Michael swam on towards the mangled, bone-white face. Five more tendrils appeared, which multiplied into ten, and then twenty—all slithering in and out of the dark. He saw the end of a tendril wrapped around the boy. Mama produced another low rumbling hum, then tossed the boy. The body shot past Michael and floated to the water’s surface. Michael tried to follow the boy up, but he was running out of air.
He glanced down and saw the ends of the long cords around the mask. They were hands—long snakes that ended in a human hand. Michael flailed forward. The boy’s body was nowhere to be seen. The light at the surfaced seemed to change. It was now orange, as if the sun suddenly set on the timeless grass field. He felt one hand slither around his heel, and he kicked it off. He was close to the surface, ten, now five feet away.
Michael splashed out of the water; his torso heaved over the edge. The ground around him felt different, but he didn’t think about it. His first priority was getting out of the water. A hand grabbed his shoe, and he booted it away as he swung his legs over the surface.
He laid on his stomach as he caught his breath. He lifted a limp hand out and felt the area. Wood? Michael opened his eyes and found himself on an old wooden floor. Water trailed down his face and fell off the underside of his chin. An Orange glow filled the left side of his vision.
He turned towards the glow and saw a stone fireplace, and a red and yellow rug replaced the hole he had just swam out of. A creaking sound came from the left side of the room. He pulled himself up and saw an old woman swaying in a rocking chair. He was in a cramped cabin. The windows looked like someone had painted their panes black.
The old woman in a yellow floral dress cackled to herself and then spoke, “Ya lost ain’t ya, boy?”
Michael tapped the rug with the end of his shoe, expecting it to ripple like water. “What was down there?” He said, creeping towards the door by the windows.
“That’s me.” She turned towards him. Michael flinched, expecting to see that warped face she saw at the bottom of the water. Her face was worn yet welcoming. Her gray hair billowed from her head like a miniature rain cloud. “Mama took care of ya. Go on. Look out the front door.”
Michael kept his eyes on her as he sidestepped towards the doorway. The door opened to pitch black. The wide green line of the fields lay in the center of the dark.
“Ya made it to the deep. This was where ya were headed, right?”
Michael glanced at the floorboards and collected his thoughts, “What are you? What happened to that boy?”
“Boy’s fine,” the woman chuckled to herself. “It’s you we oughta’ be worried about. I‘m a Elder One. Like a universal janita’ cleanin’ up messes in the timelines.” She stood up from the chair and shimmied towards him, her bare feet producing rough shaker-like sounds across the wood floor. He stepped back, wishing he could just melt away into the log walls. Shimmy, shimmy, shimmy. She stopped at the door, outstretched her hand, her arm literally stretching forward, and closed it. “Now you ain’t learn a thing, haven’t ya?” She waved him over to the other side of the room. “Come on, let me tell ya a little somethin’. Ya think life’s all pain, ain’t it?”
“Well,” Michael sighed and glanced towards the blank canvas above her. “Yeah… I do.”
“Now look towards this here paintin’ and tell me if ya see anythin’.”
Michael inspected the painting, the way jeweler would inspect a gem, “I don’t see anythin’.”
“Exactly!” Mama said. “Now come on over here and tell me what you see in this paintin’.” She shimmied towards the black painting near the fireplace.
Michael stood in front of it, searching every inch for some hidden number or a loose string. “There’s… nothin’ here either.”
“Oh, noooo, no….” Mama said, “You keep on lookin’ now.” Michael pulled his face within an inch of the painting. Crow black covered his entire field of vision. “Ya said ya knew what ya lookin’ at.” Mama’s voice echoed as if she were in a cave.
Michael spun back but couldn’t see her—couldn’t see anything. His entire vision was covered in black. He swiped his hand as if to break a canvas out in front of him, but only swiped at air. The darkness made him remember, “Cassiel! Please, I know you’re out there, can you help me?” He grabbed his pocket bible as if it were a lifeline.
“Oh, No! No! Ya can’t do that here,” Mama echoed. “Angels don’t belong here. Ya told me ya life’s fulla’ this. So, this ain’t no different, to be full of darkness. Ya gotta have things that light up your day? Name a few.”
Michael gasped as pain spiked up his legs. “I, I got my friends.” White drops fell from the sky and highlighted the ground as he spoke. He could see ivory tips of grass swaying in the grease black by his feet.
“Go on, anymore?”
“I-” his elbows produced quivering shocks causing the white below him to dissipate. “I, I got family!” A couple of droplets rained out in front of him, creating a floating porch outlined in frost white. Fire shook from his knees, and the shape of the porch flaked away.
“It’s perspective, know that pain, live with it.”
“I got church, I got my bible, my mom, chocolate milk, the car, books, my bed.” It began to rain white in the darkness. Out of the white ink, a house with three square front windows appeared, along with a mailbox with the word Browns printed on it. He wrote that. It was his house, drawn in white.
“Ya never see the full picture till ya change a bit of your perspective… Ya only take what ya see. Why don’t you go and walk on up there?” Michael stepped towards his house. The doorknob felt lukewarm. He opened it slowly, peeking his head out to see where it led. It was an entrance to the purple forest where he met Toro.
The door vanished as soon as Michael stepped through. “Toro!” Crows fled as Michael shouted. “Torooo!” There was no answer, only wind tangling between the trees. “Toro!” Michael ran. He felt a slight pain in his knees, but persevered. Purple barked trees and pale blue bamboo poles shot from the ground as far as he could see. Dark branches caged the sky. Michael spun and searched for a structure in the forest. A light oak door was far behind him. Michael ran towards the door.
No matter how far he pushed his throbbing legs forwards, the exit remained a distant dream. Michael stared at the ground as he caught his breath. Why is this pain back? Do I even want to go on? He thought. I can’t, I want this all to stop; I don’t want to go on anymore. He got back up and saw that the door was even further now. Perspective, okay, well… I can live, even if some sickness will take ya life soon. I got a few years left in me no matter what, right? The door appeared closer. You got this, just return. Michael stood face to face to the door and shook the knob.
Michael exited through the bathroom door in the “Bar at The End Of The World.” The same familiar man drew on napkins. Toro and Jude sat in a booth.
“I was worried sick about ya! Ya feelin’ alright?” Jude hugged Michael.
“Yeah, I’m, I’m good I-” Michael paused as Toro stood behind Jude and winked at Michael.
“Don’t worry,” Toro said. “I told him how you were lost and found your way back here. You ready to go?”
“Yeah, thanks, I-” Michael felt as though the wind was kicked out of him as Toro gave a heavy slap on his back.
“You better stay close to him now.” Toro cracked a sly smile. Michael nodded.
During the walk back, Michael felt the pain throughout his body slip away. The feeling of time loosened along with it.
“Anddd…. here!” Jude waved his arms out in wide jazz hands as they reached a city block-sized void surrounded by smaller buildings.
“What? There’s nothin’ here.” Michael said. Jude continued to wave as Michael reached the edge of the hole. “Is it some invisible buildin’?” Michael gawked at the void.
He saw a bottomless skyscraper sunk into a sea of stars. The tower’s wide windows reflected the celestial expanse. Rocks, bricks, chairs, tables, papers, and old compu
ter towers orbited the building like an asteroid belt of trash. A large brass metal box rose from a side of the tower and rushed through the pile of junk. It looked like a golden pill from Michael’s view. The box spun up and came to a soft halt as it reached Them. Two antique elevator doors folded open.
Jude turned towards Michael and bowed, “You first.”
Chapter 11
Side C Track 11
Writers in the Sky
There is one thing I kept hidden for a long while. You, the reader, already know a chunk of my story was cut short. I have hinted at a woman named Debbie and decided that, in writing this book, I finally want to come clean. I kept it away because I didn’t want to leave an aftertaste of bullshit as you read through my story.
On September 4th, 1977, I sexually assaulted her. I felt nothing for the time being however, all the guilt and pain rushed in the years following the incident. It happened while I was booked at the Beaumont Lodge. I made a handful of wrong moves, which led her to kill herself.
It feels unnatural expressing everything out like this; what I did still can’t move through my head. I’ve tried to recall what happened to my wife but couldn't. I gave up on telling her and kept it a secret. Hell, the entire time I was writing this I debated keeping it a secret, but I can’t anymore. This will be my wife’s first-time hearing about this. If I’m going to be open, I might as well be open with everything.
After my conversation with that Sergeant Stockwell, I thought over my night with Debbie. It all clicked around ten minutes in the walk back to my car. When my heels felt like they had their own pulse and sweat glued my chambray shirt to my back.
— — —
I grew up around Springfield in the 40s. My family consisted of my two younger brothers, my mother, and my father. He was tired of us, mother, his job, and life in general. I don’t think he ever had much admiration for mom. We saw our grandparents more than my parents saw each other. It was those snowflakes of dissatisfaction that snowballed into something destructive.
We had light flurries when he would deject mother’s cooking, then everything frosted over in the early 50s as he began to drink. Things froze when they were in the kitchen, shouting about the bills, and he struck her mid-conversation. I can never let go of that quiet smack from the other room. It sounded so dull, so insignificant, yet it shot a world of fear into me and my brothers.
We couldn't talk about how we felt when it happened. We thought it was how parents behaved. Father always told us mother was taking his money, and she needed to learn a few things. We took that as the truth and carried on. It wasn’t until a month later that an avalanche occurred. Aldous, my youngest brother, was an hour or two late from his friend’s house. Father shouted at Aldous as he pleaded.
“Daddy! Max don’t have a clock, we were upstairs, really, he-” SMACK. Father’s force sent Aldous into the armrest of the sofa. His 8-year-old body tumbled to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Being fourteen and the oldest, I had to defend my younger brothers. I pushed Malcolm, my middle brother, aside and ran towards father. While he was bent over, mocking Aldous, I punched his spine. He swung both arms to back and howled. Father then spun around and almost crushed Aldous like a cherry tomato.
I had both arms up ready to block. Father looked as though he were about to punch but reversed like the rewind button on tape—both fists clenched above his pockets. His words were forever ingrained into my mind; “Harvey... I regret calling you my son.” I let down my fist for a fraction of a second and thought, what have I done to deserve this, what have I- BAM, he punched me square in the chest with a car grease scented fist. I couldn’t feel it at first, then the area around me formed into a fuzz of light and stars.
The last thing I remember was feeling a tooth slide across the roof of my mouth like loose candy, and darkness as I collapsed on the hardwood floor.
I woke up the next morning in a hospital. Mother was holding my hand. A scruffy bearded doctor shone a flashlight in my eyes. Once I fully came to, my mother told me that father was in jail. The thought of my father gone never hurt, it faded into all the other pain through my head. Aldous wrapped his little arms on the edge of the hospital bed and told me that it looked like a ketchup bottle broke down my face.
The day father broke became a rug-swept nightmare. What happened loomed over our heads for years and froze deep within our mental depths. Aldous and I spoke about it once when he was 17, he thought it was a nightmare. However, I confirmed with him that, yes; I was punched in the face, and yes; it hurt, and yes; you were almost squashed into the living room carpet like an oversized cockroach.
— — —
It wasn’t until that walk that I realized the punch struck more than skin. Although my father never came back to visit after he served his jail time, he was still there, a parasite buried within his three sons. Malcolm gained his greed, Aldous his addiction, and me the way he treated mother.
Whenever I tried to engage with women, the only thing I had equipped was the example my father set out for me. I wanted to break out of it, but a fear of failure stiffed my stride. Why stray when this tried-and-true method was burned into my head—punched into it.
The walk back towards the car was the first time I relived those memories; each step forward was a step back in time. I walked alongside my past relationships, friendships, and connections. Broken glass shards of my father were spread throughout each one. As I approached the broiled structure of the bar, I knew I needed to change yet how could you change something so engraved into yourself?
Side B Track 11
Back to the Basics
Recollections of the past kept Harvey tossing and turning as he lay on his back, his arms spread across the hotel bed. He turned towards Sal and felt jealous as he watched the dog’s stomach rise and fall in deep, slumbering breaths.
Harvey lifted the photo of his family from his wallet, hovering a finger on his brother’s faces. If Aldous can change from whatever father weeded into him, then why the hell can’t I? He remembered that Aldous still had an addictive nature but replaced alcohol with acoustics.
Harvey unfurled out of bed and stood in front of the window. The noisy air conditioner blew a frigid draft around of his boxers, giving him goosebumps from the waist down. The ruby glow from the Sun Inn sign lit his chest. Raindrops pounded the window, creating a sound close to a calvary of tiny frogs thumping against the glass. It was 1:54, sleep was a dream within itself. His eyes felt like bags of sand longing to be dropped.
He listened to the rain pat-pat-pat along the window as if he were counting sheep. Just as his eyelids closed, he saw something out by his Cherry red BMW.
A shadow stood and bent down to look into the driver's side window. He saw two glowing eyes as the shadow’s gaze curved up and looked directly at him. Harvey dipped back and scrambled into bed. He listened to Sal’s breathing and tried to mimic it, inhale… exhale. Harvey turned towards the window. Inhale… exhale. The shadow stood behind the curtains, dim neon red light from the Sun Inn sign haloed its head. Inhale… knock, knock, knock. The being slithered away from the window and was now at the door. He felt like he could hear it call something behind the door—a sound was almost like wind. Was it crying? He still couldn’t quite make it out, and he didn’t want to. Inhale… exhale. He followed Sal’s breaths again.
He woke up at 11:04, head throbbing. For the first time in his life, he dreamed of his father.
— — —
Harvey’s father led him somewhere within Joselean Springs. It was as if nothing had happened between the two of them. They were silent as they strolled down the foggy shell of the town. The fog limited their view to fifteen feet ahead of them. They walked further and further within; the sun hidden behind a gray haze. Harvey felt that flush chill fall mornings bring. His father led him back into the Brookside garden. The maze of trees felt ten times larger than what it really was.
Harvey felt sick as he sunk further and further into the labyrinth. A
round every bend, he could see his father’s glossy shoes and the cuff of his brown pants. As Harvey tried to keep pace, he watched his father’s leg flick into something else, they changed with each step. Bare feet replaced his father’s shoes, and the brown pant leg became a sky-blue dress. Every step flicked back and forth like an odd game of peekaboo.
Harvey tried to cut through the thin walls of trees, but that made more disoriented. He ran through tree stalks, clawing limbs out his way. In occasional flashes, he saw the old woman flick back and forth from his father’s form. An invisible force tugged Harvey’s arms and legs to the ground. Soon the walls of trees became too dense. He tripped and fell between two paths. He saw the old woman, masked in the mass of trees.
“You can never cut through fate,” she said as she floated between the trees. “Where you walk, your path shall follow.” The woman hovered a foot off the ground right next to Harvey. He tried to lift his head up to see her face, but all he managed to do was raise up high enough to see her ragged bare feet floating off the dirt. “Now, go and open the next gate.” She touched his forehead with a bone-like finger.
Harvey woke up at her touch.
— — —
He knew it wasn’t real, yet it still hurt somehow. He felt the tail end of the dream as he washed his wound in the pale-yellow bathroom sink. Is there anywhere to turn to find this devil? He thought, everything is out of my reach. No matter what I do, I’m just going to mess it all up. That’s what your good at, isn’t it? You’re stuck in this maze, constantly trying paths that you know you’re going to mess up. All I’ve been doing is wandering around, hoping for something to show up… that’s all I can do, isn’t it?
Harvey slid into a pair of light denim jeans, tossed on a soft button-up, woke up Sal. If Harvey was going to find this “demon”, he would search as long as he could. Harvey opened his car door and searched for the assignment folder. He opened the glove compartment, tossed the manuals, dug through the trash in the back seat. It was all no use—He lost the file.
Out There: A Rural Horror Story Page 19
