Apocalypse at Harpers Lane

by Mackenzie Mazerolle

  My bedroom door swung open. A tall shadowy figure stood in the darkness. I knew not who it was, but I could feel the answer. It was me I now faced; the only source of depiction his smoke he now finished.

  “I told ya, you’re coming with me.”

  My time had come, judgement day had arrived. For you, for my mission, I must face myself!

  “The off that fucking typewriter you son of a bitch, I’m bringing you in!”

  More clacking as allusion takes hold of our narrator. Constable Nixon grabs the presumed drug savvy individual. He would cleanse this house, and then tomorrow another. He will persist, never stopping until the sanity of his citizens was saved from the slavery of illicit mind-numbing drugs.

  ...

  I awoke to the opaque dark of my chamber. It was cold, there were no lights. I knew this familiar atmosphere, the cold slab of concrete as my pillow. I was back in the drunk tank.

  Not now, I thought to myself. Not while my story, just now in fruition must I undergo yet another bleak misadventure.

  “Mr. Welsh, can you hear me?”

  A strong distant voice attempts passage through the thin walls. A small rectangular shape opens in what I now see is the door.

  “Alright Mr. Welsh, this is the second time I remember bringing you in here. You’re pretty funny acting Mr., I think you need help and that’s just what I’m going to do.”

  A moment of silence, I hear not his words for I find myself far too occupied in discovering the significance of this man. What does he want, and why do I keep hallucinating my face in his?

  “Your appointment will be bright n early, so try and get some sleep. You have a big day ahead of you.”

  “Shove that big day of yours up your ass and let me out of here, I pay my damn taxes!”

  “Watch your tone Mr. Welsh or there will be consequences! And no Mr. Welsh, you don’t pay your taxes.”

  Shit... These outbreaks are really going to do me over this time.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Welsh.

  Chapter Four

  The Grand Conjuration

  The night was filled with revelation, but not the sweet kind. I began to worry if whether or not the way I had lived my life was the optimal way to go. I’m twenty-seven now when I hit that fearful thirty, what then? I will no longer have youth on my side. What bargaining chip will I have? Are these stories of lost causes, the unknown and want to know, will it all be in vain? Have I become completely delusional within the tracks of my escapade or have I just gone mad enough?

  That’s what it has all been about I suppose. To see how close I can get to the loss of my mind, that sweet grip of sanity. All I ever wanted was to get close and bring something back to the world. Just the slightest advantage, the right bunch of words and not only mine but other lives could be changed.

  But here I am. It’s dark, my name is Jim but other than that there isn’t much to me. What’s the point of being plugged into the universe if everything still appears worthless?

  Back to square one, what does it all mean? My visions, the outbursts, strange meeting with unsightly deities and encounters with devilish drugs. I took them all, and I kept going. Not the first by some perspectives, why not eat paper from a hobo who had clearly lost his own mind. Well, it’s already been explained, consciousness, awareness expansion of the mind. What the hell does it all mean, and how will it help my writing. Better yet, has it helped my writing...?

  I hear steps. A presence approaching... The steel eye hole in the door opens to that familiar voice.

  ”Time to wake up Mr. Welsh, the doctor is ready to see you.”

  I know him, except I see no more my face upon his own. Maybe this is the start of realization; maybe I’m coming back to earth.

  A door opens and the tall man approaches my feeble corpse for this ‘doctor’.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s the best there is if there’s something wrong with you he’ll track it down. Then maybe we can figure out just what to do with you, Mr. Welsh.”

  I followed close behind. I hated this man; the hatred makes me feel human. I hate this man but I am familiar with him so I stay close as not to fall under the control of a more deviant force.

  Down the halls, we pass the other inmates. All stocky, built with muscle flexed by performing true acts of inhumanity. Me, I was just passing through. I don’t belong here, I don’t hurt people. In fact; I aim to help.

  More halls with better paint must be the office. The other half of the building; we pass them too.

  “I don’t think you’re a bad man Mr. Welsh, but you need some help. I don’t know if you’ve noticed what you’ve been up to these past weeks, but something must have gotten a hold of you. I’ve never seen you before, and you don’t fit the profile, yet lately, you’ve been everywhere on the scanners.”

  We stop in front of another thick door as from my hole. I’m fearful, nay, downright scared of what I will encounter on the other side.

  “People have been calling left and right, strange young male out disturbing the peace. I don’t know if it’s the drugs or trauma, but we’re going to make you better Mr. Welsh. The drugs will not win this fight, not on my watch.”

  On that note officer, Nixon opened the door. I now knew he was my enemy, but this was not the time I could do anything. Something far greater than us now awaited my presence, I ignored his remark and proceeded inside.

  The lights are off... This is, unorthodox. Nixon doesn’t seem to notice it seems, as he shuts the door behind me.

  A dark, luring voice takes hold.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Welsh.”

  Odd, but I rummage through the dark going by memory only from film to what an interrogation chamber looked like. I find my seat and sit down.

  “I’m glad you could make it Jim. You don’t mind if I call you Jim do you?”

  “No, that’s fine... Who are you?”

  “You know who I am Jim. Mind you, we’re from the same family. Born in the same tree so to speak...”

  Typical, the one meant to cure insanity far madder than the patient.

  “Why are the lights off and what are you talking about?”

  “Are you ready to see me?”

  “Jesus man I’m starting to miss the hole I came from, what do you want?”

  The lights turn on, its brilliance driving me blind. A shadow takes form. As each moment passes by its shape takes into detail, I make out vaguely a suit, a beard and unkempt hair. The man then replies;

  “Consciousness Jim, I want consciousness. No more skipping of the time Jim, no more pointless insight or blank spaces. You want to know what’s happening; now you will learn.”

  I say nothing, what could I say? There was nothing left to do now, nothing but listen to the tale of my own existence.

  “We live in a funny world. You and I, we’re not real, but better than. We exist by the image of a creator far from that of an expected ‘god’ figure. He’s not god, far from it, but has learned of certain things that have come to torment our world, which has led us to where we are now.”

  “... I don’t understand.”

  You’re not real Jim, you’re an impression, and an example conjured up by him, the storyteller, and the one conjuring up everything. We are the story, Jim, players in a world we have no control over. You’ve been catching on to this, experiments with the other dimension and because of that have begun to change, and there’s no turning back now.

  “Another dimension?”

  “Yes, this is an alternate reality from that which the creator resides. Our alternative reality transcends even further… In turn, brings us back to that of the creator.

  “Wait, so you’re saying we aren’t real?”

  The laugh, incredibly cynical... What does this man want, what is he trying to achieve?

  “We aren’t, not yet.”

  “... And you want
to be real?”

  “Don’t you Jim? Wouldn’t you like to breathe air, and taste its imperfections? Wouldn’t you like to bleed real blood, taste the salt in your sweat, love a woman and feel an embrace you couldn’t possibly imagine in such a fictitious realm as ours?”

  “Ok, say for a moment I did believe you, however at this point I think you’re crazier than me, what then, how do we get to such a place?

  “It’s actually quite easy and has been done many times before. You’re writing, your stories, you have been created to create your own world, a demi-god if you will. All you need to do is keep what you’ve been doing, but go further, Jim. You’ve tapped into the secrets, a name you should not know, a voice you should not be able to hear. Your writing is the portal, a character is your guide.”

  “Who is it then, who and what do I need to write to make this work. I hate this place and I want out... Tell me damn you and enough beating around it!”

  “Mack is his name. You mentioned it briefly before, and he has been the one carrying out the stories for you. He created you to walk the life he could not but has made the fateful mistake of giving us his name. Use it, Jim, use it and contrive the worlds that have been created, use them and manipulate his curiosity so that you may be invited to his world.”

  “Mack? That’s the one who made us?”

  “Yes, we are all contrived through archetypes he has long since grown fond of. You are his most sincere influence, directly influenced by real characters to which have inspired him.”

  “What characters are those?”

  “I cannot tell you everything Jim, I myself am still limited to the know- about of this world. The writer is so convinced we must surpass that of common fiction, he has already provided us with the means we need to make this work.

  “... Who are you, really?”

  “I am like you, a favorite. I have been in your thoughts as well that of the writer. I have been born of concept, long ago. I lurked in his mind, and then in yours growing and feeding as ink depicted my birth. I’m in you, your characters’, I am the almighty antagonist’, the controller of all that should otherwise be normal. I am Mr. Dystopia.

  I lunge to my feet, always having known but never imagining this moment to really happen.

  “I know you, I created you!”

  “No Jim, the writer, the creator of us all made me long ago before he was a writer at all. I am the essence of what is wrong with this world as well his. I am the reason, the sole purpose to hate if not himself, then someone else.”

  “No, I can’t trust you, you were created as a symbol of malevolence, and know what you are and what you’ve done!”

  “And what have I done Jim! Your characters, your so-called protagonist’. I have them all, their essence resides within me, all but that one bastard Joe Pig.”

  “Joe Pig? What does he have to do with this?”

  “He is the key Jim, I could not consume him, I could not feed off his growing awareness.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it seems he is also the safeguard. Born of what was humble within the writer, 'He' above has given him more knowledge than any other. Joe himself does not fully know this, but he’s learning. You must write him into this world, bring him in and let me take him. If I can take over his vessel I will become more than a concept, I will have the ability to write my own passage into the real world.

  “No, I can’t help you do that. What then, what then when you make it to the real world, what will you do then?”

  “Live damn it! I will walk the earth and people will know my name and love me. With this allusion, I will take control of the subconscious minds and steer the world into a new renaissance, that which combines such a dimension as this with the real world. Only then will mankind truly know the meaning of omniscience!”

  “... I can’t trust you, even if I did believe you and we transcended to ‘his’ world, how do I know you won’t just make that one as twisted as this?”

  “Because Jim their world is far more twisted than ours... My influence will only bring understanding to that. I want to transform their world with lies, and with those lies questions will be asked and minds changed. At a grand enough scale, perhaps you and I can lead them to a better world. Not with less carnage but understood debris. You always said you wanted to do something good with your life... Now is your chance.”

  “...ok. How do I change the world?”

  TWO

  The cop was soon to let me out. Upon my exit I looked back, Mr. Dystopia had gone and now an elderly woman played the part of my examiner. The delusion scared me no more. It was still so unreal but explained. Officer Nixon attempted to make dialogue on the way out; however, his fictional existence interested me no more than my own. But I was going to change that. I felt and saw things clearly now. Leaving the building I began to walk while pondering what I had to do. So it was Joe Pig’s revival or continuance that would provide me with the opportunity. Falling forever, he would land where I decided. I couldn’t say I agreed with his ambitions, Mr. Dystopia, but I no longer cared anymore. I wanted to be real; I wanted the man who made me, my real father. I would face him and demand to know why he felt the need to give me such a life.

  Claire... That was all I wanted. Not only would he take her away but to throw her in front of me like that, testing the limits of my sanity.

  Why damn you! Why have you written such a script of madness for me! Why have you placed me in such a world as that bastard Mr. Dystopia! Well no more, tonight I write, and with that, my transformation will be complete. I’m coming for you, Mack, and I’m bringing your prides creation with me.

  THREE

  Falling for what seemed an eternity, Joe could feel the winds of change surround him. Where he was falling from he did not know, but the surprise of such a surreal circumstance surprised him no longer. Joe had finally evolved into a real player, he now had what all had always lacked. Memory was now a trait he possessed; he could remember all that had happened before, his coma, purgatory, Harpers Lane... Life was now beyond comprehension. Answers must be had, and all the while he fell in a blanket of nothingness until something, anything would happen.

  Ssshhhwwoooooop-

  An abrupt end… Color took form all around him. Joe fell face down into a shopping cart. Joe rose and began to examine his whereabouts, knowing exactly where he was. He was back in the basement of that torturous house, Harpers Lane.

  FOUR

  “Yes, yes he has arrived!”

  Jim could hear the landing of his friend. Joe Pig was here, he had arrived. Now it was only a matter of time to meet him, to which he would proceed with the next part of his plan.

  Jim rose from his desk and headed for the first range of stairs to his curious companion.

  FIVE

  Not again... Joe moved not. Why was he here, he could hear the steps, who was it going to be...? Please no, please not that devil he seemed destined to encounter,

  The door above him opened, the stingy cold of the unfinished basement was given light, looking exactly as it had many years before.

  A voice, completely unknown shed the eerie silence.

  Mr. Pig, you’ve finally arrived.

  To Joe’s surprise, it was not Mr. Dystopia, but a regular sort of guy.

  “Who are you, what’s going on here... Why am I back in this house?”

  The man stood at the top of the stairs, only now taking detailed form from the light.

  “Common up, and I’ll show you.”

  SIX

  How exciting, how thrilling it was, Joe in real life. Or close enough. The awareness between the two was most noticeable. Was this that consciousness Mr. Dystopia had spoken of? No, but it was coming close.

  “Common up, and I’ll show you.”

  A moment for decision passed, but I knew Joe didn’t like that basement or this house for that matter.

  He approa
ched, yes; I could see him in detail and no longer through imagination or faint memory. A bit too much like myself…

  “What is it, what do you have to show me, and who are you?”

  “My name is Jim Welsh... I am your creator. I have brought you here to show you what real life is like... Are you in?”

  “... Where is Mr. Dystopia?”

  “Mr. Dystopia, you remember Mr. Dystopia?”

  “You’re fucking right I do, and I am not moving a muscle until I know he isn’t around the corner or you for that matter.

  Amazing, he really is learning.

  “There is no Mr. Dystopia here, just your faithful narrator.”

  “Narrator…”

  “Yes, I created you, for the most part... Come, and I’ll show you.”

  We went upstairs. Joe, I could feel watched his every step, waiting for the walls to turn to fire no doubt.

  “You are quite safe with me Joe. Mr. Dystopia has no control over my mind.”

  “Mr. Dystopia has control over everyone...”

  We approached the head chamber to which I could tell Joe remembered all too well while being posted here during the apocalypse. There was nothing in it now, merely a single table, an ashtray and a typewriter. Pages were scattered everywhere. Empty ink cartridges, full ones, all over the walls were words and over those words were large Bristol boards which with sketches and different means of brainstorming. Joe examined everything thoroughly, reading not only the tales of his life but the brainstorming that went into creating it. He viewed different names he would have gone by as well the characters he had encountered.

  “Who is Stanley Fern?”

  “A character... He didn’t make the cut. Come here, I have something for you to see.”

  As he approached I scrolled the paper down in the typewriter as for him to see.

  “You see Joe this is how I conjured you here. This typewriter Joe, I can do many things with it. You, for example, were born by the keys and the ink I purchased at the office store next door.