked out. “If a woman with red hair breaks through the mist…” He paused for effect and stared at his daughter. “You should run.”

  He closed the door behind him, slicing the mist as if it were a corporeal mass. The remaining fog melted into the floor, lingering in her father’s footsteps for a few moments longer. As soon as he was gone, she heard the distinctive thump of a creaking bed on the floor above.

  Thump, creak, thump, creak.

  The acrid stench of smoke was pervasive, and only got stronger as Rachel neared the stairs. She stared at the pattern of the thin carpet that stretched from the first floor, up the stairs, and down the hallway past. Stephen hated carpeted stairs, and she wondered why he allowed the girl to do this. Rachel stepped up, and felt moisture in the fabric beneath her foot.

  The stairs were cold and damp, the water squeezing between her toes as she ascended. A girl moaned in ecstasy, the sound lingering in the hall, and the bed continued to thump and creak.

  “Stephen?” Rachel called his name when she got to the top of the stairs. She was too frightened to go in unannounced. Whatever was going on inside of the room at the end of the hall promised to be torture to witness.

  The thumping bed ceased after she said his name, but then it started up again, more vigorous than before. “Harder!” shouted the woman. “Fuck me harder!”

  Rachel’s heart pounded as she took another step. The carpet oozed water, and each step produced more, as if Rachel was walking across a sponge.

  “Stephen?” she asked again, but her voice was timid and meek, hardly more than a tortured whisper. If he was in there, he couldn’t have heard her. She was nearing the door, the knife held in her right hand as she reached out for the handle with her left.

  Thump. Creak. “Harder!” Thump. Creak. “Fuck me!”

  Her fingers rested on the knob and it was warm to the touch. She considered turning it, but was wary to see what was going on in the bedroom.

  The bed continued to pound.

  Then the knob spun in her grip, independent of her action, and the door swung open. Stephen was standing before her, mopped with sweat and fully erect. He locked eyes with her and sighed before wiping his brow. He put his hand on his penis and stroked it as he asked, “What do you want?”

  Rachel couldn’t speak.

  “Who is it?” asked the woman in the bed. She sat up and the covers fell from her plump breasts, revealing studs in her erect nipples and a tattoo of a heart in the center of her chest. It wasn’t a symbolic heart shape, but rather designed to look like the organ itself, wrapped in barbed wire and dripping blood. “Who’s she?” asked the girl, annoyed.

  “Coming in?” Stephen stepped to the side, leaning against the knob as the door opened and affording Rachel a better view of what was happening within. “I’m horny enough for you both.”

  “I thought you hated red heads,” said the blonde on the bed. “This chick looks like a sorority bitch. Kappa Beta Cunt.”

  Rachel reached up to her curly, strawberry blonde hair.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Stephen. “She’s feisty. Come on in, don’t be shy. Get those clothes off and let’s get to business.” He thrust his hips at her and bit his bottom lip as he raised his eyebrows.

  Rachel looked down at the knife in her hand.

  “What’s that for?” asked Stephen.

  “I think…” Rachel was barely audible.

  “Speak up, kid,” said Stephen.

  “I think Daddy wants me to kill you.”

  Stephen winked and didn’t seem frightened at all. “Daddy’s little girl.”

  “Do it,” said the girl on the bed. “Stab him. I want to watch him bleed. Oh, God, that gets me so hot. It’s like you’re going to fuck him with a knife.” She put her hand beneath the sheets, between her legs, and started gyrating as she watched.

  Stephen looked back at the girl on the bed and smirked, then turned to Rachel. “You’re a naughty girl.”

  “No I’m not,” said Rachel.

  Stephen seemed to disagree. “Come on, kid, I know you. I know you, Rachel Knight.” He thrust his hips and started to masturbate. “I know you, Rachel Knight. I can see straight through you.”

  “Stop it,” said Rachel as she took a step back. The water at her feet felt like slime now, thick and slippery. It tingled on her bare feet, as if acidic.

  “Fuck me with the knife.” He lurched forward, releasing his grip on the door knob and his penis so that he could reach for her hand.

  There was an entrance to an en suite bathroom on the left side of the bed, and Rachel could see the porcelain, clawed-foot tub within. Fingers slid over the lip and a melting face peered over the side. A woman with red hair rose from syrupy fluid, her eyes pure white and her few remaining teeth all but lost in the blood that flowed from her sliced gums. Rachel couldn’t breathe as she focused on the horrific sight, and Stephen caught the hand that she was holding the knife in. He tried to thrust it into his abdomen, but she pulled her hand away, slipping it out of his tight grip so that he was left holding the knife alone. It seemed to slip through his fingers as if the knife itself was an apparition, and the blade fell to the thick, gelatinous fluid on the floor.

  “I know
you, Rachel Knight,” said Stephen. He tried to step forward, but his legs were stuck in the fluid that soaked the carpet. He focused on his right leg and pulled, but his limb only seemed to stretch instead of coming free. Now he was a lopsided height, one leg longer than the other, and his voice turned demonic as he continued to say, “I know you, Rachel Knight.”

  Then the chattering teeth returned as Stephen continued to contort. Rachel backed away, transfixed on the horror in the threshold and unable to turn away. “We’re all dead,” said Stephen in his lower, more demonic tone. “Just souls in the mist.” He grasped his extended leg and pulled until his bones began to break. Then he ripped his thigh away from the lower half of his leg, revealing the white patella behind shredded skin. His body fell forward and he splashed down at Rachel’s feet, his fingers clawing at her toes. She backed away, but still couldn’t convince herself to turn and flee.

  Stephen’s face was stuck to the fluid below, and when he tried to pull himself away from it his skin clung as if he’d fallen into paste. Rachel saw his face begin to tear and he cried out in pain as he struggled. “I see you, Rachel Knight.” His words were garbled as his lower lip stayed pinned to the floor. Then a sickening rip came as his face was pulled from his skull. A skeleton with chattering teeth now lay at Rachel’s feet, and he laughed as he stared up at her.

  Rachel finally found the strength to turn and leave, but immediately bumped into her father.

  “Daddy’s little girl.”

  Rachel looked up to see a skeleton’s face, eyeballs placed in empty sockets, and wire tied to the jaw. Despite the wrapped, metal wire, The Skeleton Man’s teeth still chattered.

  Rachel screamed as the demon in the pinstriped suit wrapped his arms around her. He cackled and squeezed her tight, his throaty whisper echoing through her mind, “I see you, Rachel Knight.”

  Rachel opened her eyes.

  She was in the back seat of Jacker’s van, driving out of Widowsfield, a bank of white fog clouding the road ahead.