Jack nods, holding his pistol in his right hand.
Bill carefully opens the door. He pokes his head around the small opening, making sure everything is safe before pushing the door fully ajar. Following Bill’s lead, the pair enters the kitchen. Bill places the blanket over the decayed remains of Jack’s mother. He pauses for a moment, reading the writing in blood scrawled clumsily on the wall. The wolf’s cry is not sad, it is proud.
“There was a fox hanging there,” Jack adds, pointing to a bloody chain that hangs from a screw-in hook from the ceiling.
“Are you prepared for the fact that we may run into your father?” Bill asks, looking back to Jack.
“I am,” Jack says, although he is full of doubt. He knows at this point that most of this terrible carnage is his father’s doing. He just does not understand how things have come to this point. What turned his father from a normal, successful person into someone who could do such terror with so little regard for humanity?
“If it comes to it,” Bill adds, tapping against the barrel of his rifle against his shoulder. “You don’t have to be the one that fires. Just, if anything should happen to me, separate yourself from your feelings. They will do you no favors in this kind of situation.”
“Thank you,” Jack says, nodding. Although Bill’s words are just a small comfort, for, deep in his heart, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he secretly hopes, almost needs, for his father to not be the monster in this situation.
Bill walks over to the light switch, giving it a flick. For a moment, the room is illuminated in a brilliant flash of white, which quickly returns to the grey dull, as the light bulb has blown.
“Shit, that startled me,” Bill says as he lets out a heavy sigh.
“What is with these windows, anyway?” Jack adds as he reaches over to the window above the sink—it is covered in layers of taped-on newspaper. He reaches for a corner, pulling down and exposing the view beyond. Fleetingly, he has a vision, an instant flash—he sees Emma Creek, bathed in beautiful white light, her blond hair glowing, and blowing playfully about in the wind, which is full of sparkling particles of dust. He views her in slow-motion frames; she reaches a hand up to her hair, pulling it away from her face.
“Emma!” Jack shouts as he begins to tear frantically away at the newspaper-covered window, his fingers violently clashing against the glass and causing a loud noise.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bill asks, pulling Jack away from the now-completely-open window. He looks out, seeing only the rain-soaked backyard and a few trees off in the distance.
“I saw her,” Jack struggles, reaching a hand toward the light from the window. “I saw her….”
“We’ve been through a lot,” Bill says as he draws Jack closer to him, trying his best to keep him away from the window. “I need you to keep it together now. There is no one out there.”
“I saw her…,” Jack whispers, gazing off into the window. The view of Emma, the brilliant light, and the dancing, sparkling dust are all gone now, replaced by the familiar view from the kitchen that he has seen so many times before—if one did not count the flooding and rain. Could it have been merely a trick of his eyes? Perhaps the stress is starting to wear upon him.
“Shit,” Bill mutters, looking down at the floor near the basement door. “Your axe is gone. We should keep moving—any element of surprise we had is gone now.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers sadly. “I really thought I saw her.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Bill says, turning to the narrow hall that leads to the dining room. “I would have acted the same way.”
Rifle pointed out like the tip of a compass, Bill leads the way, careful of each step he takes. Jack follows closely behind. They slowly make their way down the wood-tiled hallway, a blood stained floor runner at their feet. Jack passes by familiar framed photographs; these still images are unmolested from the surrounding terror. He passes a picture of him and Daniel sitting on the hood of an old truck, both of them in their early teens. He passes another picture of his mother, wearing a pair of large, dirty gloves, her hair tied up—she has just been working out in the garden, it is late in the day, and the sun casts a red glow upon everything. This image makes Jack body feel heavy, and it sinks in further that this woman, smiling in this photograph, is gone.
They enter the dining room, a chandelier hanging above. The windows here are taped over with newspaper as well. Hanging on the wall to the arched entrance is a piece of handwritten paper, secured with a yellow thumbtack. Jack pulls the sheet down as he and Bill survey the horror lying before them.
On the wooden dining table, which is covered in white cloth, is a meal laid out as though for a special occasion. A nice set of silverware is meticulously placed on a folded cloth napkin, an uncorked wine bottle and a full glass sitting next to it. On a giant silver platter, fit for the size of a large turkey, sits the remains of the police officer. He is cut open from his neck all the way down to his testicles. His penis has been removed and placed in his mouth the same way an apple would be placed in mouth of a cooked pig. The body is completely nude and missing limbs. Blood stains the large, gaping open wound that shows off the entire insides of the man like some kind of science class dissection. His uniform is folded nicely and neatly beside him. On the top of the uniform rests a single wedge of an orange, a sword shaped toothpick holding it in place.
Jack looks down to the paper he has pulled from the wall, reading the title aloud. “The Pig’s Feast.”
The Pig’s Feast
By Landon Wolfe
A pig found its way to the farmhouse one day. Wearing a grin and the clothes of a man, the pig sat upon my table and feasted. I fed it all the things that pigs enjoy: garbage, coins, a fishhook, and a shiny silver lure. Then I fed it what it desired most, the flesh of a human, its own flesh. The flesh of humans and pigs are so similar in taste they say. I know. I’ve known. I am beautiful.
A pig wandered in. I am hospitality. I’ve shown what is inside doesn’t matter. We’re all the same in that way. We are all beautiful.
Don’t be greedy.
Jack crumples up the paper. He is horrified by what his father has laid out before them. There is no longer a lingering doubt in his mind that his father is not behind all of this. At least, when he was locked up in the basement, he could imagine all the terrible things were done by some madman who forced his way in—that the note was somehow not written by his father’s hand, despite his name. However, this second note and new handiwork of madness is irrefutable. Jack throws the paper to the floor.
“Let’s move on, there’s nothing we can do here,” Bill says, his eyes averted, as he refuses to look upon the disassembled policeman. “What’s the next room?”
Jack suppresses an urge to tear down the newspaper from the large panel windows in the dining room—he is curious if he would see Emma again. The prospect of it is enough for him to disregard Bill for a moment and walk toward them. He reaches a hand out, almost as though the urge is no longer something controllable, yet in control of him.
Bill watches Jack silently. He is starting to worry about Jack’s state of mind. He is growing slightly worried that he may soon follow his father’s lead and turn into something terrible. After all that he himself has seen, and that Jack must have been through, he feels that he could not blame Jack for going mad, yet hopes that this will not be an issue. After all, Jack is so young—Bill contemplates stopping Jack, his mouth opening to form a protest, yet he stops himself for reasons he cannot exactly comprehend.
Jack begins to peel down a strip of the newspaper.
Emma Creek II
The moon rocks and shudders, waking Emma from her brief slumber. It has struck something solid. After bracing herself against the surface, she carefully gets to her feet. She begins to walk toward the direction in which she felt the collision, hoping she is heading the right way. As she continues upon the rough ground, she spots a steel beam from a broken building. The beam ha
s penetrated the moon, breaking small luminous pieces of rock. Emma reaches down and picks up one that is roughly the size of a baseball and warm to the touch. She holds it out before her, inspecting it. It casts the same beautiful white light as the moon. She keeps this firmly in her right hand, comforted by the fact that she has found some light for the darkness she is sure to face ahead.
After a time, of which Emma has completely lost the concept, she reaches the edge of the moon. She reaches into her breast pocket with her free hand and pops open her prescription, bringing the orange bottle up to her lips and allowing a single pill to fall to her tongue. She chews the pill, for lack of water, hoping that it will give her the confidence she needs to face whatever may lie ahead.
Emma steps off the moon. Her feet touch soft grass that tickles her bare legs. The ground is wet from the rain. Once again she wishes she was wearing shoes. Holding out the piece of glowing moon ahead of her, she can make out some trees. She follows in the direction of a tall ash tree, the leaves glowing and shimmering white as they dance in the soft wind—next to it she discovers a rock-paved path. The path gives her feet little comfort as the stones are rounded and difficult to walk on. Her heart pounds in her chest; her anxiety has returned despite her medication. There is something familiar about the path. There is something all-too-familiar about the situation.
Emma walks along the path, growing more and more nervous as she sees a familiar garden shed a short distance away. The light from her moonstone illuminates the single window, and she glimpses her own reflection—she looks otherworldly. Her short blond hair is flattened against her face from the rain, her blue eyes glowing in response to the moonstone. Her skin is a bright pale white, and the light of the stone shines through her hospital gown, revealing her form as a silhouette beneath it. She approaches the window cautiously, her left hand outstretched before her and trembling. The closer she gets, the more she realizes that she is somewhere familiar, somewhere terrible from her childhood: this is the shed that her father committed suicide in. Her mind flashes to that moment, the way that her father’s face had completely disappeared. The shotgun, the smell of its discharge, and the slumping remains of her father.
She does not want to continue farther, yet feels that she must. After all, this is where the moon has brought her. Beyond that familiar door lies what she must see, what she has been brought here to see. She pauses again, her hand still reaching to the window. Fixated on her own reflection, she gazes onward, trying to convince herself that she has the courage to do what must be done. She takes a few more steps forward and her hand comes into contact with the cold glass. She peeks into the window.
Jack Wolfe II
As Jack peels back the layer of newspaper from the window, a brilliant white light fills the room. As his eyes adjust, he sees Emma once more. Their hands meet, separated by the glass.
“Emma…,” Jack whispers as their eyes meet for the first time in what feels like years. She is radiating a beautiful white light. Her eyes are luminous, yet saddened slits, her mouth in a deep frown that Jack has not seen before. He remembers her always happy, only happy. Here, she looks tired and afraid.
“My god,” Bill whispers, seeing, yet unbelieving.
“Emma!” Jack shouts as he bangs on the window with an open hand. Without warning, or a response, the image disappears, leaving behind only the same dull grey sky and rain-soaked field. “Emma… don’t go….”
He begins to pound on the window, and when that doesn’t work, he forms a fist and punches at the window with all his might, causing the glass to fracture. His hand is bloodied, and so is the window, yet it remains unbroken.
Bill rushes over to Jack, pulling him away. “Please, it is okay. We will find her.”
“You saw her,” Jack says quietly as a single tear streams down from his eye. His voice is filled with both sadness and uncompromising rage.
“I did,” Bill continues as he pulls Jack close. “You’re not going crazy; I saw her, too. That, or we’re both going fucking crazy. Either way, we will find her.”
Daniel Wolfe
American Airlines Eagle Connecting Flight 1968 / 142 Chicago to Springfield, MO
Daniel hands grip the metal armrests of the airline seat. As the plane ascends into the sky, his stomach turns as his resolve dissolves into fear. He has never been a big fan of flying. In fact, to reach his school in New York, he chose the fifteen-hour drive over the three-hour-and-forty-five minute flight. As he watches the world slowly grow small in his window seat, he shrinks back in his chair like a spring flower wilting from a late freeze.
“You all right there?” the man sitting in the middle seat beside Daniel asks.
Daniel nods, his panic easing a bit as the plane levels out. He remembers something that he has either read or heard once, that most crashes take place during the take-off or the landings—he doesn’t know for sure if this is true or not, but the plane reaching a stable position in the air gives him a small measure of comfort. “I just don’t fly that often.”
“You get used to it,” the man in the grey suit adds as he reaches a hand out to Daniel. “John… John Hawke.”
“Daniel,” he quietly replies as he returns the gesture. “The sad thing is, this is my second flight today—had a layover in Chicago. It’s just these smaller planes, they just get to me.”
John chuckles, wrinkles speaking around his brown eyes. He is an older man—Daniel guesses somewhere in his mid-forties. He has dark, graying hair and a short, tidy beard. He reaches into his suit pocket, producing a small “travel-size” bottle of vodka. He hands it to Daniel discreetly. “I find that this helps.”
“I am only twenty,” Daniel says, hesitating. It is not that he hasn’t drank before, of course.
“Twenty is close enough, I’d say,” John adds with a friendly smile. “After all, it’s completely for medicinal reasons, right?”
“Thanks,” Daniel replies as he unscrews the cap, downing the small bottle as quickly as he can. His throat begins to burn, his stomach following soon after. That familiar warmth and numbness fills his body.
A voice comes over the speakers; they have about an hour-and-a-half flight ahead of them. The weather in Springfield is sunny.
“So what brings you to Springfield?” John asks.
“Family,” Daniel says as he looks out the window and sees the world below. Tiny clouds pass beneath his view, and for a moment he catches a rainbow that follows beneath the plane, but disappears as soon as the clouds dissipate. Below, the ground is spread out like earth-colored quilt-work squares, tied together in small lines of trees and the occasional river. For a moment, Daniel is transfixed with the view, but then he begins to feel that sickening feeling growing in his mind and forces himself to look away.
“Family, huh?” John asks, attempting to keep Daniel’s focus away from the window, as he notices a terrified look upon the young man’s face.
“Yeah.” Daniel nods, turning his attention to John. He feels a little better, a bit more comfortable, slightly numb, but not in any bad way. “I am just checking in on my parents. They live out in the country.”
“So are you a student?”John asks to keep the conversation going.
“Yes, I am studying film. Well, I’m trying to make it into film-making. I know it is a hard business to get into—sometimes I don’t even know why I haven’t picked some kind of fall-back plan.”
“Following a dream,” John adds, “It’s a noble pursuit.”
“Hopefully not a fool’s pursuit,” Daniel replies, allowing himself a brief moment of laughter. “What brings you to Springfield?”
“Visiting my son, Alex,” John says, the mention of his son’s name bringing a saddened look upon his face. “He’s in eleventh grade this year. He’s a good kid, but I hear he’s been having some trouble lately. With me travelling as much as I have, and since the divorce, I haven’t visited as much as I would have liked to.”
“I see. How long has it been?”
�
��Three years,” John answers as he shakes his head and folds his hands together on his knee. He looks to Daniel for a moment, and then turns away. “I never planned on allowing so much time to pass, you know? I just hope he doesn’t hate me.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Emma Creek III
“Jack!” Emma shouts. Her eyes wide and unbelieving, for where her reflection once stood, she now sees Jack reaching out for her. He looks tired. His clothes are bloodied and wet. His face is weary, and dark circles besiege his eyes—a worried look has chiseled away the happiness she remembers. Her hand jolts against the window as it cracks. Without warning, Jack disappears, replaced in his stead by a blood-stained window with tiny fissures that spread out like the branches of a tree. Emma removes her hand from the window. There is some blood on her palm; however, it is not hers.
“Jack…,” Emma whispers, feeling weak for a moment. She reaches into her breast pocket and pulls out her pills, fumbling in panic with the lid with her only free hand. The lid pops off and scatters pills against the grass beneath her feet.
“Shit!” Emma exclaims, as she drops down to her knees, placing the glowing moonstone against the ground. She gathers as many as she can find, and replaces them back into the bottle, leaving one for herself. She cannot remember how many she has taken and in what time frame. However, given the circumstances, she takes one more and lets it dissolve slowly on her tongue. The panic attacks are not subsiding like they should. She figures that it must be the circumstances—she has never been under so much stress before, not even when she first started college and her attacks were at their previous worst.
Emma attempts to peek through the window once more, however, due to the blood and the cracks she cannot make out anything out in the darkness. With the glowing moon rock in hand, she makes her way to the familiar door. The large stones beneath her feet are cold, and a shiver runs down her spine, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. She reaches out for the silver doorknob, half-hoping for it to be locked, but she knows that it isn’t. She has been here before, many, many years ago.
Window in the Earth Trilogy Page 35
