Nocturnal Emissions

by Jeffrey Thomas

  Jeremy rose, padded to his bathroom, relieved his bladder. He was too awake now to return to bed, so perhaps he would gape in front of the TV for a while, the next best thing. From one of the stove’s burners he swept up his tea kettle, and began filling it in order to make some instant coffee. As he ran the tap, his eyes idly lifted to the little window over the sink, which looked out into his small, fenced-in yard. Like the other windows in his house, this one was closed and locked.

  He had seen lightning bugs out there in the past, flashing their mysterious greenish code of bioluminescence, but tonight his yard was utterly black.

  Black trees blended with the black sky, and even the stars seemed swallowed in its immensity. However huge any given star might be, each was impossibly dwarfed by the spaces between them.

  And then, just as he decided the kettle was full enough and he began to lower his gaze, there was a light in the darkness after all.

  Jeremy instantly dropped the kettle in the sink, and just as instantly regretted the loud clatter, afraid to draw attention to himself. He ducked down below the level of the sink, darted to the wall switch, dowsed the kitchen’s overhead light. Then, with the room plunged into darkness, he moved back to the sink at a stealthy crouch.

  The light was still out there, crossing the sky at a leisurely pace. It was an object giving off a soft but clear luminosity. And Jeremy judged its size to be considerable. In shape, it was like a bowl turned upside-down. Circular, but rounded at the top. And its bottom edge was ringed in bluish spots of light.

  These seemed to be revolving around its edge, unless it was the entire bowl that was rotating as it coasted.

  There was no sound of a far-off motor. The complete silence of the object’s movements might even have been what unsettled Jeremy most.

  Just when the drifting object had nearly reached the limits of his vision, it abruptly switched direction—zipped back to the right, zipped again to the left a fraction—then shot straight up out of sight.

  “Oh my God,” Jeremy whispered to himself. “Oh my God, oh my God…”

  His fumbling hands checked the lock on the window again. Satisfied, he darted to the bathroom to double-check the one in there. From there, on into every room, nearly tripping onto his face several times because he was shutting off lights as he went. Before he left the kitchen, however, he located a flashlight and a large bread knife. Why had he let his brother talk him into giving him his handgun?

  Kneeling on the sofa, Jeremy peeled back a curtain just enough to peer out past his little rickety porch. That whitish luminous object did not reappear. But he was not relieved.

  What if it had set down somewhere? Somewhere nearby?

  A flash of eyes came to Jeremy. Huge, obsidian eyes without iris or sclera.

  Eyes like an insect. Like something without a soul. A half-panicked, half-fatalistic whimper squeaked out of Jeremy’s choked throat.

  Slowly, he settled himself down on the couch, not relinquishing his grip on either knife or flashlight. And he sat there until dawn came, every few minutes peeking out between the curtains again. Only when the sun’s rays spread sufficiently across the sky did he sleep as last. Even then, his dreams were filled with those unblinking eyes as black as night…dreams that he didn’t watch so much as they watched him.

  ««—»»

  While drinking his morning coffee, and with Laurie’s help, Allen Spence managed to locate last week’s Eastborough News. Unfortunately, it was incomplete, and with an embarrassed smile Laurie admitted she may have spread some of it down on the floor after their son spilled some juice; they were out of paper towels. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she told him.

  “They must have the issue at the library, in the periodicals room.”

  Sighing, Allen brought the remainder of the paper into the bathroom with him. While he found no articles on UFO sightings, there was one odd story that caught his eye. He might have heard a little about this matter before, but hadn’t paid it any conscious attention until now.

  A strange, clear, gel-like “goo” had been discovered across the surface of Eastborough’s Lake Pometacomet. The first assumption had been that it was pollution from EastCoast Pharmaceuticals, which had been forced to pay for the lake’s restoration some years back. A woman walking her dog at the water’s edge had been the first to spot the slime, which took the form of small floating globules, none of them larger than a pea…so many in number that from a distance they seemed to form a vaguely iridescent slick. The woman reported having stopped her dog, a Newfoundland, before it could splash in the water as it had enjoyed doing in the past, and had promptly contacted the Massachusetts Department of Health.

  Preliminary tests had shown that the tiny gelatinous globules were organic. The EPA had been contacted, and more tests were pending to positively rule out the involvement of EastCoast Pharmaceuticals. Gordon Price of the Massachusetts State Department of Ecology’s hazardous material branch had suggested that the “goo” might be algae or fish eggs, but cautioned that it was too soon to tell for certain. Until tests were completed, Eastborough citizens were being advised not to swim or fish in Lake Pometacomet…which had been named after Chief Sachem Pometacomet, or “King Phillip,” who had waged war against the white man’s colonies. Though nothing out of the ordinary had been reported there, the town reservoir would also be tested for the sake of caution.

  Allen did, indeed, stop at the library on the way home from work. He found the recent edition of The Eastborough News, made a photocopy of what turned out to be only a short, half whimsical article on the UFO sightings.

  Then, in one of the library’s invitingly musty-smelling aisles, he called Laurie from his cell phone, telling her that because he still meant to visit his brother as well, she should go ahead and have dinner without him. He and Jeremy would grab a pizza. “Whatever,” his wife said flatly, and hung up.

  Allen didn’t want to stay here long, wanted to get on to Jeremy’s as soon as possible. But he didn’t have long to search before he found something of the nature he was groping for. Amongst books of UFOs, Bigfoot, and other such tabloid fodder he found a book written by an Abraham Villa, with the title of Cryptids. In its contents, there was a chapter entitled Fortean Matters. And after flipping through that chapter for only several seconds, he knew he must take this book with him.

  -FOUR-

  “I saw a UFO last night,” Jeremy Spence told Allen, who knew from his lifeless tone of voice and the dull shadowed look of his eyes that he was not kidding his older brother.

  For several beats, Allen just stared back at him. Then he said, “Let’s phone in a pizza; I’ll go pick it up. Then you can tell me what you saw. Then I’ll show you a book I took out of the library.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “UFOs. Aliens. And weird stuff that falls out of the sky. Among other things.”

  Jeremy nodded. He knew then that his brother was going to believe what he had seen. Believe that there could be truth behind the figures he saw in his dreams. Once, long ago, for several dizzying moments, they had both believed a blue heron was a pterodactyl. Brothers were not as likely to scoff at each other’s beliefs, even if they later proved to have been misinterpretations. With a deep gratefulness that brought with it a surprising infusion of calm, Jeremy asked, “Pepperoni and extra cheese?”

  “Sounds good,” Allen said. They shared the same taste in pizza.

  ««—»»

  “So you think the stuff they found in the lake,” Jeremy said, sitting beside his brother on the sofa with a half-empty Corona in his hand, “these little balls of slime…they have something to do with the UFO sightings.”

  “Well, it’s pretty suspicious that both weird things have occurred at the same time, don’t you think?” Allen had the book Cryptids open across his knees. “Of course it could be something that grew in the water. But what if it isn’t? What if it fell from the sky, Jer? You’ve heard reports of that; we used to love stories like that as kid
s. Look here.” He flipped a few pages in the library book. “One time a red-colored rain fell for thirty minutes straight in the,” he struggled with the pronunciation, “Nghe An province in Vietnam.”

  “Pollution.”

  Allen ignored him, and read, “‘Unidentified viscous substances have been recovered on occasion from crop circles.’” He zig-zagged his finger down the page. “‘In 1876, shreds of meat drifted down from the sky onto a field in Kentucky, falling in great volume but covering only an area of 100 yards by 50 yards. The meat was described as tasting like mutton or venison.’”

  “Eww,” said Jeremy. “Who would want to try it? Maybe it’s UFOs dumping out the meat they collect from those cattle mutilations, huh?”

  “Hey,” Allen looked up at him, “I’m here to help you figure this stuff out, man. Are you taking this less seriously than I am?”

  “No,” Jeremy said in a less sarcastic tone. “I’m dead serious…believe me.”

  Returning to skimming the book, Allen related, “Another rain of meat occurred in 1968 in Brazil.”

  “We used to read about falls of frogs, and fish,” Jeremy recollected. “I remember reading about Charles Fort. He loved collecting stories about stuff like that. But I don’t know where UFOs would come into play, there. Probably just tornados sucking water out of ponds, animals and all, then dropping them again.”

  Allen said, “Wait, this is it. Listen to this part.” He began to read directly from the book once more. “‘In Oakville, Washington, on six different occasions throughout August of 1994, a rain of small gelatinous blobs fell over an area of twenty square miles. Numerous people were left violently ill and a large number of animals died, all apparently as a result of the mysterious rain of slime. The theory that the material was human waste ejected by an airliner was ruled out. One microbiologist who studied the apparently toxic goo reported having identified a eukaryotic cell, which is a cell found in most animals.’”

  “Animals?” Jeremy said.

  “‘In 1997, a similar fall of a transparent gelatinous substance occurred during a storm in Everett, Washington.’”

  “Could it be biological weapon?” Jeremy mused.

  Allen moved to another passage. “‘From 1998 through 2001, I have collected nearly forty cases of mysterious falling slime, ranging from Michigan to Pennsylvania to Utah to Canada. In Lakeland, Florida, a brownish gel-like material fell from the sky, and in an earlier instance, apparently the same brownish goo washed ashore all the way from Pensacola, Florida to Mobile, Alabama…’”

  “That sounds like the story about our Lake Pometacomet,” Jeremy observed, leaning closer to read over his brother’s shoulder.

  Allen read on. “‘Swimmers were the first to notice odd globules of a clear, gelatinous material floating in the water off Park Point, in Lake Superior.

  Investigators from the Natural Resources Research Institute and the Minnesota Sea Grant were unable to identify the material, which appeared in great numbers covering large areas.’”

  “Damn,” Jeremy said softly, taking it all in.

  Allen flipped back to a previous page he had skimmed over. “In that case in Oakville, Washington, one theory was that the Air Force was responsible, because they’d been dropping bombs about fifteen miles off shore. People thought these little raining blobs might be the remains of jellyfish blown out of the water by the bombs. A local bar even came up with a drink called the Jellyfish, made with vodka, juice and gelatin, to cash in on the controversy.”

  “Ha,” said Jeremy. “Sounds tastier than that falling venison.”

  ««—»»

  The brothers had set the book Cryptids aside, and in its place, Jeremy had brought out his collection of sketches of the figures and faces he saw in his dreams. He watched with intensity, and embarrassment, as Allen shuffled through them in grim silence.

  The figures were so stereotypical as to be a cliche. Jeremy was no great artist, and the sketches looked like drawings Allen’s own three-year-old son might make when prompted to draw his parents or himself. The barest essentials to suggest a body; little more than stick figures, with no hair, no clothing.

  Likewise, the faces of the dream beings were what his son might draw for human faces. Mere pinholes for nostrils, and no ears, because noses and ears were hard to draw. A slit for a mouth but no lips. And rough black circles as a simplification of eyes. They were like gingerbread men, or blank snowmen with features of coal, or the figures in cave art. More like abstracted symbols than actual representations of living beings.

  “And what are they doing to you in your dreams?” Allen asked his younger brother.

  “The usual stuff,” he joked bitterly. “Poking me, prodding me, trying to find out about me.” After a hesitation, he added, “They seem to be trying to communicate with me, but we can’t understand each other.”

  Nodding, Allen watched his brother’s face closely. He pointed to his marked forehead. “Seen a doctor about that yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why?” When Jeremy only shrugged, Allen persisted, “Look, that could be evidence. We should find out what caused it before it fades away altogether.”

  “Evidence,” Jeremy echoed. He met Allen’s eyes. “Do you think I was abducted by a UFO, then? And they erased the experience from my mind?

  And that’s why I lost a whole week of my memories?”

  “I’m just saying…because you saw a UFO last night. Because other people in Eastborough have seen UFOs. And that stuff in the lake…”

  “You believe I was abducted, don’t you?” Jeremy repeated.

  In front of his chest, Allen held up one particular drawing of the classic alien face, now a pop culture icon. Once people had claimed visitations by angels. In the age of science, angels had evolved into aliens. “Well, what can we make of all this?”

  “I’m not arguing with you,” Jeremy said. “I’m just making sure we’re on the same page, here.”

  “We are,” Allen assured him.

  “What does Laurie think of this?” Jeremy asked warily. “How much have you told her?”

  “I don’t want to get into this with her. I can’t see her taking it very seriously.”

  “Shannon wouldn’t have been into it, either,” Jeremy muttered. “She didn’t believe in anything that she couldn’t buy in a mall. Yeah, I’d rather the less people who know about any of this, the better. Even Mum.”

  “Jeremy,” Allen began. He chewed his thoughts a moment longer before he resumed. “Your .38 and some shells were in your book bag, right? And you said you had a plastic bag full of soda bottles…”

  “Soda cans,” Jeremy corrected.

  “…soda cans in the kitchen. You were going shooting, you think.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Out in the woods. Near the swamp, where we always used to go.”

  “Probably. That would be the only place I would think to shoot.”

  “Do you think that maybe you weren’t just planning to go? Do you think you might have actually gone, then come back here, but you just don’t remember it?”

  Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t sound so far fetched. Relatively speaking.”

  “I say we go out there, and look around.”

  “What— now? In the dark? I don’t think so.”

  “Tomorrow, as soon as I get out of work.”

  “What will Laurie think of you coming over here two days in a row?”

  “Laurie doesn’t dislike you, y’know.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Hey, if anything, I used to get the impression that Shannon wasn’t crazy about me. Let’s drop it. I’ll worry about Laurie. What do you think?”

  “Okay,” Jeremy said. “But bring me back my gun tomorrow. I’m not going out in those woods unarmed.”

  -FIVE-

  “What’s the arsenal for?” Allen cried out to Jeremy, who was in the bathroom, as he peeked into Jeremy’s knapsack-like book bag. Besides the returned .38 />
  and a box of cartridges, he had found his brother’s rusty old Army Surplus bayonet he hadn’t seen in years. In their teens they had both collected knives and pored over gun magazines, when they had both fancied themselves as angst-ridden and misunderstood Travis Bickle types. Now every teenage boy was Travis Bickle.

  Jeremy returned from the bathroom, having tied his long dark hair into a ponytail. “In case we meet up with the things that abducted me…what do you think? They aren’t getting me again. You should have brought a weapon, too.

  Take the bayonet.”

  Allen ignored him, and gingerly held up a blister pack of three tubular, handheld marine signal flares, one of which was missing. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I bought it off my coworker Gary, about five years ago. We shot one off on the Fourth of July. It’s in case we get lost in the woods.”

  “Five years ago? It would probably go off in your face if it went off at all.”

  “Hey, I’m not your three-year-old son, okay?” Jeremy took the flares out of his brother’s hand and replaced them into the backpack. “I’m ready.”

  ««—»»

  They rode to Pine Grove Cemetery in Jeremy’s car, and on the way Allen had the book Cryptids by cryptozoologist and paranormal researcher Abraham Villa open in his lap. He had chanced upon an intriguing sub-chapter about a kind of phenomenon or manifestation referred to as “rods.”

  Villa wrote: “Rods have appeared frequently in photographs, naturally not always of an unimpeachable character, flittering about in the sky or even amongst people like streaking swarms of gnats. These so-dubbed rods are cylindrical in shape, calling to mind the cigar-shapes of some reported UFOs, but are typically only a few inches to several feet (though some say hundred of feet!) in length. They have been sighted in both air and water, and are reportedly lined with membranes that allow them to swim through air (some witnesses describe centipede-like legs). These membranes can be seen in some photographs. The theory that the rods might be an unknown species of insect, or some other animal form—perhaps transdimensional—is not without merit.”