Ghost Rider: Stories by Jonathan Lowe

by Jonathan Lowe

  The weeping willow wept.

  Over the fence, a very fat man sat in a circle of television light, a swallowing machine, a human disposal. Behind him, against the garage, was what was once a beautiful Italian-framed racing bike, its Campagnolo pantographed components now crusted, its spokes rusted from neglect and rain.

  But Peter Fibbs was not impressed.

  "You're crazy,” he said. “You need school."

  "But Mrs. Robbins isn't screaming anymore,” I said, defensively. “And here she is, pumping him big as a blimp, bringing him ten course dinners, complete with desert and beer. What would you think?"

  "I'd say they made up,” Peter Fibbs said. “And so would anyone else."

  "But that's exactly my point!"

  "Give it up, Donny,” he said. “You been readin too many detective stories. Or maybe watchin too much TV like him ... especially mysteries."

  He laughed. “'Sides, vacation's over, an’ you're just trying to delay it."

  "Oh sure,” I said, dully. “That's it, sure."

  Just then, the screen door opened on our house. Mom leaned out. “Time for supper!” she called.

  "See you tomorrow,” said Peter Fibbs, his back to me already.

  I watched Peter mount his Schwinn and glide out and down the street without pedaling, with all the time in the world. Peter Fibbs. Sometimes I wonder why I bothered. Where was his sense of adventure, anyway? How did I rate such a dullard for a friend in the first place? Whenever we'd talked about the future, was it ever him who thought of NASA first? No, Peter wanted to be like his dad. An accountant. What kind of future was that?

  After Peter was gone I tugged Ernie's hand and, reluctantly, we went in to eat.

  * * * *

  In the dining room Dad sat, drinking coffee. Meanwhile Mom was serving dinner: veal cutlets and mash potatoes.

  "Dad?” I said.

  "Yes, son?"

  "Dad, I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I have a theory about Mrs. Robbins trying to murder the Cy ... I mean, MR. Robbins. With a heart attack."

  Dad let out something like a war hoop, and slapped his own widening paunch. “It wouldn't surprise me, son,” he laughed. “Just shows ya what all that fitness jive comes to, don't it?"

  "Careful now, dear,” said Mom, holding the table steady, and then, seeing me toy with my fork: “Now what made you say something like that, Donald?"

  I told her. She stared at me with a face like a jury member filing in for the verdict.

  "Maybe you should check it out, Paul,” said Mom, still expressionless.

  "Oh, PLEASE, Dad,” I said. “Say you'll come and check it out?"

  Dad shook his head like parents do sometimes just because they can.

  "There's a heavyweight fight on in a minute. I can't miss that."

  "But this is important,” I pleaded one last time.

  Dad looked at me funny-like. “So's this,” he said.

  And then that same sense of sadness came over me, just like it had with Peter Fibbs. But this time it was multiplied by the feeling of farewells. Farewell to summer, hello to long gray autumn days of drizzle and homework. Farewell to Junior High, hello to acne and SAT scores. Farewell to imagination, and hello to ... what? CPA school? Job interviews? Retirement programs?

  "No dessert tonight, Donald?” asked Mom as I pushed back my plate.

  * * * *

  After dinner, Mom went into the kitchen, and started on the dishes. Lips sealed. Of course I never really expected her to take my side. She was neutral. Like Switzerland. Maybe it was safer that way because she had to live with Dad while I was away at school, growing up way before my time.

  I watched Dad go into the living room and cut on the TV. He'd already forgotten about me. He just settled back into his leather armchair, and gave out this little self-satisfied sigh, almost like he'd mastered the secret of how to make us kids invisible. “Bring me a beer, will ya?” he called to Mom.

  Mom opened the refrigerator.

  Mom passed us with Dad's beer. “Time for bed,” she said finally, turning Ernie toward the hall with her hand. “School tomorrow, bright and early."

  I saw on the TV there was a program with cyclists racing across America. They all looked so exhausted, but thin and healthy. Watching them, Dad was expressionless too. Just sitting there, like he was one of those department store mannequins. Not thinking, not remembering. Nothing. I was reminded of that Martian movie where all the town's people got these transmitters planted in back of their heads, and they're being remotely controlled by the aliens. It felt eerie, thinking that, because Dad was always in control of most things. And sure enough, when Mom came in he suddenly seemed to see her pulling at Ernie, who was whining.

  "Do I have to—"

  "MOVE!” said Mom.

  Mom was acting oddly too, somehow. And there was something in the way she looked at me over dinner. I figured she'd wanted to go out that night, only Dad got his way again because he could talk louder. Mom would never try and shout back at him, of course. Usually she just went into her room and closed the door for a while. Then she'd come out with red eyes.

  Usually, but not that night.

  We went to our room. Ernie started to slam the door, but I stopped him, and left it open a crack. For some reason I wanted to hear what Mom said, and if she was all right out there with Dad, the robot. But when Ernie started hitting me, I had to defend myself.

  "Well, I thought it was a good theory,” I said, trying hard now to imagine the sirens going, the Cyclist sitting there limp and pasty-faced next to his rusted racing bike, the TV blaring, and that one woman ... smiling. “I thought so, anyway."

  As I unbuttoned my shirt and threw it down Ernie went over to where Mom had laid out our school clothes across the bureau. “You NEED school,” he mimicked Peter Fibbs exact words. Then we slid into bed and cut the light.

  It was in the pitch darkness a moment later that Ernie said, like it had just hit him: “Summer's over."

  "Imagine that,” I said sadly, and pulled the covers snug.

  We listened to the muffled TV noises coming from the living room, and once or twice more heard Dad call: “Another beer in there!” and Mom answer: “Coming right up, dear! ... You want another roast pork sandwich?"

  BACHELOR PAD

  (originally published in The Raven)

  "Look at this, detective,” said agent Fletcher of the Nogales, Arizona Border Patrol, and pointed to a small spiral notebook on the floor.

  Private detective Bryant strolled across the vanished bachelor's threadbare ranch house bedroom, a languid smile shaping his lips. He picked up the notepad, then aimed it around like a loaded weapon. “Not even a Carmen Electra poster, Fisher stereo or Sony plasma number in here,” he observed with with a sigh, “but he does have that funky box springs, with Einstein hanging on the wall.” He sniffed the air, experimentally. “No signs of this being a crack house, either, that I can tell. But with keys in the kitchen for the company van out front. How well do you know Nick, did you say?"

  "Just knew him by sight, is all,” Fletcher replied. “Word has it he's quiet, with simple tastes."

  "Simple?” Bryant shook his head, dismissively. “For being the sole heir to a men's magazine empire, that makes no sense at all.” In emphasis, the P.I. jabbed the notebook in the direction of some haphazardly scattered or discarded books. “Here's a guy who could have it all, and what's he do, Fletcher? He takes the civil service exam, rents a ranch house out in the boonies, and after rounding up his quota of illegals, reads biographies, historical mysteries and Scientific American. Question is, why wouldn't a strong, healthy guy entertain the option of sharing a jacuzzi with supermodels?"

  "You mean, is he a closet gay? You're the detective."

  "Am I? Well, I detect a blind alley. ‘Cause he's not gay, from what I understand. Not anything. Not even a disappointment. His old man brags about him being part of your Border Patrol.” Bryant tapped the note pad twice against the fist he ma
de with his other hand, then held it up. “Anyone take a peek at this yet, Fletcher?"

  "No, sir. We're the first here, like you requested."

  "Think it's a list of babes he could have asked out, but didn't?"

  Fletcher shook his head. “That's not my first guess."

  Bryant blew out a breath, wearily. “Well, I hope it explains why he's livin’ like a monk, when he's got access to a mansion with wall to wall centerfolds."

  "Sounds like you seen that mansion yourself,” the younger man said, and not without interest.

  Bryant narrowed his gaze for a second, giving a sly smile. “That I have, son. But it was years ago, at a convention for private dicks.” He sighed again, slumped into a ratty wicker chair, and at last thumbed open the spiral notebook. “And now I've been hired to explain the call his father got from the bank. So lemme see what we got here before we do anything rash. Okay?"

  Fletcher said nothing, and watched him read.

  * * * *

  6/4—My name is Nicholas Carter. I am a single man, age 40, never married, and I have worked for the Arizona Border Patrol for 15 years in good standing. My hobbies include reading and classical music. I particularly enjoy history and science. What I can tell you now is that string theory is no theory. I don't claim to understand it, but what I know for sure is that physicists are right when they talk about extra dimensions in space beyond what we perceive, and the possibility of there being parallel universes which are like membranes of a higher reality. Not only is this true, but these membranes can be crossed at rare points and chance intersections. I've done it, you see, and I plan to do it again.

  It happened at 7:07 AM, two days ago. The first thing that struck me was the sense that my vision was blurred. Upon opening my closet door, I saw that my hanging wardrobe appeared to be a double image, with a tight or narrow overlap, as though viewed through a calcite crystal. I hesitated reaching in, and then for a moment put my hand to my head, instead. A disorientation, like dizziness, seized me. I shut my eyes hard, then opened them again, blinking, but the peculiar sight remained. I turned to look at the room, at objects in it that appeared normal: the night stand, lamp, my shoes on the floor. Then I turned back, and saw that the double image was a bit wider now. Over an inch out of synch, as if an identical photograph behind the original was being pulled slowly into view.

  I slammed shut the door, and ran outside in a panic. There I saw a kind of rainbow that terminated at my house. Only it wasn't a rainbow, exactly. The colors extended in a plane straight up into the cloudless sky, in a blurred and mostly transparent image that did not curve out toward the horizon, but seemed to fade instead, as if the plane or membrane extended to infinity in all directions, leaving only visibly defracted light in the segment that cut through my house. When I returned to my bedroom, and found enough courage to face the closet door again, it opened this time on a dim light, and a space between the two separated images, which had expanded by more than their full width apart. What I saw in that space was a desert valley illuminated by a pale sun much larger and more orange than our own. A broken stone bridge stretched part way between two opposing peaks, and encrusted machinery lay next to what appeared to be a kind of elevator at the base. I stared in amazement, imagining it all to be some elaborate projection. But then I caught the scent from over there—from that parallel world—and it was like rust and sun baked cinnamon. Something real. So real that, without considering the consequences, I took a step forward, on impulse. And then another step, and finally another. At the last step, I turned my head to see that I was now beyond the back wall of the closet, but still within reach of it. Only I was standing on slate gray rock, like irregular slabs of stone stretching for a quarter mile to where the thing that resembled an elevator stood.

  I jumped back in a momentary return of fright, then stretched out one hand to touch a blue shirt which hung beside me. I felt the cotton fabric in the cool dimness, then pulled it free to see the clothes hanger rock in place, back into stillness.

  I stepped carefully back out of the closet into my room, but this time didn't shut the door for fear the opening would close as well. Afraid even to look away, I sat on the bed and watched for some change, until the idea occurred to me to get my camera and also to measure the opening, which now appeared stable. After that, instead of dialing 911, I decided I would get a canteen of water and go on a quick expedition, once I determined the risk was worth taking. And so I did.

  The air of this world contains less oxygen, but is not uncomfortably to breathe. The predominately orange light, together with the spice scent, somehow gave me the impression of great age. I had not walked more than a few steps on the slate rock when I turned back to see if the interface had changed at all. An identical rainbow-like fuzz extended from it, up through the rock and the sky. I could see that the light coming through my closet was brighter than on the alien world, so I continued my trek toward the distant machinery.

  The elevator was caked with orange dust, but at the confluence of two oblong halves was a door like white glass bearing a horizontal ring of some metal alloy. I pulled this ring, and the thing gave an audible crack and then came slowly open, like a bank vault door of enormous weight. An acrid scent more pungent than the ubiquitous spice odor wafted out, and I discovered several controls inside shaped like wheels in a pedestal of green stone. Turning several produced no effect. I estimated the elevator to be twenty feet tall, with curved sides tapering to a nest of wires, perhaps a light fixture. The width of it was approximately twelve feet, and the floor appeared to be riveted metal plating, with flush rivets and circular groves glutted with dust.

  I left the elevator to look for some other way up, and in so doing used the binoculars I'd taken with me to check again on my interface at the narrow end of the box canyon. But the light still shone with the same comforting strength as before, and the opening seemed just as wide—or possibly a bit wider—considering my calculations. High above stretched the bridge, which was also the color of ochre, and had a texture like stone. It was approximately two hundred feet across at a height of perhaps five hundred feet, but broken at midpoint by a missing section of about one-fifth of the span. The bridge appeared to be thick and wide enough to support a bus or tank, but had no sides to it, and disappeared into an octagonal hole in the cliff side, where a man-sized instrument resembling a brass sundial stood sentry. The other cliff's tunnel was blocked by a massive door.

  I found a staircase winding up from the wrong side, and realized that I would not be able to access the open tunnel from there. But I was determined to see inside, at least. The steps were high and steep, made of stone like rough granite. The final hundred feet or so they took a tighter curl around and inside a sculpted excavation graced by enigmatic designs that I first took to be coring marks left by whatever had hollowed out the upper cliff face next to the bridge. But then I saw that the circular rays drew closer together toward the top, and were attenuated by hooks that resembled arrows.

  When I finally emerged onto the bridge itself, I discovered it to be covered in blue squares of stone two feet in diameter, each one unique and with a cryptic design, free of dust due to a noticeable breeze coming through the canyon at that height. I walked toward the edge and the open tunnel on the other side, but couldn't see beyond about fifty feet inside, where the ambient light faded. But I could detect a shape there, like an amorphous sculpture well behind the sun dial, if that's what it was. Except this sun appeared too large and dim for it to be that. I cursed myself for not bringing a powerful flashlight, and then turned to use my binoculars again on the opening through which I'd entered this world. It appeared to be the same, but I decided to return anyway. I took photos, and noticed that my flash revealed the shape in the tunnel to be crystalline, with pipes or tubes protruding from it that attached it to the floor. The tunnel itself appeared to curve further in, like a large labyrinthine cave with drooping metal rails affixed to its sides. I determined I would need a 20 foot extension ladder to
bridge the span to the other side.

  Facing the massive door behind me, I noticed an image of this sun and world was depicted there, along with a starburst image further away. I went to the door, and placed my ear against it, but heard nothing. I banged on it with my fist, but there was no hollow thrumming. I next assessed the crack at the base of the door, and felt a slight breeze coming up from below. So the door obviously lowered somehow, but by what mechanism I could not determine.

  I was in the very act of wondering if any latent energy still existed, if life didn't, when I suddenly saw a light above me, and noticed a glow atop a thin metallic pole high in the rocks above me. The light grew in intensity until it was too bright to look at, then quickly faded, leaving what looked like a small copper ball similar to what is found atop some lightning rods. Had I activated it, somehow? Was it a beacon, and would someone be coming soon in response? Maybe I could get higher to see from where the light might be visible. But then fear swept me, and I decided to return to my house instead. There, at the interface, as I watched and waited, I was startled to see a bird, very high in the sky. As it glided overhead I considered the implications. There must be plants—maybe even oceans—elsewhere on this world!

  * * * *

  6/5—I recall reading about Gamma Ray Bursts, which are thought to come from hypernovas. The theory is that life has not been found via radio signals from space because these random hypernovas periodically exterminate whole parsecs of space throughout the universe. Maybe such a thing happened near this world, but not near enough to exterminate life completely. Perhaps, pre-event, the light here was not so orange? Of course I'm assuming that if this is really an alternate universe, existing in another dimension, similar laws of science apply. While it doesn't seem to get completely dark on this alternate world, I have seen points of light in the sky beyond the atmosphere every few hours, which appear to be the brightest or nearest stars. I have seen other birds too, although none have landed nearby. My GRB theory is bolstered by the fact that the multi-band radio I keep testing on the other side has failed to detect any signals on any frequency. I shall continue to take digital photos, along with temperature and humidity readings, until I decide what to do next. I'm storing these on my computer's hard drive under the file “Ochre,” which is my new name for this world. A measurement of the width of my interface has shown a 6 centimeter shortening of the opening in the last 24 hours, so I have limited time to decide what to do.