Another undead soldier fell beneath the magical sword of his Grim. Erik hit pause before sliding the console under his pillow and sitting up.
“Dinner’s ready, Erik!”
“Phone call!” He thumbed the receive button. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Erikkkk…”
It was Ellen.
“Yeah, yeah. Make it quick, sis. It’s spaghetti night.”
“It’s Ellllen…”
“Yeah, no duh. I already guessed that. What do you want? And why are you talking like that?”
“I’m calling from beyondddd…”
Erik frowned, then he started laughing. He remembered the call from this morning. Boy had she been pissed this time.
“What do you want?”
“A messsssage…”
Damn! That’s right. He was supposed to tell Mom and Dad something. What the hell was it? Something about tonight.
“You wanna talk with Mom?”
“It’s okayyyy. I don’t blame yooooou…”
“Blame…? For what? Are you coming home tonight or not?”
“Erik!” his mother called from downstairs.
“I said I’ll be right there! I’m on the phone.” Then, to Ellen, “Where are you?”
“The train…”
“Yeah, got that, dude. But where are you? The Wastes?”
“Tell Mom and Dad that I love themmmm…”
“Yeah, I’ll do that. Not. You tell them when they pick you up.” The line clicked quietly, sounding hollow and empty. “Ellen… Ellen? I’m hanging up now. Ellen? Fine, hang up on me, see if I care.”
Erik thumbed the disconnect button, amused that she’d try to use his own joke to get back at him. “Weirdo.” Then he went downstairs.
The kitchen was empty, though the table was now set. The TV was still on.
“Mom? Dad? Come on or I’ll start without you.”
“Be right there. Who were you talking to?”
“Ellen. She called this morning.”
“She all right?”
“Yeah. Just the usual. She said she’s coming home tonight.”
“Tonight? She didn’t say— I thought she was coming tomorrow.”
“Nope. Tonight.”
“Damn short notice.”
“Uh, yeah. You know how forgetful she’s been lately.”
His mother frowned. “Are you sure she said tonight, Erik?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. She was acting all weird.”
“Which train?”
Erik thought back to the morning’s call. “Twelve thirty. Arriving at nine at Newland.”
His father looked at his watched, frowned.
His mother stood up and shut the TV off. “Still lots of time, Hal. Let’s eat.”
“Already ahead of you, Mom,” Erik said, sitting down. He forked himself a huge plateful of pasta and smothered it with sauce and meatballs.
His mother laughed and shook her head. “Save some for the rest of us.”
“Hey, I’m a growing boy.”
† † †
Mr. and Mrs. Grabowski arrived at Newland Station ten minutes before the nine-thirty Boston train was due to arrive. The digital sign above the ticket seller’s booth indicated the train was delayed.
“Do you have any idea when it’ll be in?” Mr. Grabowski asked.
The seller shook his head and went back to sorting papers.
“Do you know the cause of the delay?”
“Fire,” the seller said. “Somewhere in New York City. That’s all I’ve been told.”
Mr. Grabowski exhaled through clenched teeth and turned to his wife. He shrugged. “I guess we wait.”
There was only one other person in the station, an elderly woman sitting off by herself on one of the benches. She was bundled up in a thick wool overcoat, the color of sand. She sat watching the Grabowskis. Her eyes were dark, flecked silvery gray like her hair.
“Are you waiting for the Boston train?” she asked them.
Mrs. Grabowski went over and sat next to the woman, nodding. “Our daughter’s on it.”
“The lovely bride-to-be,” the woman said.
Mrs. Grabowski’s smiled faltered. “Yes. How did you know?”
“She looks just like you.”
Mrs. Grabowski slid her eyes over to her husband and made a face, as if to say, “Save me from this wacko!”
“There was a fire,” the woman said.
“Excuse me?”
“In New York. The train was delayed at first.”
“Yes, we heard,” Mrs. Grabowski replied. “I hope everything’s all right.”
“For one, yes.”
Mr. Grabowski joined them. He touched his wife’s arm, drawing her attention away from the strange old woman.
“We should let Erik know we’ll be late and not to expect us. I think I saw a payphone just outside the door. Do you have any change?”
The old woman handed them her cell phone. It was thin but heavy, and as black as the woman’s eyes.
“That’s all right,” Mrs. Grabowski said, glancing at it. She recognized the familiar logo of Todd’s company on the screen and the catchphrase: “Powered by ArcWare Technologies.”
The woman pushed the phone into Mrs. Grabowski’s hand. “I think you’ll find that you won’t be able to get through with the payphone.”
Outside of the station, a thin white powder had begun to settle on the warm ground. It didn’t melt.
‡ ‡
Author’s note
Many stories begin with a kernel of an idea, and very often, like the mature plant that sprouts from that seed, the finished tale doesn’t resemble that nascent idea. This is true for Reached in Error.
I originally hadn’t planned anything occult to happen. It was supposed to be a story about a brother and sister constantly at each other’s throats until a sick jokes gets taken too far. Siblings Ellen and Erik exemplify, I think, and typify many such relationships. They find ways to get underneath each other’s skin; the teasing escalates until somebody ends up sorry.
It’s hard for me decide who I sympathize with most in this story. I think if I had to choose, it would be Erik. I’m just imagining his reaction when he gets that call from his folks at the end.
‡
RAISE THE DEAD
“If I had listened what Mama said, I’d be at home today.
“Being so young and foolish, poor boy, let a rambler lead me astray.”
—from the old English ballad, Rising Sun Blues
Someone was calling his name—shouting it—but Chris chose to ignore it and keep right on playing. Not now! his mind screamed. His fingers flew up the neck of his guitar, banging the frets. Nothing was going to stop him now!
He heard Johnny, the drummer, drop out, but he kept right on playing. He hadn’t been in this sweet a groove in weeks. If felt good to finally be making progress. He didn’t want to waste the momentum they’d built up.
The chords rolled off his fingers like electrified honey. They singed the air like molten steel! They—
“Christopher!”
Not now!
But now Alex’s vocals faltered. His bass gave a lonely twang and fell silent.
“Pick it up, man! Don’t stop!” Chris shouted to the boys above the electric whine of the amplifiers. But it was all him now.
The pick he was using flipped out of his fingers and sailed off somewhere into a corner of his parents’ garage. He swiped another one off the paperclip that was taped to his mic and kept going, barely missing a single note.
“Alex!” he shouted. “Where are you, man? I need some bass! Johnny, give me some rhythm!”
As he reached the song’s climax, he fell to his knees, laying into a riff that could’ve shattered glass—or would’ve, if he’d had the amps turned all the way up instead of halfway down. He could feel the music in his spine, zipping through it, reaching into the back of his head with its hot metal fingers. He could taste the sweet sounds in the roof o
f his mouth. It pounded in his ears, in his eyes. “Bring me up, bay-beee!” he screamed. Okay, so a little off key, but so what? He wasn’t a singer, he was a guitarist. Vocals was supposed to be Alex’s job. That’s what they’d brought him on for. But if he wasn’t going to sing—
His hand slid down the strings, letting out an electric groan that echoed the one grinding down his spine. He followed it by ratcheting his hand back up in a discordant crescendo that sounded like a banshee in the throes of ecstasy.
“Bring me up, baybee, or crush—”
“Christopher Michael Stephens!”
His guitar went totally lifeless in his hands, the notes suddenly sounding weak and pitiful. His eyes popped open.
The music died away, fizzling out around them like the settling of radioactive dust. His ears kept ringing. Or maybe it was the amp on reverb. He couldn’t tell.
“Mom?”
She was standing in the door leading into the house, one hand on her hip, the other holding the end of the extension cord that powered their amps. Her lips formed a thin white line of disapproval.
“What’s up, Mrs. S?” Alex chirped. He was trying hard to hide a smirk and not doing a very good job of it.
Mrs. Stephens ignored the older boy and kept glaring at her son. “I told you to turn it down.”
“We did.”
“Well, it’s still too loud. We can’t even hear ourselves think inside.”
Chris looked over at his jamming partners for help. They shrugged at him but didn’t say anything.
“Come on, Mom, what do you want me to do? We’ve already turned the amps down.”
“Turn them down some more then. Or I’m going to unplug them.”
“Unplug? Aw, man—”
“Quieter, Chris. Or you’ll have to find somewhere else to play.”
“Mom, you can’t—”
“Yes. I can. And I will if you don’t turn it down!”
She threw the cord to the floor, turned around and went back inside, mumbling something as she went.
Chris waited until she shut the door before he turned and asked, “Did either of you catch that last bit?”
Alex shook his head. “Nope. Not a single word.”
“She said it sounds horrible,” Johnny piped up, “like we’re trying to raise the dead or something.”
Alex groaned. “Johnny!” He dropped his head into his hands and shook it.
“Raise the—” Chris sputtered. “What the hell?” He kicked at the cord. “She’s killing me. How could she say that? She doesn’t know—”
“Chillax, man,” Alex said. “I don’t think she meant it.”
“Yeah, Chris,” Johnny agreed, picking up on Alex’s cue. “Chill.”
“Can it,” Chris said. “Both of you.”
Alex leaned over the drums and smacked Johnny on the head. “Good save,” he whispered.
“Really?”
Chris stalked around the cramped garage, muttering beneath his breath. Finally he reached down and gave the amplifier knob a vicious flick of his wrist, sending the dial all the way down to zero
“I didn’t say this last time, man,” Johnny whined, “but how am I supposed to turn my drums down? How am I supposed to drum quieter?”
“I don’t know,” Chris snapped. “Bang softer.”
“Bang…softer? Is that what you think I do? Bang?”
Alex started laughing.
“Not funny, man,” Chris said, spinning on the older boy and pointing his finger.
“Okay, but…bang?” Alex said, still laughing.
“I’m a guitarist, not a drummer. What do I know about drumming?”
“Bang?”
Chris ignored him and turned back to Johnny. “Don’t you have, like, softer sticks or something?”
“Yeah, don’t you have, like Q-tips, or something, man?” Alex said. He was sitting on the floor holding his stomach.
“Aargggh!” Chris said, gesturing at nobody in particular. “See what I have to deal with?”
He leaned his guitar against a box of old clothes and started pacing again. Each time he reached a wall, he gave it another kick. On his fourth trip, they heard Mrs. Stephens’s muffled voice coming through the wall, telling him to stop. Chris gave a moan of despair before flopping into the beanbag chair, practically disappearing into it. The thing was the size of a small Volkswagen and occupied a huge chunk of the floor space.
They’d been using his parents’ garage for the past week to rehearse and, at least until tonight, it hadn’t been a problem. His mother worked evenings at the 911 emergency dispatch center, but she’d been asked to cover days for someone out on sick leave. Tonight was her first night home in what seemed like ages.
While it was nice having her home in the evening—the dinners his father made were tasteless concoctions of mystery meat and barely recognizable vegetables—Chris found himself wishing more and more that that she’d just go back to working nights. Crappy dinners aside, he’d gotten used to being able to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and however as loud as he wanted it to be.
Once again, he found himself envying Alex, who lived on his own.
“So, are we done for the night?” Alex asked. He started packing away his bass.
“Just give me minute to think,” Chris said. He started rubbing the spot above his right eye. It was his thinking spot, the one he rubbed whenever he wrote music. It was also the spot he rubbed when he was frustrated. It was also a signal to the other band members not to bother him. They waited in silence.
After a few minutes, Chris looked up. “Maybe we can soundproof the walls.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“What?”
“Soundproof?” Alex said, shaking his head. “Not a chance.”
“Why not?”
“You know what it takes to do that?”
“I’m a—”
“Guitarist. Yeah, yeah, I know. Not an engineer.”
Even though they’d only known each other for a few weeks, the routine was already comfortable. Chris made a gun with his fingers and shot Alex in the forehead with it. “You got it.”
“So, what now?” Johnny asked.
Chris pounded the beanbag in frustration. “Well, we can’t go back to your place.” He gave the drummer an accusing look. Johnny’s neighbors had complained about them playing in their garage.
“I’m not going back there,” Alex said. “It wasn’t even a real garage. More like a carport. I keep telling you we should practice at my place. It’s perfect.”
Chris gave him a dirty look. He didn’t know exactly where Alex lived, just that it was outside of town. None of them had cars, so it wasn’t exactly convenient.
“Well, your mom didn’t kick us out,” Johnny said. It was obvious he didn’t want to have to move his drums again. Especially to some place too far away. “She just asked—”
“To turn off the amps, basically,” Chris interrupted. “You’re killing me, man. You said it yourself: we can’t play quieter.”
Johnny rose from the milk crate he was using for a stool and walked over to the others. He was short, stocky kid, and the patches of peach fuzz on his chin and cheeks made him look like a hamster with a skin condition. Though he didn’t look the part, he was a wild man. At least on drums, anyway.
“Looks like Ten-Forty is D.O.A.,” he said.
“Don’t say that!” Chris snapped.
Johnny recoiled in surprise.
“Sorry.” Chris looked over at the bassist and nodded. “Fine, you win. We’ll check out your place. Where is it anyway?”
“Wivver Street.”
“River Street?”
“Wivver, not River.”
“And where exactly is that?”
“Eastside. Out past the highway. Alongside the tracks.”
“Eastside? The only thing that I know of out there is the old Alden Cemetery.”
“Then, my guitar-picking friend, you would be only partially correct. Ther
e’s the cemetery and my place.”
Chris and Johnny frowned, trying to understand. “I didn’t know there anyone lived out there. Is this a new neighborhood?”
“No. No houses. It’s a… Let’s just call it a big empty building.”
“You live in a big empty building?” Johnny said. “Is it even legit?”
“Of course it’s legit!”
Chris shushed them. “More importantly, is there room for us to set up our equipment?”
Alex nodded. “Absolutely. And we can be as loud as we want and nobody’ll even care a whit.”
“What’s a whit?” Johnny asked, looking at Chris.
“How am I supposed to know? I’m a guitarist. You’re the wordsmith.”
Johnny snorted.
“And I promise you,” Alex said, giving them both a sly grin, “the neighbors won’t complain at all. In fact, I’ll bet they even like it.”
† † †
The three boys met at the Froyo Hut after school let out the next day. Johnny was still doubtful that it was going to work to hold practices so far from their homes near the center of town, but Chris had already made up his mind, and Ten-Forty was his band, so his vote was the one that mattered most. Or, that is, the only one that mattered at all.
They set out for the long walk to Alex’s to scope the place out, taking the railroad tracks since it was the most direct route out there.
It was a warm afternoon, unusually clear for so late in October. The entire calendar had been pushed back a month or more. Spring had stalled over the town with its endless rains until nearly June, when things finally started to warm up. Even summer lingered later than expected, disappointing the hordes of fall color sightseers that flocked to their part of the country in September every year.
The leaves stayed green and lush right through the second week in October. But just in the past week or so, the weather had started to cool. It almost seemed as if they’d just skip right over fall and go straight to winter. The leaves had finally started to turn, and now the maples lining the train tracks were flush with brightly-colored foliage. The leaves were dropping fast, stripped by a wind that was still warm but with a chill edge to it, boding ill. It dumped the leaves in heaps in corners and against fences, where they promptly began to rot.
Insomnia: Paranormal Tales, Science Fiction, & Horror Page 16
