Phantoms of the Moon

by Michael Ciardi

Perhaps no one other than Dr. Jack Evans was quite as empathetic to the stigma of harboring two personalities within a single mind. As a psychiatrist, he treated those unfortunate enough to experience such a malady. While it was a fact that very few cases of clinically diagnosed schizophrenia existed, it was also irrefutably important to note that a large segment of those deemed as “normal” struggled incessantly with the duel nature of their subconscious minds.

  Evans theorized that a potential culprit lurked in the crevices of every brain. According to him, no man, woman, or even child was wholly moral or immoral. It certainly was not a revelation for a psychiatrist to hypothesize such a disorder. But for years, Evans understood this struggle on a personal level. He had himself combated an internal torment. In situations where Evans contemplated his own life, he endured the anguish of loneliness.

  Isolation was the fiend haunting Evans’s thoughts. After residing alone for many years, he eventually learned to accept his station in life. But silence became an agent of agony, clutching him like a toy and tinkering with his emotions at will. As it was with many in such a state, he refused to recognize the symptoms of his depression. How could have he ever admitted being mentally unsound without sabotaging his career? Besides, he was too busy examining infirmities in others to stop and evaluate the reflection that stood before his own mirror.

  However furtively Evans sought to conceal his anguish from others, no man eluded his inner-demons forever. The most painfully revealing hours of his sorrow usually occurred after nightfall, when he retired to his bed. While laying in his bedroom’s shadowy confines, Evans stretched his arm out toward an empty pillow beside his head. He yearned to sense the warmth of a female next to him, but the sheets lining his mattress felt as cold and smooth as black ice. Too many years had passed since he last savored a woman’s scent at his side, but this circumstance was a result of a preference rather than his inability to find a suitable mate.

  In truth, he had certainly been tempted to entertain the affections of numerous women, but he ultimately resisted when his thoughts reverted to his ex-wife. In the aftermath of their divorce, there were those who said his former wife never truly loved him. Evans, however, rejected the reality at hand. If she had not elected to leave on her own freewill, he would have surrendered his entire practice just to be with her. But he was never extended such an option. While he labored to create an affluent existence for her, she latched onto the company of another man. Unmercifully, the end of their marriage came slowly.

  Evans suspected his wife’s infidelity at least a year before she finally had the decency to confess. By then, a feeling of worthlessness had already demented his mind. Oddly, he sought no counseling from professionals, but instead accepted the blame for her indiscretions. Perhaps the gravest aspect in all of what transpired was his ex’s choice to abort a pregnancy. Her harsh decision, no doubt, was due to her inability to identity the unborn child’s father. Evans became increasingly withdrawn from her after this stage, while he tried unsuccessfully to process the motivations that lead to such a vindictive disregard for his emotional stability.

  Since Evans had no children, this loss affected him significantly harder than he was prepared to endure. Yet, despite his fragile disposition, he continued to work in an effort to mask his heartache. It was about this time that Ryan Hayden came into his life. Whether by design or otherwise, Evans rarely dared to examine his devotion toward the boy. Had he done so more frequently, Evans might have been compelled to acknowledge an addiction overtaking his mind. Ryan was not merely another patient to Evans, and even the boy recognized an almost obsessive allegiance demonstrated by the doctor early in their therapy sessions. It was not a stretch to suggest that Evans’s sleeplessness intensified after comparing the futility he felt when deprived of a choice on whether his unborn son lived or died. Obviously, he could never get that child back, but he also refused to let another one slip between his trembling fingertips.

  On this evening, Evans puttered through archives filed in the cabinetry of his home office. Though he had other business to consider, the urgency of Ryan’s present condition still flitted through his head. His earlier visit to Glen Dale had inadvertently caused another dilemma. Furthermore, Chief Wescott’s vague but intriguing dialogue provided him with an inspiration to investigate Ryan’s past in ways he never cogitated previously.

  While holding the calling card of Professor Henry Collins in his hand, Evans almost crumpled it and tossed its remains in the trash with the rest of his office’s clutter. But after reassessing the matter, as any properly trained researcher would have done, Evans decided that a clue connected to the Haydens’ disappearance was worth taking a gander at a second time. His original intent was to make at least one phone call to the professor and have his questions conveniently answered by way of telephone. But contacting Collins turned out to be a far more difficult task than Evans anticipated.

  When Evans initially phoned Collins’s office, he was forwarded to an answering service, informing him of the professor’s scheduled flight to England the very next morning. Another number was left at the service in case of an emergency. Since Evans was not quite certain what constituted a crisis in this situation, he elected to call the offered extension. The second call reached the desk of Collins’s secretary, who verified his absence from the country for three weeks beginning tomorrow.

  For reasons Evans could not explain, he felt as though he needed to talk to Collins before he left for Europe. It was not typical for Evans to undergo an overreaction in judgment. After all, he knew virtually nothing about Collins’s credibility, and only had limited exposure to the organization to which he claimed to be affiliated. Nevertheless, Evans used whatever tactics necessary to ensure a meeting with this man. The fact that Evans also witnessed an unusual sighting in the sky over Glen Dale may have been all the ammunition he required.

  Collins was not likely to regard a report of an alleged UFO sighting frivolously. As a former parapsychologist, he had devoted the better portion of his career to investigating matters of supernatural origin and unexplained phenomena. The Haydens’ case represented one of hundreds of incidents he responded to over the course of twenty years. For the past twelve years, he officially worked as a field agent for SETI, and committed himself primarily to the research of UFOs. His current jaunt to England centered on a collection of elaborately designed crop circles discovered in the Welsh countryside.

  Collins seldom divulged pertinent details to anyone over the phone, particularly to those working in the medical profession. But upon learning of Evans’s knowledge of the Glen Dale Incident, as it was referred to by those associated with SETI, Collins agreed to discuss the nature of what he knew in correlation to the occurrence on the condition that Evans was willing to travel to Roosevelt International Airport. It was a two-hour drive from Evans’s office in Cloverton to this destination, but he agreed to the terms and an appointment was confirmed for the following morning.

  Roosevelt International Airport, located in the northeast corner of a dilapidated district in New Jersey, had unjustly earned a deplorable reputation from those who frequented its runways. The city surrounding the airport was visually unpleasing, and it seemed as though most opinions generated were based on a congested infrastructure encompassing the urban airport’s hub. Contributing to any onlooker’s revulsion, a fog of pewter-colored exhaust fumes lingered perpetually over the environs like an unwelcome cloud, reeking with enough carcinogens to riddle the masses with disease. Visitors erroneously presumed the entire state mimicked Roosevelt’s decaying, overcrowded backdrop. But as unappealing to the better half of one’s senses as the region seemed, it still served as a vital link to key destinations around the globe.

  As Evans soon discovered, observing the airport from afar while being tangled in a maze of serpentine interstates, was an exercise exceeding any tedium he had thus far encountered in all his driving years combined. Even after he located the visitors’ parking garage, the journey on foot to
the airport’s hub proved to be just as taxing as his previous effort. With the holiday season forthcoming, traversing the pedestrian traffic proved almost as harrowing as dodging a fleet of ironclad trucks on the highways. Nevertheless, Evans granted himself ample time with the assumption that he would have experienced problems in this area.

  Professor Collins suggested they meet at a café in the hub’s lounge. Since neither man had a way of recognizing one another, both described precisely what they intended to wear. Evans searched for a man somewhere in his mid-sixties, attired in a bullet-gray suit and a distinctive Stetson cowboy hat that assured he would not remain inconspicuous among this particular crowd. When conversing on the phone, Evans found the man’s tone to be sonorously bold and raspy, almost as if he smoked unfiltered cigarettes and drank whiskey for his entire life. He therefore envisioned Collins as a robust figure, as colossal in size as he was in voice. Some voices, however, simply don’t match the face, and Collins fit snugly into this category.

  Evans could not quite determine exactly how short in stature Collins stood, but he gathered the man’s cowboy hat had been donned to deceptively add a few much-needed inches to his frame. The professor’s suit, although tailored to his diminutive size, hung off his shoulders in a peculiar fashion. Though his hat situated firmly atop his head, there was not much hair to comb beneath it. One might have supposed that he was a tad insecure about his baldness by the manner in which he scrunched his hat’s brim over the bottom crease in his forehead.

  Although Collins lacked genuine height, he more than compensated for it with his attitude. Like a field general or another figure of rank, Collins commanded a room simply by sauntering through it. Even amid the airport’s lounge, where people were habitually ornery and rude, Collins had them scampering out of range of his booted steps as if he was a tractor tilling a field of its weeds. As Collins often boasted, every man’s posture was a matter of perception, and how well he perceived himself greatly added inches to his character. In this way, Collins stood like a mountain in the planes of Kansas.

  Evans approached this meeting as he did with any conversation of casual intent. He wore no suit, and preferred to blend into the crowd even if summoned here on matters of professional business. Since Evans did not schedule any appointments at his office today, blue jeans and a black sweater seemed like an appropriate choice of garments. As far as Evans was concerned, this bit of unofficial work was an operation best completed in secrecy.

  The café proved to be no more spacious or unsoiled than a greasy spoon, but it provided the men with a scenic window overlooking several busy runways. Collins was fascinated by the concept of aviation, and his eyes had already drifted to the jets’ defiance of gravity.

  “Did I mention how much I loved the idea of flight?” Collins sighed with the astonishment of a little boy. “Sometimes I’m amazed at what we can do…and then I’m reminded of what we can’t do.”

  Evans took his seat at a reserved table without commenting on Collins’s observation. “I wanted to thank you again for taking time out of your schedule to meet with me on such short notice,” Evans offered.

  Collins rubbed a few crusty crumbs from the corners of his eyes and waved his hand as if he was not inconvenienced at all. “Ah, it’s just another trip across the pond to speculate the legitimacy of crop circles,” he yawned. “It seems that our little alien visitors prefer decorating the Brits pastures more so than our own homegrown fields. Nothing is made in this country anymore.”

  Evans had strong beliefs about all such formations being well-designed hoaxes, but he decided not to encourage a debate with Collins on this point. He wanted to focus their discourse on the subject of Glen Dale as quickly as possible, but the professor was not in any rush to divulge information on his experiences until he assessed Evans’s commitment to the study of extraterrestrial life forms.

  Collins fidgeted in his seat momentarily and did not speak again until a waitress set another cup of black tea in front of him. Evans requested nothing and tried to be patient while the professor sipped through the steaming beverage’s contents.

  “Forgive my sluggishness,” Collins apologized, “I’ve been up for two days without any rest.”

  “It seems we’re both having trouble sleeping,” said Evans. Collins may have acted disinterested as he consumed his tea, but he actually monitored Evans’s mannerisms with a definite circumspection. He already sensed Evans’s tentativeness about discussing events that defied the benefit of a reasonable explanation.

  “It’s uncommon for two men from our different backgrounds to come to an agreement on what we’re here to chat about,” said Collins, now peering at the brim of the cup where he placed his lips. “But generally speaking, we’re both men of science, and the record will verify our connections aren’t so far removed from one another after all.”

  “My supposed connection is fairly recent,” Evans admitted, but not nearly as convincingly as he sounded on the phone before their meeting.

  “But valid nonetheless,” Collins noted.

  “Well, that’s why I’m here, Professor Collins—to prove to myself what is real and what is imagined.”

  “Please—Henry is the name on my birth certificate. If it was good enough then, it’s equally good now. My friends call me Hank, and I’d be obliged if you did the same.”

  The doctor smirked at Collins’s demeanor, which reminded Evans of himself in his purest form. “That’s fine,” said Evans, “under the same condition you call me Jack.”

  “Touché.”

  Collins placed his teacup directly on the table and enlaced his stubby fingers partially over the saucer. After watching another aircraft land on the runway from his vantage point beside the window, the professor reclined in his chair and removed his hat. A few pellets of sweat collected on his brow, but no trace of apprehension invaded the man’s tone.

  “I don’t know what people have told you about me, Jack,” Collins started, “so I’m going to give you the short version.” Collins paused and gestured to his tiny frame before saying, “Please forgive the pun.” Evans forced a smile to curl his upper lip as he listened to the professor. “Like most men who make their living chasing ghosts and aliens, I’ve been labeled as a crackpot. Maybe there’s some truth to that notion, but I want you to consider me an honest man.”

  “I have no reason to think otherwise, Hank—not yet anyway.”

  Collins chuckled hoarsely as he gauged Evans’s temperament. He sensed Evans had an arid wit about him, which he understood because of his frequent interactions with the British. “I’ve been all over the world,” Collins stated plainly, “and I’ve debunked the best and worst con artists of our generation.”

  “Well, then you can at least admit that a large majority of people fabricate their encounters with UFOs.”

  “As certain as we’re sitting here, they’ll always be those who’ll lie, but that’s no different from any other situation where you’re dealing with human beings.”

  “So how do you tell if an alleged sighting is genuine or a fake?”

  “Very simple,” answered Collins vigorously. “When someone witnesses a UFO sighting, they’re usually not alone. Similarities between incidents are apparent as well. This is especially true when investigating alien encounters of the second and third kind.”

  “What about alien abductions?”

  Collins detected the cynicism rising in Evans’s voice. He then heightened the doctor’s suspicion by confessing, “It’s a bit trickier to confirm, Jack. Conventionally, that’s where our methods clash. You already must know that those who claimed to encounter a physical abduction have no conscious recollection of the event afterwards. I suspect we wouldn’t be having this conversation if the circumstances were otherwise.”

  By now the café’s waitress had returned to their table in an attempt to pour Collins another cup of tea. He refused her by politely capping his palm over the cup’s brim. Evans quickly recognized that this man valued his work jus
t as seriously as the doctor did his own.

  “I don’t want to come across as if I’m judging your credibility, Hank, but this is new territory for me. I might need some convincing.”

  “We’re not breaking any new ground here,” Collins clarified. “But if we’re being truthful, Jack, people in your field have been more of a hindrance than a help to those associated with SETI. I personally don’t understand your skepticism.”

  “You’d have to agree that your organization works rather covertly.”

  “And clearly that’s by design, Jack.” Collins head swiveled back toward the pane of glass, where another jet was in the midst of a perfect landing on the runway. While looking away from Evans, he said, “Flight is an amazing concept. But I’m afraid we’ve become desensitized to the engineering beauty of it. Think about how many thousands of aircrafts cruise our skies everyday. It’s mind boggling to imagine how many take off and touchdown without consequence. If we were not any wiser, we’d assume man always had the ability to fly by way of machine. But in terms of history, our success in this technology hasn’t existed for more than a century.”

  “We’ve come along way in this regard,” Evans concurred, but he was not certain where their line of communication was heading.

  Collins felt obligated to clarify his statement. “Our ventures into outer space date back only slightly before you were born, Jack. It’s fairly easy for me to remember when our pursuit into the stratosphere was only a dream. But for my great grandfather and many others of his era, an idea of piloting a spacecraft within or beyond the reaches of our atmosphere was purely the stuff of science fiction.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Hank,” said Evans, “but why are you mentioning your great grandfather to me?”

  “Because he was alive in April of 1897 and served as a witness to a distressed spacecraft that crashed into a windmill in Aurora, Texas.”

  “A spacecraft—in 1897?”

  “That’s right, Jack. If this incident had occurred thirty years later, it might’ve been conveniently dismissed as yet another flight disaster. But such an explanation could not have existed then. The technology to fly hadn’t even reached Kitty Hawk at this stage.”

  Evans paused momentarily to process the plausibility of Collins’s words. Judging by the professor’s impenetrable expression, Evans believed that he was quite serious. “Maybe your great grandfather was mistaken,” countered Evans. “He was most likely a young boy at the time—he could’ve seen a meteor or another fallen object from the sky.”

  Collins smirked knowingly at Evans logical response. “Your explanation might hold water if he was the only one who viewed it. But the crash in Aurora wasn’t an isolated account. Countless others witnessed it, including a local newspaper. In fact, the occurrence made print in the morning headlines—until the government got their hands in the mix.”

  “How did they explain it?” Evans’s question was greeted with a vapid stare, which prompted him to continue more urgently. “The government must’ve said something…”

  “They buried it,” Collins replied, “and along with it, they also buried an alien pilot of the UFO—or at least what remained of the pilot.”

  “He wasn’t human?”

  “Humans didn’t fly back in 1897. We can at least agree on that, can’t we? Government officials had to come up with something believable, so they pinned the crash to a hot air balloon.”

  “Wasn’t that possible?”

  “A helium balloon can hover, I’ll grant you that much, but it can’t propel itself at such a velocity and angles described by those witnesses in Aurora. I’ve read the original reports, and my father passed on to me what was told to him. Nothing manmade fell from the sky on that April afternoon, Jack. It could only be described as metal and organic matter from another world.”

  Since Evans did not have any evidence at hand to consider, he took Collins at his word. He understood Collins needed complete faith in anyone whom he confided in. But even if Evans did challenge the validity of Collins’s accounts, it would not have assisted either man in their goal of deciphering the mystery of what brought them together today.

  “I sense you’re a man who doesn’t like to procrastinate,” said Collins, returning his Stetson to his head. “Let’s not detain each other any longer than necessary. Now, you mentioned the Glen Dale Incident over the phone. The boy found at the scene is your patient, correct?”

  “Yes—his name is Ryan.”

  Collins nodded his chin affirmatively and said, “I’m aware of those involved, Jack, but I was never fortunate enough to get to talk to the boy. But I’m sure you’ve had many interesting conversations with him over the years.”

  “Until recently, not nearly enough,” admitted Evans. Without prolonging the issue any longer, Evans stated his immediate thought. “I visited the site a few days ago myself, Hank, and I felt as though something was different about the place—something I couldn’t explain.”

  A prophetic glint sparked in Collins’s beady eyes when he said, “The ground was different.”

  “Yes, it was indeed. How did you know?”

  “It’s my business to know, Jack. I’ve been back to the site every year since that family disappeared.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Before I reveal my beliefs,” suggested Collins, “why don’t you tell me what you believe?”

  Evans delayed his response again, this time trying to think of a way to present his observations without exaggerating the facts. “I was there just after the snowstorm we had last week. Honestly, I arrived in Glen Dale thinking that I wouldn’t find much of anything. Anyway, in the area surrounding the site, there wasn’t any snow on the ground. I don’t know how to explain it…the circumference of the affected spot was over two hundred yards in diameter. It was the oddest thing I ever witnessed.”

  “Not unlike a crop circle,” surmised Collins knowingly. Evans did not necessarily agree with such an evaluation, but he had nothing better to compare it to either. Collins had already concluded that the doctor had more to divulge in relation to his excursion to Glen Dale. He then proceeded. “A circle of melted snow or crushed crops obviously isn’t going to make a believer out of you, Jack. You’re here for another reason. What else did you see?”

  Evans’s voice became increasingly pensive as he continued. “There were burn marks on the trees, but not randomly placed as kids might do. These marks seemed to have a pattern, and maybe even a particular shape.”

  Collins bowed his head and cleared his raspy voice slightly. He then said to Evans, “Whether you believe in UFOs or not, we both can agree that it’s unlikely that someone would’ve taken time to rig a scene as you described. Given the frigid conditions, it may not even be possible. But putting that information aside, I still think you have more to tell me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I’ve been working around people like you my entire life, Jack. A crop circle by itself isn’t groundbreaking news anymore. It ranks near the bottom of credible proof in most investigative studies. You wouldn’t have been compelled to contact me with such limited evidence.”

  Evans pondered his next statement with a greater level of hesitation, but he realized that it was futile to conceal details from Collins’s trained ears at this juncture. “I guess I saw some unusual flashes of light, too,” he said reluctantly. “They moved erratically across the sky over the site while I was there.”

  “Did the lights just move, or hover?”

  “Both I suppose.”

  “Were they similar to a plane or another aircraft?”

  “Definitely not. They were much brighter.”

  Collins cleared his throat again, but his voice remained just a gritty as before. “Sounds like the possibility of a close encounter.”

  “Have you ever seen anything like that in any of your visits there?”

  “No. I haven’t been as fortunate.”

  “It could’ve been anything—”
/>
  “Stop questioning what you know to be true,” Collins chided. “We’ve both served as witnesses to some strange circumstances connected to the Glen Dale Incident. Now, we can sit here and debate the potential causes from a logical standpoint, or we can proceed to the next level—the one place where you don’t want to go.”

  “You can be persuasive, Hank, I’ll grant you that.” Evans then reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled forth a plastic container with a pewter-colored substance inside. The material glittered under the reflection of fluorescent lights as Evans set it on the table for Collins’s inspection. Evans waited for some type of reaction from the professor, who seemed genuinely transfixed on the item.

  “Do you have any idea of what this stuff is?” Evans asked, nudging the container closer to Collins.

  Collins grabbed the container with his hand, concealing it slightly from those who were eavesdropping at adjacent tables. He glanced at it between the wedges of his fingers before presenting a question of his own. “Did you recover this material at the site as well?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, where exactly did you find it?” Collins’s tone became more insistent as he picked the case off the table and held the contents closer to his eyes.

  “Ryan left it in my office following one of our sessions,” Evans replied.

  Collins tightened his expression while musing over this detail; the creases in his forehead deepened like a series of ravines in these seconds. He then asked, “He gave it to you?”

  “Not directly,” said Evans, while cautiously noticing a degree of dread seeping into the professor’s countenance. “Do you know what it might be?”

  Collins opened the container and pressed his thumb on the dust. It felt mostly smooth against his skin, but it had a slightly granular texture as well. Collins also noticed bluish-gray particles glittering in its makeup. The professor’s next statement was elementary. “If the boy didn’t give it to you directly, I assume he purposely left it with you to inspect.”

  “No,” Evans corrected. “I found it on the furniture he was laying on. I figured it fell off his clothing or something else he was wearing.”

  “Interesting,” said Collins. “That sounds like a reasonable explanation. But why did you bring this stuff here with you today, Jack?”

  “Well, I can’t seem to figure out what it is. It feels almost like a metallic material, but not entirely. I guess I was looking for confirmation.”

  “Confirmation of what kind?”

  Evans felt troubled by his next confession, but there was no sense of delaying it any longer. “I need to tell you, Hank, I’ve already confirmed that this substance, or something that looks just like it was found at the site in Glen Dale on the night Ryan’s family vanished. If that information is correct, then I can also assume that Ryan has been back to the location recently.”

  “Have you asked him if he’s been there lately?”

  “No,” replied Evans shamefully. “We have our differences of opinion on the subject in general. I’ve already recommended that he never return to the site.”

  Collins studied Evans’s anguished eyes more compassionately. He then slid the container back to the doctor’s awaiting hand. Without blinking an eye, Collins reached into an inner pocket within his own suit jacket and forwarded a small box. He set it on the table so that Evans was able to examine its contents carefully. Astonishingly, the same substance appeared to be in this container as what Evans had brought with him.

  “It looks exactly like the stuff I have,” Evans verified. “Did you find this at the site, too?”

  Collins shook his head methodically from side to side, “I didn’t,” he said placidly.

  Evans appeared puzzled. “Then where did you find it?”

  Collins’s voice lowered to an almost whispery tone. “The substance in my possession was collected almost thirty years ago by a psychiatrist, who I might add, reminded me of you in many ways. His name was Doctor Kepler.”

  Evans appeared thoroughly flustered when he spoke again. “Did he investigate the site at Glen Dale, too?”

  “Never in his lifetime.”

  “You’re going to have to help me out here, Hank. I’m a little confused by what you’re saying. What does this doctor have to do with what we’re talking about?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Collins offered, “but thirty years ago, in upper state New York, there was another incident involving a family that shared remarkable similarities to what happened ten years ago in Glen Dale.”

  Evans still peered at the box on the table as he mulled over Collins’s words. He raised his head momentarily to stare directly into the professor’s squinty, slate-colored eyes. Collins did not wish to sound glib at this point, but he knew no other way to present the facts to Evans at this point.

  “I became acquainted with Doctor Kepler eight years ago, shortly before his untimely death—sudden heart attack. Anyway, at that time I was working exclusively with unsolved cases of alleged alien abductions. Kepler provided a wealth of information in regard to the Reilly family. In the summer of 1975, Mr. Reilly, a sheepherder by profession, relocated his family from London to Darby, New York.”

  “Do I really need to know all this?”

  “More so than you realize,” said Collins. “Please, let me finish. Now…where was I…?”

  “Darby…New York…”

  “Yes, of course,” Collins interrupted. “As I was saying, Mr. Reilly was a modestly successful sheepherder who purchased sixty acres of land in a quaint farming community just outside of Cooperstown. His wife, according to Kepler, was a devoutly religious woman. She spent much of her time either laboring on their farm, or attending church functions with her two daughters. The twin girls, Courtney and Cora, were seven-years-old in the summer of 1977.”

  “Twins?” Evans remarked. His features became visibly blanched as he listened to the professor. He seemed almost too unsettled to process the remaining details, but also knew that he must not turn away now.

  Collins proceeded in the same low-key monotone. “As subsequent reports confirmed, the entire family was returning home from a church function one evening just after twilight. I believe it was August of 1977. According to Kepler and police records, their vehicle broke down on a rural route outside of Darby.”

  “I’m almost afraid to hear the outcome,” Evans stated.

  “Darby’s an isolated community—nothing but farmlands for acres in every direction. In August, the cornstalks erected like green pillars on both sides of the only roadway leading from town. The site was completely insulated from the rest of the residents, almost too perfectly situated for a family’s disappearance to occur without a witness. No one saw what happened next—no one that is except the eldest twin, Cora.”

  “So her family vanished—just like Ryan’s family?”

  “Almost without a trace,” said Collins, matching the morbidity of Evans’s voice. “Of course the precise details surrounding the Darby Incident remained sketchy for a number of years afterwards. As misfortune would have it, Cora had no conscious recollection of the occurrence.”

  “This all sounds too familiar.”

  “I figured it might,” said Collins, clasping his hands comfortably in front of himself upon the table. He waited until Evans appeared steady in his seat before continuing. “Within a year following the incident, Kepler became Cora’s psychiatrist. He eventually tapped into her hidden memories using hypnosis.”

  “I see,” responded Evans gravely. “I’m sure it’s beyond my ethical boundaries to ask, but I’d be very interested in learning what Dr. Kepler uncovered while she was hypnotized.”

  “Kepler indicated that Cora was especially cooperative. They spent three years together. Her files aren’t on public record, but Kepler had quite a bit to say about their communications near the end of his life. Evidently, Cora was tormented by terrible dreams—nightmares about the fate of her parents and twin sister.”

  Evans face
twisted into a frown as he reviewed the coincidences between this case and the one he had worked on for so many years. “Should I ask what happened next?” he probed, almost frightfully.

  “I’ll spare you the gory details, Jack, but Cora was convinced that her family was abducted by malevolent aliens. Kepler did not have the courage to extract the precise nature of the family’s demise, or at least he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “If the aliens were indeed hostile and killed the others,” Evans proposed, “then why did they leave Cora alive?”

  “That’s the million dollar question, Jack, and the very one you should’ve asked your patient.”

  “But I’m not certain if Ryan was actually abducted. He claims his family was taken, but he never mentioned anything about his own abduction.”

  “Did he ever attempt to describe the aliens?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Obviously, you haven’t progressed as far in your treatment with the boy as Kepler managed to get with Cora Reilly.”

  Although Evans did not relish the notion of being reminded of his inadequate progression with Ryan’s therapy, he could not deflect the truth with any discourtesy toward the professor. “What else did Kepler find out?” Evans asked eagerly.

  “Cora likened the aliens to poltergeists,” Collins stated candidly. “She said they were similar to ghosts, only without definable features. I believe the word she used in her later therapy sessions was ‘phantoms’.”

  “Phantoms?” Evans pondered aloud. “I don’t understand…were they ghosts or the spirits of dead aliens?”

  “We can’t know such things, Jack. But here’s the interesting part.” Collins’s line of sight lowered to the box set atop the table. “It brings us back to the original question,” he whispered again, “and really the main reason why you’re here today.”

  “The dust,” Evans murmured, while peering at the box’s contents. “You’re now going to tell me that the substance was found by Kepler at the site in Darby, aren’t you?”

  “Guess again.”

  Evans refrained from any further impulsivity long enough to realize the only other place where Kepler might have obtained the substance. “The girl,” he uttered softly. “He found it on Cora Reilly.”

  Collins demonstrated his approval by clapping his hands together three times. “Just as you discovered the material on Ryan’s clothing after a session, Kepler found what appeared to be an identical substance on his patient—the distinction, of course, being that the incidents in question occurred twenty years apart at locations nearly two hundred miles from one another.”

  Whether Evans wanted to believe Collins’s account or not, he could not simply overlook the coincidences presented before him. “You mentioned that Doctor Kepler died,” he mused, “but what about Cora—is it possible for either of us to speak to her?”

  Collins cast his gaze to the window again. A line of passenger planes lurched up the far runway in preparation for takeoff. Though the professor seemed distracted, he answered Evans’s question without fumbling his thoughts. “Cora returned to England to live with her relatives about five years after the incident. She lost contact with Kepler and everyone else in this country at that time.”

  “Well, she’s most likely back in London. You must’ve tried to find her.”

  “I wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I didn’t,” Collins affirmed. “I found and visited her relatives four years ago, but to no avail. Cora had already left home years ago.”

  “What did they say to you?”

  “Cora lived with them from the time she was twelve until the age of seventeen. But she suffered from severe night terrors—violent screaming, uncontrollable in nature. They tried to get her treatment from some of the best shrinks in London, but Cora did not respond to their brand of therapy. She was utterly convinced that whatever destroyed her family was going to return and kill her as well.”

  “It’s very upsetting to hear all this,” Evans remarked. “I wish they found someone to help her.”

  “Cora’s aunt developed a rather unfavorable opinion about psychoanalysis in general,” Collins clarified. “She blamed Kepler and other doctors in the United States for unleashing something in the child’s memory that could not be tamed. For some reason, Cora developed an aberrant fear of the Moon. Her aunt never got her to offer a reason why, but she mentioned instances where Cora’s nightmares became intensely vocal. Apparently, Cora called out bizarre statements—things that didn’t make sense to anyone’s ears.”

  “Did Cora’s aunt tell you what she said?”

  “I believe it was something like ‘beware of the Moon’, and sometimes she’d repetitively scream her sister’s name.”

  Evans slunk slightly in his chair, mimicking the posture that Collins had adopted since they sat down at the table. He reviewed the details in his mind before inquiring, “You mentioned that Cora left home, but did her aunt know where she might’ve gone?”

  Collins pivoted his head from side to side and directed his stare back to Evans’s eyes. Both men trembled a bit upon considering this point, but neither sought to reveal their trepidation blatantly. “I can only speculate on what happened next,” replied Collins glumly. “But Cora hasn’t been heard from since she left her aunt’s residence in 1988. In my mind, there can only be two possibilities to explain her whereabouts. Either Cora’s dreams became so unbearable that she decided to end her own life, or her greatest fear became a reality.”

  “Maybe she’s still running,” Evans suggested, but he almost believed the truth was closer to the professor’s morbid forecast.

  In reality, Evans did not reserve much hope in ever speaking to the lost girl. The purpose of this meeting today, however, was to salvage the life of a boy who suddenly seemed to be in the midst of what Cora Reilly endured many years ago. In this way, she had already served a purpose to Evans.

  The doctor sat quietly for a moment, but the silence lingered like the bewilderment plastered on his face. “I must tell you, Hank,” he started numbly, “the similarities between these two cases are uncanny. I’m going to need some time to sort through all of this before I know what to do next.”

  “Of course,” Collins agreed hesitantly, “but you don’t want to wait too long, Jack. I’d hate for us to meet again under the burden of much more dreadful news.”

  Collins seemed intent on ending their conversation on this note. He already began to check the departure time on the plane’s boarding pass, when Evans forwarded his next inquiry as somewhat of an afterthought.

  “I’m curious why you never tried to contact Ryan or anyone in his extended family. I don’t recall him ever mentioning you to me.”

  “Well, I certainly tried to converse with him,” said Collins, “but the boy’s grandmother proved to be a formidable obstacle. As you might know, she had no interest in letting the press or those associated with my organization anywhere near the boy. In light of the events, I can’t fault her judgment.”

  “But she let me get close. She brought him into therapy every week.”

  “You were appointed by a court under a custody agreement with the state,” Collins reminded the doctor. “But I suspect Ryan’s grandmother kept a close guard over what she deemed as permissible for you to discuss with Ryan.”

  “I guess you’ve done your homework, Hank.”

  “As always,” Collins declared. “But there’s no benefit of treading water in a pond you’ve already swam through, Jack. What you need to do now is protect that boy from any future harm. If there is a way to save him, and I’m certain there is, then you’ll be the one to do it.”

  Collins checked his boarding pass again and realized that he had no more time to spare. He casually pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. Evans remained seated as the professor brushed the wrinkles out of his suit jacket with his hands. “When I return from England, we’ll have to talk about this more extensively,” he offered.

  “You’ll be gone three weeks?�
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  “At least, but by then I think you’ll need to see Ryan again. You may not have the luxury of waiting until I get back.”

  Evans sensed the urgency in Collins’s tone, but he did not understand why time was suddenly of the essence. After all, Evans had treated Ryan for years and no pertinence was ever placed on obtaining a resolution of his past before now. He simply could not let Collins depart without comprehending this matter.

  “Why do you think there’s a limited time to help Ryan?” he asked.

  Collins appeared composed when he replied, “My records indicate that Cora disappeared shortly before her eighteenth birthday. Since we’ve already verified the coincidences between Cora’s and Ryan’s situations, we should be mindful of the boy’s age. How old is Ryan now?”

  Evans answered almost reflexively. He did not even have to refer to the boy’s file to fetch this information. “He’s seventeen—he’ll be turning eighteen in two weeks.”

  Collins huffed with a deepening concern before saying, “I think you’ll make the right choices, Jack. Remember everything we’ve talked about today.”

  With those words, Evans watched Collins tip his hat and stroll off into the crowd as hastily as he arrived. Evans sat alone at the table for a few moments afterwards, staring at the box that Collins purposefully left behind. Before departing the café, Evans picked the container up and stuffed it in his coat. He then returned to December’s cold air. The sound of jet engines thundered in the gray sky over Roosevelt.

  Unlike the airport, Evans drive back to Cloverton was eerily quiet. Professor Collins’s confessions still reverberated through his head, so much so that the highway traffic’s noise was barely audible to his ears. For nearly ten years Evans had only grazed the surface of Ryan’s thoughts with an occasional intensity occurring between them. He was now quite certain that if Ryan had not come back to see him on his own accord, they would have surely lost contact forever.

  None of that mattered now. If Evans was to be at peace, he needed to measure his life by the triumph of future endeavors. Too much of his soul had already been marred by his constant introspection. No doubt, every man pondered his worth to the world at some juncture, and no matter how others may have perceived Evans’s successes, he had nullified them all by focusing on what he failed to achieve. His only recourse now stemmed from the acknowledgement that every day afforded him with a new chance at personal redemption.