The Monster of Memory (Part 2/2)

  

There’s a worm living in my head,

I was on a flight back to the U.S. that afternoon, but it took two days before I was able to track down Hannah. She had moved out of Terry’s house after the funeral, the property apparently being absorbed into the family’s wealth much as his bank account had. Her new apartment back in her northwestern hometown was a big step down from the beachside mansion she had spent the last three years in.

In fact, it reminded me a lot of my own place.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I fucked up. I fucked myself and now I’ve fucked you too I guess.”

The girl sitting in front of me was a ghost of the Hannah I knew. She was cooperative enough—I’d half expected her to hang up on me when I finally got her on the phone, but she’d told me where she was living and agreed to meet. I was up there the next morning, and I had to work to hide my shock when I saw her. She looked like she had lost weight and hadn’t bathed in days, her hair hanging in greasy strings around her pale face. But worse, she looked like something inside her was missing. Like some spark, maybe the will to live, was either guttering or already gone.

Sitting in Hannah’s bare and dingy living room filled with boxes she hadn’t bothered unpacking, I felt sympathy for her, but it was being overridden by my fear and anger. “Just tell me what happened. Who these people are and how I can stop this.”

She let out a dull laugh, her eyes flicking to meet mine before falling away again. “You can’t stop this. Neither of us can.”

Trying to keep my voice even, I tried again. “Just tell me.”

---

When I first met Terry, it was like a dream come true, you know? He was like a prince in some kind of fairy tale, coming to take me away from my boring life and make small-town Hannah his princess. I know that might sound like I was in it for the money, but that isn’t true. I didn’t care if he was rich or poor, though I admit that in the beginning I liked the perks of being the girlfriend of someone that could go anywhere and do anything.

Still, I came to hate the money over time. It tied him to his family, for one thing. At first, I liked them. They were always nice, treated me well, didn’t act stuck up or anything. But once I stuck around for awhile, once they saw I might become a part of the family permanently, things started to change.

It was little things. They would talk about some expensive trip they took to some fancy place and then ask if I had ever been, knowing there was no way that I had. They would talk about some obscure thing they learned at their Ivy League schools and then apologize to me. Tell me they were sorry, and they were happy to talk about something I was more familiar with. As though they were doing me a favor by lowering the conversation to my level.

Passive-aggressive shit like that. Stuff that was small enough that I’d look insecure and petty bringing it up to Terry. And at first, I just laughed it off and tried to ignore it. But as I grew to love him more, I found myself caring more, even though I knew it was stupid and I shouldn’t care what they thought. I started becoming insecure—more awkward when we went out to a fancy place or on a nice trip. I started thinking I wasn’t good enough for him.

When he proposed to me, I panicked. I was in a bad place at the time with all this stuff, and I almost turned him down. Told him he could do better. But I loved him too much for that, to let his shit family psyche me out or let my own weaknesses keep me from the man I loved. So I said yes.

Less than a month later, a friend from high school contacted me. Told me about a clinic they had went to in Iceland. Bear in mind, when I knew this dude, he was huffing glue behind the bleachers and getting Cindy Palino pregnant. But apparently he had gone on to become a semi-successful real estate agent in Seattle. I didn’t know why he was contacting me or telling me about this place, but he was a good enough salesman to keep me on the line.

It was a place where they could give you new memories and knowledge. Totally safe, and really amazing stuff like something from a sci-fi movie. He said they had very flexible financing and had actually done his treatment in exchange for an old speedboat he’d had for years. That now instead of sucking at the financial side of his business, he was able to handle complex accounting like he had been doing it for years.

Long story short, I wound up doing it. Terry had given me a car for my birthday the year before, and I gave that to them. Made up a story to him about going to visit my sister and the car getting stolen while I was actually away at the clinic. In exchange, they gave me what they called their “higher education and culture package”. Two weeks later, we were at a family dinner and I was the one doing the apologizing and telling them that we could talk about something they knew more about.

It was wonderful.

A few days later, the man I’d first met from the clinic, Mr. Aller, contacted me. He said there had been problems with the trade. That the service I had received was actually far more expensive than the worth of the car. Instead of being worth $75,000.00, it was actually worth $3.2 million.

I didn’t have any way of paying it. Even Terry would have had trouble paying it without tons of questions from his family, as almost everything he had was controlled by the trust. And I wasn’t going to involve him or them in it anyway. I wasn’t going to prove his family right by asking for money like that.

So I argued with Aller. Told him it wasn’t my mistake, a deal was a deal, and he could fuck right off. He told me that I had a month to reconsider and either pay the money, or recruit someone else to take the treatment. I said sure thing and shut the door in his face. Tried to forget about it, figuring he was full of shit.

A month later they came for me. I don’t remember much about it, but when it was done, I was sitting outside our house on the driveway. It was early morning and it was cold, but I barely noticed. I was too busy thinking about the two years I had spent trapped in a basement being tortured when I was a teenager.

The funny thing is, there’s some part of you that knows it’s not true, right? Especially that first bad memory. They alter it a little, make everything seem a little off. In that first bad one, everything was red. Like a camera with a red filter on it or something. They do it on purpose. Call it a “tint marker”. A way of letting you know it’s something they added. And a way of making you understand that it doesn’t matter if you know they put it in you, it still hurts.

I walked into the house, expecting Terry to be terrified with worry. The love of his life had been abducted for several days, right? Except no, he thought I’d gone on a sudden trip to visit my sister again. Because apparently I had texted and called him about it. I didn’t remember any of that, of course, but I was starting to get how little that really meant.

Now I understand more. They don’t care about the money. That’s just a trick to make you think you are dealing with a business, dealing with something normal you can fight against or bargain with. I think they do want the new customers, though I don’t really know why. What I do know is what happened after I gave them you.

I hated to do it. I’ve always liked you, and Terry loved you like a brother. Hell, way more than he loved his actual family. But after he died so suddenly, I was broken and desperate. They left me alone for awhile after that first bad memory, but then Mr. Aller contacted me again, telling me that “my obligations were still not fulfilled.”

So I lied to you. Tricked you into going. Probably damned myself by betraying you and the love Terry had for you.

The next weekend I woke up screaming, remembering how I was driving the car that killed my mother and father last year.

I checked, and my father really did die last year. The records say he died of a heart attack while having surgery. There’s no indication that he was in a car wreck. There’s also no indication that my mother died at all.

See, I haven’t seen my mother since I was six. She was a junkie, and when she started using around me, my dad threw her out. She could be dead for all I know, but I don’t have any other memories of her since then except for the night that I killed them both in that wreck.

That’s the trick of it, you see. I know logically that the memory has to be false. Has to be implanted. But my brain and my heart don’t really believe that. The memory is too strong and feels too real, especially without any of the “tint markers” the first one had. I feel like what I know has to be true and what I know is true are two different things. And that difference is tearing me apart.

---

“The only thing I can suggest is running. They will probably still find you—they somehow found me even though I was hiding out after setting you up—but it’s worth a shot I guess.” I could tell from her weary expression that she knew it wasn’t worth much at all.

“Why didn’t you go to the police or something?”

Her mouth split into a terrible grin as she stared at me in disbelief. “You don’t think I tried? Why do you think you haven’t called someone? Try it. They put all kinds of stuff inside you. You can’t tell on them.” She lowered her gaze again. “You can’t even kill yourself.”

My eyes widened. “Hannah. You didn’t.”

Shaking her head, she stood up. I thought she was done talking, but she paused before walking away.

“Before they’re done with you, you’ll try too.”

---

and it tells me terrible things.

I’d like to tell you I found some way to get the money or to fight them. Some way to trick or outsmart them. But in the end, I ran. For all her past deceit, I knew Hannah had been telling me the truth, or at least the truth as she knew it to be. And I had no way of winning against something like that, so my only hope was that if I disappeared, they would leave me alone.

Ten days after I learned to play the guitar, I learned that I was the one that killed Terry.

The memory was strange and slightly surreal, with everything tinted a deep blue. But despite this, it was very detailed and real to me. I remembered calling him up, asking if it was okay if I visited him in a couple of days, but to keep it just between us that I was coming. That I met him out in the parking lot of our old school, now closed and scheduled to be renovated into some kind of group home the following spring. I remembered his confused laughter when I pulled the knife on him and how he started to squeal and beg as I began to hurt him.

I remembered it all and knew it was true, even though every bit of it was a lie.

Because Terry had died of a sudden stroke while he was playing golf and I was over a thousand miles away. By the time Hannah had called me, he had already been declared dead in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Blue “tint marker” aside, there was no way that I could have killed him. But despite that objective reality, I could feel the weight of murdering my best friend crushing me.

No one even bothered contacting me again, either to shake me down for money they didn’t really want or for “new recruits” that I had already decided I would never give them. I wouldn’t make the mistake Hannah had made, dragging down someone else as I drowned in the sea of horror they were slowly pouring into my head.

Maybe they somehow knew I wouldn’t help them. Either way, two weeks later, I woke up in a strange motel room in Nebraska. Now I knew how I had always loved torturing animals since I was a young boy. How excited it made me, even now. I wanted to deny it, to say it went against everything I thought about myself and other memories of my life, but I was beginning to appreciate how little those internal protests actually meant in the face of the thing poisoning my mind.

Like Hannah, I tried repeatedly to tell someone, anyone, about what was happening to me. But somehow I could never get the words out. Like she predicted, I tried to hang myself in the closet of that same Nebraska motel room with a drying cord from the dirty bathroom. But my hands wouldn’t cinch it around my neck. The following day, my feet similarly betrayed me, refusing to step out in front of a passing concrete truck.

Three days ago, I was taken again, though this time I actually remember some of it. I remember waking up to people surrounding me, and the low drone of the plane’s engines while we were in flight. I remember being taken back to the clinic, not through the beautiful lobby, but through some dark service entrance that sent back the lonely echoes of our footfalls as I was pulled back inside. Yet even then, I was surprised at how little I struggled, at how few noises I made. I could see and understand everything well enough by that point, having woken from whatever stupor they had induced, but I still found it hard to do much other than look around blandly while my insides felt like they were dissolving in an acid bath of terror.

Then I was in the procedure room again, stripped naked and strapped to the chair and staring at that one blemish on the white wall. There were several people around me, but there was no show of giving me injections this time or scientific fanfare of any kind. I wanted to ask questions, but I found I couldn’t speak, and no one would speak to me. So I was left staring at that dirty spot on the far wall, and at first I thought it was my imagination that it was growing larger. But no, it was, or at least the white was disappearing as the wall slid away to reveal a black tunnel.

Suddenly, Mr. Aller was beside the chair. He glanced down at me, his smile cold. “Welcome to Tier Three.”

Someone behind me began to roll the chair forward into the yawning darkness. I felt hot air that smelled of sulfur buffeting my face as we cleared the threshold of the room, leaving behind the clean precision of the modern clinic for the rough hewn dark walls of volcanic rock that surrounded us on every side. There were five of us including Aller, and the three attendants all had flashlights clipped to their shirts now, the jostled illumination dancing back and forth across the slowly deepening tunnel as we progressed further out and down.

I wish I could say I don’t remember any of this, but I do, at least for now. I also remember when the tunnel finally flattened out and widened into a stone chamber that seemed impossibly large. The walls to either side were only ten or twelve feet away, but they seemed to run ahead of us and upward forever, far higher than should be possible considering how deep I thought we must be. And the walls themselves were pocked with row after row of holes that appeared to be tunnels half the size of the one we had just left. I had the thought of a beehive, though I knew it was a bad comparison.

I was more afraid at that moment than I had ever been, more than I ever thought I could be. I found myself hoping I would just die from being afraid, but it was just me lying to myself again. I wasn’t going to die, and I could still be much more afraid.

They turned and began to push me toward one of the smaller tunnels, and as we grew closer I saw something moving in that deeper dark. I was so transfixed by trying to see what we were approaching that I almost didn’t hear Aller talking to me again.

“Back in 1783, there were a series of volcanic eruptions near here. It lasted for eight months, if you can believe it. Killed many people, you know. Famine and fluoride poisoning mainly, though some died of other causes.” My eyes were still fixed on the indistinct shape coming closer, but I heard him chuckle. “Many people call it Skaftareldar. A few of us know it meant much more than just fire and destruction.”

The chair had stopped moving now and I was able to make out the dim outlines of the thing before us. Its sides appeared to be a deep, slick red that resembled a brightly-colored slug. I had no way of knowing how large it was, because its undulating length went back into the darkness without end. My eyes kept wanting to avoid looking at what I assumed was its head, a mass of hard, deeper crimson flesh and squid-like arms that were ran though with jagged calcifications of black stone that endlessly dripped a thick, white fluid from the wounds the rocks had produced. As the first drop of that hit my bare skin, I felt my leg begin to go numb.

“This place, these wonderful beings, no one knows for sure if they were always here and just awoke during the eruption, or if their arrival actually caused Skaftareldar. What we do know is that soon after the eruptions died down, the first of us discovered newly opened caves that led us to this blessed place. Ever since, we have helped them with their work and reaped the bounty of their wisdom.”

I felt the first tendrils of the thing climbing my body, touching my legs and groin almost gingerly as it made its way toward my head. I felt like I was going insane, but then I suddenly spoke, my voice calm as it uttered words not my own. “What is their work?”

My head turned toward Aller, who was looking down at me with a smirk. “Glad you asked. Why it’s the study of the human soul.” I felt the tentacles of the creature coiling around my neck and head, holding me fast toward Aller as he went on.

“They want to see what it takes to shape a soul. To refine it or break it. Are they immutable, or can they be changed through experiences? Ideas? Different beliefs?” Aller looked over at the thing above me with some mixture of love and admiration. “In past centuries, these studies have taken many forms, but lately there has been a focus on the effect of convincing someone of a false past. Can you make a person better or worse by giving them memories that they had a better or worse life than they actually had? Can you make a person more virtuous or depraved simply by making them believe they have been so in the past?”

He looked back to me. “These are the questions we are working to answer. But there are many, many of these beings, you see, and we are always running out of participants in our experiment.” He frowned slightly. “And before you think us unfair, we really do try to be even-handed. We have people that we make much happier by erasing bad memories and creating better replacements. It’s just…well, there has to be a group that is pushed toward darker extremes, and unfortunately for you, that’s the lot you’ve drawn.”

I wanted to say more, but then the world went white, then red, then dark. When I woke up, I was back in my apartment. I remember several more things now. Terrible things I can’t even bring myself to write. Not that I think it will matter much longer anyway.

You see, I’ve been looking back over what I’ve written, and I already don’t remember most of it. I started writing this to create a record, but how much will it help me if I can’t recall the truth of it and no one else will believe me? I’m surprised I could even write it at all, but perhaps they know the pointlessness of it and so they don’t mind. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I feel like I’m being dissolved—boiled away in a stew of false memories I can’t discern and strange impulses I don’t understand. But what will be left when the boiling is done? What will be the shape of my soul when they are done refining it?

I only hope that if they find the monster they are looking for, there is not enough of me left to see it. 

---

Credits

 

The Monster of Memory (Part 1/2)

  

There is music in my heart

My best friend Terry died three months ago. I did the things a best friend does—I spoke at the funeral, I comforted his family, and I helped his fiancee Hannah pack up his things. Terry had been a constant in my life since junior high, despite all the obstacles that usually erode a twenty-year friendship like time and distance. We came from vastly different backgrounds from the start—I was from a small working-class household, while he grew up in a large family so wealthy that money wasn’t even really a consideration for them—just a given, like water or air.

Yet growing up, his parents were always kind and welcoming to me, and while I was never close to Terry’s brother and two sisters, they were never stuck-up or mean. When I stayed with them during the funeral and the following few days, they were just as I remembered, and I could tell they appreciated having another person there that loved Terry and could share the burden of losing him so suddenly.

Still, he was my only real connection to that family and their lives, and when I flew back home the following week, I had no expectation I would ever have much contact with any of them again. That’s why I was surprised when a few days later I got a call from Hannah. She told me Terry had bought me a gift before he died, a very unique kind of service that they had both used before and really loved. He had wanted it to be a surprise for the next time we were together, but now that wasn’t possible, so she wanted to let me know.

I was strangely touched by both the gift and her thinking to call and tell me about it. It sounded just like something Terry would do. Wiping my eyes, I asked her what kind of “service” it was. She gave a short laugh and said it would be better for it to be a surprise. The people should be contacting me in the next few days to set up an appointment, and everything would be explained then.

With that, she said her goodbyes and was gone.

---

The following Friday, I was sitting in my living room across from a distinguished-looking man in a well-tailored suit, his vaguely European accent adding a pleasantly cultured lilt to his words as he told me about his company, Mneumonica. He said his name was Dimitri Aller, and he had a very special gift for me.

“Andrew, if I offered you the chance to take a wonderful trip to anywhere in the world, a true adventure full of beauty and excitement, wouldn’t you want to go?”

I gave a slight smile. “Well sure, yeah.” Was that the gift? A trip to wherever I wanted?

The man returned my smile briefly as he nodded. “Of course you would. But now, what if I told you that after you took that trip, you would have no memory of it at all? You would have no trace of it having happened in your life whatsoever?”

I frowned. What was this? “Um…I don’t know. I don’t think I would, no.”

The man’s expression turned to a contemplative frown. “And why’s that?”

Shrugging, I paused a moment as I tried to find the right words. “I just…I don’t know what the point would be. I would just be losing time from my life and having nothing to show for it when it was done.”

Aller raised a finger. “Exactly. We are, in many ways, our memories. Things that happen that we don’t know about or don’t remember…well, they are of little power or value to us. Would you agree?”

“Yeah…I guess so.”

Nodding, he went on. “Well then, would you also agree that the opposite is true? That memories of things that did not occur can be very powerful and of great worth?”

I felt a growing unease at all this. This man, while very polished and pleasant, was making little sense. I almost felt like I was being given a sales pitch for a self-help seminar or a fancy cult. Hoping I didn’t sound rude, I asked him what exactly he was offering. Far from looking insulted, the man’s face brightened as he leaned forward.

“I’m offering you, or rather, your friend Terry is offering you, the gift of memory.”

---

“We have developed a method of permanently implanting knowledge and memories inside a human brain. I know it sounds like science-fiction, but I assure you it is not. Our research and technology is thirty years ahead of what is commonly known or available because we have the support of a small but very powerful clientele that can afford to pay substantial sums for such advancement.”

I shook my head. “Still, how is that possible? It sounds like something out of the Matrix.”

He chuckled. “Or Total Recall. Believe me, I’ve heard them all. But it is nothing so fantastical as all of that. Essentially, we have perfected a technique by which we can induce a dreamlike state in a subject. During this period, we can then introduce very specific memories into the brain. You know how some dreams seem very real and stay with you after you wake? It is akin to that, though much more detailed and resilient. Your sleeping brain will think it’s a dream and when you wake, it will be recalled as real past events.”

Swallowing, I weighed his words. I had trouble believing it was true, but even if it was, I wasn’t going to trust someone to mess with my memories. On the other hand, Hannah said that she and Terry had both done it, and I knew he’d never have gotten it for me as a gift if he didn’t believe it was safe. I had the worried thought that it seemed strange he had never mentioned it to me before, but possibly that was just so it wouldn’t ruin the surprise if he planned on getting me to try it in the future. Either way, I decided I could at least finish hearing the man out.

“So…what kind of things can be implanted?”

The man sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his knee, looking distant as he began again. “Oh, all the things you might expect. Wonderous vacations, exciting adventures, elicit romances.” He shot me a sly look at the last. “Of course, it cannot be anything too fantastical or the brain won’t accept it as reality. So no trips to Mars or having superpowers, I’m afraid. And, those things are beyond the scope of what you’re being offered in any case. We have three Tiers of service. Tier One is the least expensive and is where everyone has to start. It is what we call the Knowledge Tree.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Have you ever wanted to know how to build a car engine? Or fly a plane? Or play the piano? Tier One will give you a professional level of knowledge in one subject area. Something that would normally take years of dedication will be learned in less than one day.”

My eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

Aller smiled again. “Very much so. You’ll still have to train the muscle memory, of course, but that usually takes a few hours of practice at most. It will be like you are an expert returning to a well-known skill after being away from it for a year or two. And you will keep it forever.”

I was starting to be excited in spite of myself, but I thought back on something else he had said. “Why did you say everyone starts at Tier One?”

“Well, for two reasons. First, the human brain is very adaptive, but we find the greatest success by starting with something relatively small. As strange as it sounds, it is much easier to teach you how to be a tennis pro or an excellent computer programmer than it is to give you a week-long adventure as a deep-cover secret agent. The brain accepts the core information easily, but the experiences themselves are trickier. With Tier One, we’re merely giving you what we call “filler experiences”—you on a tennis court or sitting at a computer in a bare room. Just enough memory of learning the skill that your brain accepts it as reality and does not experience any mneumonic dissonance. After a brain has experienced the technique, it becomes more accepting of more elaborate realities and the other Tiers become an option.”

“Ok. I guess that makes sense. What’s the second reason?”

Aller chuckled again. “Why, the money-back guarantee, of course. If you are not completely satisfied with your Tier One experience, you will get a full refund of the money your friend paid for it.”

I gave a nervous laugh. “What’s to stop me from liking the treatment and still asking for a refund?”

Aller gave a slight smirk. “Well, that’s your prerogative, of course. Normally our clientele is not concerned with how much it costs or getting the money back,” he glanced around my apartment, “but I understand not everyone is in the same financial position. Rest assured, if you complete Tier One and want a refund, you will get it, no questions asked.”

My head was buzzing as I asked the next question. “How much money did Terry spend on this?”

The man shrugged lightly. “I believe it was $600,000.00.”

---

and it's wond'rous when it sings,

The following week I was in a coldly-beautiful clinic in rural Iceland. The flight and accommodations were part of the service, I learned, and as I was ushered to my room, I found myself amazed by my surroundings. Everything was so white and clean, but more than that, I almost felt like I was on a spaceship from the time I stepped into the lobby of what could have just as easily been an exclusive, ultra-modern hotel.

Soft light emanated from the walls and ceiling, and nearly everything seemed to be seamlessly automated and voice-controlled. Ambient music played quietly in most of the halls, and underneath that, the almost inaudible hum of something that vibrated the air like a distant heartbeat. Over the next day, I was treated to wonderful food and strange but comfortable surroundings. The next afternoon it was time for the treatment.

I was taken into a room with a large padded chair, and while I saw several machines and banks of electronics along one wall, I had no real idea how any of it worked. I had been assured that the treatment required no surgery or physical implant, but simply amounted to the right combination of chemicals and the manipulation of electromagnetic fields. I was strapped down, but they said that was only to keep me still in case of mild muscle contractions.

Several people clad in white made preparations around the room as I was given multiple injections, and within a minute I felt myself beginning to fade out. I felt a last moment of dim panic, and found myself focusing on a dark spot on the otherwise pristine far wall, willing myself to stay awake and see what they were actually going to do me. I knew the thought made no sense, and within moments I was waking up back in my room. I looked at the clock and saw that actually six hours had passed.

It was then that I saw the guitar propped against the far wall.

I had picked learning the guitar for both sentimental and practical reasons. Terry and I had always talked about learning to play, but I could never afford lessons and I always suspected he avoided learning because he understood that and knew I wouldn't accept help from him either. I also thought guitar was a good idea because it was a relatively small addition to my brain if it worked and easier to argue for the refund if it didn't, assuming they were being honest.

I sat up and then stood slowly, gingerly testing my feet as I stepped toward the instrument. I felt fine. More than fine. I felt better. And I knew as soon as I touched the guitar that I'd be able to play it.

Within two hours my hands had come close to matching what my head already knew. I played songs of all kinds as easy as breathing, tears of wonder in my eyes as I strummed the guitar. I could never have imagined being given such a gift, and when I finally slept, it was the best sleep of my life.

---

I woke with a start to find Mr. Aller sitting at the foot of my bed. When he turned to look at me, his face was unreadable.

“Good morning.”

“What? What are you doing here?”

He glanced down at his hands. “Well, there's a small accounting manner we must attend to.”

“Accounting?”

He puffed out a discontented breath. “Yes. When your friend procured this…gift for you, we placed a customary hold on his bank account in the amount of $600,000.00. The sum was not withdrawn at the time, as we do not withdraw payment until the service is rendered.” Clearing his throat, he went on. “Yet when we went to withdraw payment this morning, we learned that the account has been closed. We contacted the bank as a courtesy, and were informed that the account was set up as a limited trust that was liquidated upon Terrance's death.”

I felt my mouth go dry as cotton. “What does that mean?”

Aller's eyes were hard when he turned back to me. “It means you owe us the money, of course.”

I let out a burst of nervous laughter. “I can't pay that. I can't afford a new car, much less this.” I gestured toward the guitar laying next to me in the bed before looking back at him. “You have to know that.”

The man's lips twisted slightly. “Nonetheless, we must be made whole. But we aren’t unreasonable. You can either pay the sum owed in full or, in the alternative, bring us two new clients of equal or greater value. One or the other, within one week.”

I felt myself growing angry. “Listen. I didn't ask for this, and your agreement isn't with me. I'll talk to Terry's family, but I make no promises, and honestly, it’s your problem more than mine.”

Mr. Allers let out a dry laugh. “You think so, boy? Do you think we can only give you pleasant memories?”

Standing up, I began backing away in fear and frustration. “You're insane.”

He stood and met my gaze steadily. “Do you want to have memories of a childhood where you were molested? Or perhaps the guilt of drowning a baby sister that never existed?” He gave me a contemptuous last look as he walked past me towards the door. “One week. Then we come for you.” 

---

Credits

 

The Honeymoon (Part 5/5) [FINALE]

  

We travelled in a large shuttle bus of the kind I had always associated with class reunions and senior citizen field trips to see musicals. The seats were comfortable and there was food and a bathroom, but it was still hard to ride for so long after having been on the road so many days. We stopped every few hours to stretch our legs, and I saw that Pete and Marjorie were in a second identical bus traveling behind us. They looked okay physically, but neither of them would speak to me or meet my eyes when I tried to call out to them. Whether it was out of fear or resignation, they both bore the air of condemned prisoners, and after they ignored me the first couple of times, I gave up trying.

I was mildly surprised that I wasn’t scared or worried about myself or them, but as time went on and the road unspooled before us, I felt the last remnants of my old self-doubt and fear falling away. It reminded me of watching a butterfly or moth shaking off the detritus of the cocoon before taking flight. I didn’t know if a moth remembered life before the cocoon, but if it did, I imagined it grew dimmer with each passing night.

The people on the bus with me were friendly enough, but they left me alone other than to occasionally ask if I needed anything. I only drank and ate a little, and when I slept, it was only for a half hour or so at a time. Still, I didn’t feel sleepy or especially tired. Just tired of riding and waiting, waiting and riding. I was ready to reach Wizard’s Folly and the gargoyle that lay at its heart.

By dusk the following night we were there. I had held off asking any more questions during the trip, and I found myself regretting it now. I had no real idea what I was walking into. For all I knew, these people were part of some dangerous cult and were going to torture and kill all of us. It seemed I wasn’t past all fear or all doubts after all.

But they paled next to my drive to see for myself. My desire to enter the house and get rid of this terrible longing that had taken over my heart in the last few days. So I left the bus with the rest of them. We had been driven right up to the front door of the house by some route we hadn’t seen during our prior visit, and when the expectant crowd parted the way for me, I stepped forward and opened the door.

Inside was dark and cool, but not pitch black. There were electric lamps and candles at various spots, perforating the shadows enough to give a rough geography of the hall I was entering and its adjoining rooms. I felt no need to explore or wander once I was inside. The house was clean and well-furnished, as well as impressively decorated in a strange gothic style, but none of that was why I had come.

I came to meet my father.

The thought had occurred to me as I traveled past the sweeping staircase going up into the upper floors and around the corner to a smaller hallway that led to a small black door at its terminus. I opened the door and began my journey down the winding stone steps into the basement and sub-basement beyond. All of this was done without hesitation, because as with so many things now, I just knew the truth of them as they came to me.

I reached the primary ritual room, the centerpiece of which was the large pit that had once contained so much death and decay. It was empty now, but I could still feel the energy radiating from it. This pit had been my womb, and I felt some connection to it. I looked around the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Sitting in the corner was a small, hunched man, or something that resembled a man. I wasn’t afraid, but I still approached cautiously, as I could feel great power coming from him as well.

“Father?” I didn’t know why I said the word except that it was right and true.

The figure stirred from some kind of slumber, grey rheumy eyes studying me for a moment before gleaming with recognition. “Vesper? Is that you?”

I nodded slowly, almost gingerly, as I sat down near him. “I think so. My name is Phil, but I think it’s also Vesper.”

The man smiled, the crisscross of age lines making the expression seem more like a wound across old leather. “Phil is just your name this time. The name of your outward self. Before you were Dora. You were Stephen. And perhaps more I never knew.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought I dreamed of you coming here before. Did you come here before?”

“Yes…me and my wife, Marjorie. Her brother, Pete. They brought me, but we didn’t come inside the house. I never came down here. I didn’t remember enough.” I felt a slight shame at admitting the last, but the old man patted my shoulder.

“No shame in that. They are old and crafty. I suspect they knew just what to say to confuse you, get you back away from here without me waking up.”

I jerked back at that. “Old and crafty? Marjorie? I don’t understand.”

The man sighed. “I know, and I hate it had to be this way for so long. Let me explain.”

---

Hell is a real place. As real as this one…or more real I suppose. It is one of the chief Realms that encircle this world and an infinite number like them. There was a time that Hell was ruled by Lucifer and his fallen. It was a terrible place, but it was orderly and it served many purposes. A key cog in the machinery of Creation, if you will.

But then Lucifer was destroyed and Hell began to change. The fallen angels and other infernal demons that were left no longer controlled things, and they found themselves hunted to the edge of extinction, for the new ruler of Hell, the Hunter, was all but immune to their infernal magics and diabolical snares. With no way of fighting back, they ran.

The weaker ones hid in the shadows of the new Hell, eking out a meager existence while waiting for their turn to come as the Hunter’s prey. The stronger ones fled to other realms and worlds like this one. Over the years, some formed communities like the one you visited in Brimley. And while many appreciated the respite, and some even came to enjoy their lives on Earth, most were ill-suited for it. They felt a yearning to return to Hell not that different than what pulled you to the very place you sit right now.

So they began to work and scheme. They enlisted the aid of numerous human agents and practitioners of the black arts, and over several centuries they devised a plan. The start of that plan was put into motion when a man named Francesco Pazzi came to America and founded the town Firenze. He was skilled in black magic and had been entrusted with this plan, this last hope of Hell’s orphans.

And he succeeded. Year after year, ritual after ritual, sacrifice after sacrifice, he layered the blood and the pain and the power needed to craft a very special spell. It required not only human sacrifice, but demonic sacrifice as well, and over two dozen fallen angels were rendered in the process, as well as a tiny relic from the Hunter itself. A single strand of hair that had fallen from its head during its brief battle with Lucifer.

In many ways, this was the most important part. If something was going to be able to face the strange magic of the Hunter, it needed to possess a bit of that magic itself, as well as the magic of infernals and humans both. These three magics were never meant to be together, never meant to co-exist, so it was only through great skill and will and power that this was done. Only by all of this effort and sacrifice were you born.

The night you were born, men from the town stormed this house. Most were killed and others were taken. They have served various uses in the years since then, but one pair, one special couple, has lasted longer than the rest. Rudolph and Annabelle Perkins. Star-crossed lovers, you might say. Or rather, as you might say, your wife Marjorie and her “brother” Pete.

I know even now that comes as a shock to you. You still retain your life as Phil, and some of those old feelings are still there. But I have been sending them out to find you for decades, and I know them better than they know themselves.

When I came to America as Frank Pazzi, I had hoped my rituals would be complete by 1920. That I would gain vast power in this world and, when I eventually was forced into Hell, I would be lauded as a hero and given a place of privilege in the new infernal court. Then that fucking whore Annabelle and her stuck-up husband came to town. I had hoped that taking her would send him packing, but instead he riled the townsfolk up when you were fresh to life--and I was weak from your creation.

In the chaos of that night, you somehow slipped away. I had taken them as prizes, but I had to disappear for a time while I searched for you. By the time I found you a few years later, you were living as a young girl named Dora Wilcher outside of Omaha, Nebraska. From what I could learn, you had just shown up in town as a young woman and started living life like everything was normal. No memory of what you really were or that you hadn’t existed five years earlier.

My first instinct had been to try to force you to remember, try to make you come with me. Then I realized how foolish and arrogant I was being. I was dealing with something new, something I didn’t understand. That no one understood. So I decided to trust you and let you find your own way, develop the human side of your nature and grow in strength until you were ready.

For years I watched you while cultivating more money and power as Wilson Tattersall. I rebought my own house, my own property, and I waited. I had a feeling we would need this place of power again, and I was right. When Dora was in her forties, she started getting sick. I kept close tabs on you at all times back then, and I knew that the doctors you had seen had no idea what was wrong. Desperate, I sent two of my servants out to push you in this direction, hoping I could help you without disturbing your development.

Those servants were Marjorie and Pete. Except they didn’t call themselves that, or Annabelle and Rudolph. Back then they were Tess and Johnny, a married couple that buttered up to you and your husband for months before springing a surprise trip on you. A surprise trip to an exclusive new amusement park that had just opened up in California.

I had waited for months for your arrival, making use of the guests we had in my own small ways, but all with the end goal of seeing you walk through those gates. Because without you, all of it was for naught. I had started to lose hope—I felt that my bindings on “Tess and Johnny” were strong enough that they couldn’t betray me, but I also felt sure by that point that you needed to come of your own free will for any of this to truly work.

Then, on the evening of October 27, 1947, I saw you standing in line for the house. I have never been a romantic or even a sexual man, but you were a vision that night. I had only seen you in pictures and from a distance a handful of times over the years, but nothing could have prepared me for the excitement I felt seeing you so close to fulfilling your destiny. When you entered the house, you did remember more of yourself and your nature, but something was still wrong. You lashed out, killing several people and making others sick or insane. All of which I was happy with at the time, as you seemed to grow stronger as others fell around you. I even felt pride for my hand in it, for I had tainted many visitors in the preceding months, letting this place and you feed off them indirectly during your rampage. I thought you were finally being made whole. But then, just as quickly you were gone, vanishing into thin air.

I didn’t despair as long this time, but set others to the task of finding you again. The problem is that to most people you would just look like a normal person. People I have claimed—my touch gives them unnatural life, but it also gives them a certain sensitivity. They can find you where others cannot. Over the years, without regular influxes of power, my ability to create new servants of that sort has waned.

Annabelle and Rudolph found you as Stephen Keller in the 1970s and eventually led you back here. That time, you only wanted to talk to me, largely about my life and whether my goals were noble or worthy, and then you disappeared again. I didn’t find you again until now.

That damned couple—they have to do my bidding, but they enjoy their life outside far too much and have devised ways over the years to avoid finding you, to thwart the spirit of my commands if not the letter of them. When they ran across you, they had no choice but to come or the magic that preserves them would start to fail. But if they brought you and manipulated you into leaving before you could remember, their hope was they could claim ignorance and buy themselves another few decades of “searching”. Alas, the magic is smarter than they are, as are my demonic companions.

I set up Brimley as a waystation years ago. A place they would have to travel through if they were bringing you to me. An independent check, if you will, to help keep them honest or stop them if they decided they didn’t want the ride to end. It served its purpose in the end, and they’ll be dealt with for their treachery, if you can call their disloyalty to me treason in the first place. I did abduct and magically subjugate them, but they had a lot of good years as a result, so I can’t help but feel somewhat unappreciated.

But I digress. My age is catching up with me I’m afraid. Wait until you’re 170 years old and see how you do.

The real question is are you ready? Do you feel whole yet? I’m not trying to pressure you, and I trust you to know when this cycle of…whatever it is…is complete, but I’m running out of time. And Hell, while vast, grows closer to being wholly under the Hunter’s control every day. I’ve even heard stories of the Hunter appearing in this world, albeit very briefly, a few months ago and slaughtering quite a few notable occultists. No one on my level, of course, but still…it gives one pause.

I named you Vesper after the old meaning of the word. Evening star. The morning star has died and his Hell has been lost, but I believe you can champion a new era. With you to lead us, I think Hell can be retaken and made whole again. So what do…

---

He gurgled slightly as I punched into his ribcage with both hands, separating his torso like a rotten head of lettuce and letting the wet halves splatter-drip onto the old stone floor. This rotting monster, this decrepit sadist, thought that I would help him? That I would help any of them?

I remembered everything now. I recalled the bloody and horrible origins of my birth. I could see my husband when I was Dora. My parents when I was Stephen. Marjorie the day I married her. And yes, I had been lied to and tricked. Manipulated and moved around like a pawn. Or I suppose more like a nuclear warhead being ferried from place to place.

But I didn’t feel anger or sadness. I felt joy and love for all the lives I had lived and the world I had lived them in. Unlike when Dora lost control and hurt people out of confusion and fear, I was past that now. The only negative emotion I was really feeling at this point was disgust. Disgust at this little mummy that wanted me to be a good dog. Disgust at the horde of foul things masquerading as humans outside.

I walked back upstairs, and even before I reached the doors, I could feel their anticipation, their corruption, flowing through the cracks like waves of heat. I think my father was right. It was time that I helped these demons find a way home.

I opened the doors wide and smiled at the expectant crowd. They weren’t stupid, and it only took moments of seeing me now for their expressions to change, for their flesh and bones to start shifting in unnatural ways in anticipation of what was coming. That was all right. It wouldn’t matter in the end.

Closing the doors behind me, I walked out into the crowd, watching with slight amusement as they shuffled back at my approach. The fear and hate in the air were palpable, and I breathed it in deeply. Scanning the crowd, I looked for any sign of Marjorie and Pete but saw none. No matter. I’d find them later. For now, it was time to show these things just what all their murder and horror had brought them. I leaned forward slightly, my voice barely above a whisper, but still resonant in the silence of the cool evening air.

“Who’s first?” 

 

---

Credits

 

The Honeymoon (Part 4/5)

  

“Bell’s Palsy.”

“What? You’re saying what I saw was Bell’s Palsy?” I knew what it was—I’d had a dentist who had it once. But it made one side of his face droop, not look like it was falling off.

Marjorie nodded. “Yeah. Stress can trigger it, and his version of it is pretty severe and scary, but it happened once when we were teenagers. Last time it cleared up overnight, so we’ll see. He’s resting in his room now.”

I gripped my hands together so tightly that the knuckles were white. “Look, there’s been a lot of weirdness the entire trip, and I…”

Marjorie came and sat next to me, reaching over to put her hands on top of mine. “I know it. I’ve been focused on him too much, and I’m sorry. I just know we have the rest of our lives together and I don’t get to spend much time with him. And now…he’s just so upset about all this right now.”

I pulled my hands away and leaned back. “You could have fooled me.”

She frowned at me, her eyes growing harder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that he’s been acting jolly as can be all afternoon, and then all of a sudden it’s like I’m sitting across from a horror movie that you’re telling me is Bell’s Palsy and is caused by his extreme stress? I’m not trying to be a dick, but none of that makes sense.”

She stood up, tears welling up in her eyes. “Well, it’s the truth. I need you on my side on this. Do you think this is how I wanted our honeymoon to be? Stuck in a semi and going to some crappy old park? Not having any time to ourselves? But I was trying to make him and you both happy. I saw it as a way to spend time with him and to give you a trip we otherwise couldn’t afford. I’m sorry that it…”

I stood up and hugged her. “It’s okay. We’re all just stressed and tired. If you say it’s Bell’s Palsy, that’s what it is. Let’s get some rest and see how he’s doing in the morning.”

---

The next morning, Pete looked normal aside from the sunglasses he was wearing. He said that his eyes were still weird looking but seemed to be improving. I thought about asking more questions, but decided to just leave it alone. All I wanted was to be done with this trip as soon as possible, and if I still felt a yearning to return to Wizard’s Folly, there was nothing to be done about it now.

That evening we stopped again at Hattie’s One-Stop Emporium in Brimley, and again I felt the same sense of disquiet being in the small town. I went in with the intention to just use the bathroom and then head right back to the truck, but when I made it into the stall, I stopped cold at what I found there. There was a notepad and two pictures sitting on the back of the toilet. I would have just left them alone, but I recognized them. They were from Pete’s file on Wizard’s Folly.

But how could that be? As far as I knew, Pete had never even gone inside the store last time we were here, and I knew he hadn’t beat me in here this time. And why would he leave parts of his prized file in a gas station bathroom anyway?

Forgetting my need to pee, I grabbed up the pad and pictures before leaving the stall. I almost went out to ask Pete about it, but something made me reconsider. I was tired of getting all my information through them. Not that I didn’t trust them, but it wouldn’t hurt to talk to the store owners and see if they knew anything about how that stuff came to be in their bathroom or how long it had been there.

The cashier’s desk was a heavily carved oak monstrosity that curved into a long “L” with two cash registers on opposite ends. Behind the counter were two elderly women that might have been twins, their long white hair tied back in matching bushy ponytails. Putting on a smile, I approached and held up the notepad and pictures.

“Hey ya’ll. Me and family are just passing through, and I just found something in your bathroom that I think belongs to my brother-in-law.” I pointed out in the direction of the truck fuel pumps. “He’s the guy out there fueling up. Anyway, I was just in the bathroom stall and I found some papers and pictures that belong to him, but I don’t know how or when he could have left them. So I know it sounds weird, but I was just wondering if you had seen someone carry them in or if you knew how long they might have been in there without being noticed?”

The two women glanced at each other with small smiles, and the one on the left was about to answer when their eyes lifted above me and the words died in their throat. I turned around to stare into the drooping breasts of the tallest person I’ve ever seen. The woman was of normal proportions, and her face, though a bit narrow, was actually that of an attractive woman in her early fifties. But she had to be over seven feet tall, and when she looked down at me and smiled with her long, shining grin, I couldn’t help but take a step back, bumping into the counter.

“You said you had a wife, did you?” Her voice was deep but still feminine, and it possessed a tonal quality that sounded like it came from the bottom of an old stone well. The woman made a pouty expression for a moment. “That’s always such a shame to hear. Always a shame when such a handsome young man is already taken.” The women behind me murmured their agreement, but I was unable and unwilling to look away from this giant in front of me. I was transfixed—on the one hand, I was fearful of her for some reason beyond her surprising size, and on the other, I found her voice and words calming like a soothing balm. Not sure of what to do, I mirrored the smile that had returned to her face and nodded.

“Yes, I’m taken I’m afraid.” By this point, any questions about what I had found in the bathroom had gone by the wayside. I just wanted to get out of there. But then suddenly I was swept up in a tight hug, my face being buried in her cleavage as I breathed in some combination of flowery perfume and baby powder and…something else. There was something else beneath those smells. Something earthy and raw and caustic that felt like a corkscrew going up into my nostrils. I pulled back with a gasp and found my face being gently held by her large hands as she looked at me closely with dark, wide eyes.

“You are the one, aren’t you? You are, I can see it. I can feel it.”

I tugged my head backward but it didn’t budge in her grip. “Ma’am, I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. But please let me go. I don’t like any of this.”

Her face grew sad and she gave a slow nod. “Of course you don’t. How could you? Lost and incomplete for so long, our Vesper, our Venus, our evening—” I unhinged my knees and let my body weight rip my head free from her grasp, scooting around her and sprinting towards the door. She screamed behind me, but it was not an angry yell. It was more of a mournful wail.

“Make them take you back, Vesper! Make them do their duty! For us all!”

If she said more, I didn’t hear it. I ran off the front porch of the store and headed to where the truck had been parked, but it was gone. New panic spread across my chest as I looked around the parking lot and adjoining streets. No sign of the truck or either of them. Throwing the notepad and photos to the ground, I dug into my pocket for my cellphone. Neither of them answered after two tries each.

It was all too much. I finally went and sat down at a concrete picnic table sitting in the small triangle of grass as the edge of the gas station’s parking lot. I needed a few minutes of quiet, a few minutes of peace to gather my thoughts and then…

“Heya Mister.”

I looked around to see a pair of boys, one about eleven, the other maybe thirteen, staring at me. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but I was grateful for their relative normalcy so I tried to be friendly. “Hey guys. How’re ya’ll doing?”

The younger boy giggled. “You talk funny, Mister.”

I nodded and smiled. “I’m from the South, so I probably have a weird accent to you, huh?” They both nodded back and sat down across the picnic table from me. Inwardly groaning, I turned to glance at the road again. “Hey, did y’all happen to see a big black semi around here? Just in the last few minutes?”

The younger boy went to speak but the older one poked him in the ribs before talking himself. “I did, Mister. It drove off just a little bit ago.” When I asked which direction, the boys both shrugged. “I’m not sure, Mister. But they were going pretty fast.”

I pulled out my phone again and sent Marjorie a text: WHERE ARE YOU? Though I hated it, I was already starting to make plans in the back of my mind for how I’d get back home on my own. But surely it wouldn’t come to that, right?

I looked past the boys and down the street where, just a few days ago, I had seen the small dog harassing the man in his yard. There was no sign of life down that way now. As evening continued to set in, the shadows were pooling out their stations at the bottom of trees and cars, trashcans and garages, and the air was growing thicker with the blue haze of deepening twilight. It was a lonely road, and sitting at this decaying picnic table with these odd little boys, I had never felt more alone.

Then, at the far end of the street, I saw Pete’s truck go by.

It may have been that they were heading back in my direction, but I didn’t wait to find out. I leapt up and started down the road at a full run without a farewell or backwards glance. I knew logically I couldn’t just chase down the truck, but my hope was that they were somehow looking for me, or that at the least, the big truck would have to slow down in the more narrow straits of a neighborhood. Yet when I reached the far end of the road, breath puffing out and hands on my knees, there was no sign of them. I stood back up slowly, my brain buzzing and off-balance. They had abandoned me. I saw no other answer.

I turned around with the idea of going back to the store on the off-chance they returned—fat chance I thought to myself—and to sit at the table while I called a taxi to carry me to the nearest bus stop. But I came up short when I saw that the two boys were standing right behind me. They weren’t out of breath, and honestly I had neither seen nor heard any sign of them following me. But there they were. I felt a small thrill of fear and tried to just give them a nod and move past quickly. Instead of going on their way, they fell in beside me, their footfalls loud on either side of me as we made our way back toward the lights of the Emporium.

“Hey Mister. You sure can run fast.” It was the younger one from my left, and I just smiled and gave him a nod, quickening my pace.

“It’s probably because of his nice shoes. Where’d you get such nice shoes, Mister?” This was the older on my right, and I had no idea what they were talking about. I was wearing a pair of cheap sneakers I’d had for three years, not something fancy or expensive. I decided to just ignore them and keep walking toward the lit parking lot.

“Mister doesn’t want us to know, I guess. That doesn’t seem right.” Younger one again, his voice coming closer to my elbow now.

“Well, maybe he just wants us to have these shoes so we don’t have to go looking for some. What about it, Mister? Want to give us those nice shoes?” This was the older one again, and the thread of menace underlying his words was unmistakable. I found myself afraid and angry and ashamed of both emotions. I was being bullied by a pair of children. Children that were in their own way, trying to rob me apparently. What was going on with this place? With me?

I stopped and stepped backwards, simultaneously shoving both of them forward and further away from me. “All right, you little shits. I’m tired of this. All of this. Especially you. So get the fuck out of here before I stomp your fucking ass.” I didn’t recognize the words coming out of my mouth, but they felt good. A look of uncertain fear passed between the two boys, and I felt myself preparing to attack the older boy when I saw Pete’s truck pulling into the parking lot again. Feeling a surge of relief, I pushed past the boys and ran to it.

Marjorie opened the door and gave me a shaky smile. “Hey, Phil, come on in.”

I climbed in and slammed the door behind me. As Pete began to pull away, he dropped a greasy paper sack into my lap. Looking down, I saw it was from a chain fast food restaurant. I shoved it off my lap onto the floor. “What the fuck is that supposed to be?”

Marjorie’s smile thinned as her face went red. “We went and got us all some food to save time. I sent you a text. Did it not go through?”

Glaring at her, I gave a short and bitter laugh. “No, it didn’t go through. And that’s bullshit. I’ve been calling and texting. And ya’ll were gone for nearly thirty minutes. I’m tired of all this weird fucking shit. This town, the park, ya’ll…” I pointed towards Pete, who was driving silently with his jaw clenched. “This motherfucker is still wearing sunglasses when it’s practically nighttime. Is it so I don’t see his face falling off, because I know it’s not goddamn Bell’s Pa…”

“Fuck!” Pete was coming to a fast stop, the air brakes on the truck letting out a squealing hiss as he did so. At first I thought he was going to fight back, and I relished the thought. But he wasn’t looking at me. Neither of them were. They were looking outside. Pete let out a tired sigh. “The fuckers have blocked this way too. Even with him in here.”

I didn’t understand everything he was talking about, but the “fuckers” blocking was self-evident. Spread across the road was a line of twenty or so people, young and old, small and big, all looking at the truck and waiting. Most of them had weapons of the homemade variety, though there was the occasional gun as well. And all of them bore the same look of grim determination that stated very clearly that we would not pass that way.

Marjorie slammed her fist into the back of Pete’s seat. “Just run them over then. Fuck all of this. They can’t stop this thing.”

As if in response to a challenge, there was a loud crack followed by a louder bang and a plume of smoke from under the hood. Pete cursed again as the truck’s engine warbled unevenly to silence. “Someone just shot the engine out. We’re fucked.”

I was looking back and forth between the two of them. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”

Marjorie sneered at me, an angry contempt filling her gaze. “They’re your fan club, idiot. They’re here to get your autograph.”

“And our asses,” Pete added in glumly as he opened the door to step out.

What they were saying made no sense, but I decided to follow suit and leave the truck too. As I stepped out, I saw the twin women from the store. In the shadows of a nearby sycamore tree, I saw the looming form of the woman that had hugged me and called me…

“Vesper!” The crowd cried. “Evening Star!” The mob didn’t sound angry at all, but were instead rapturously happy. “He who will save us! He who will return us to our rightful home!” It was clear that they were talking to me, and I suppressed the urge to run as they surged forward to surround me, stroking my arms and hugging my neck. Once I was in their midst, I was oddly calm, and it was only with mild and detached interest that I heard Pete and Marjorie yelling as they were pulled away from the truck and out of view.

The twin women from Hattie’s stepped forward. “What name do you go by?”, they asked in unison.

“Phillip. Phil. I go by Phil.”

The women beamed identical smiles at me. “Well, Phil, you are very important. You have a very important destiny. Those people,” they cast a glance in the general direction that Pete and Marjorie had been taken, “were meant to help you find your path, but instead they tried to keep you from it.” The women’s faces grew hard at this, but relaxed as they looked back to me. “But you are stronger than that. You may even be ready this time.”

“Ready for what?” I blurted out. “I keep having weird shit happen and no one will tell me what’s going on. And this is all starting to really freak me out.” I gestured around at the crowd, the damaged truck, the town…fuck, my entire life of late, and as I did so, I found that the tall woman had stepped forward as well. The crowd parted for her and she reached down to take my hand.

“I understand, Phil. We can come on too strong. It’s only because we are so proud of you. We love you so much and are excited to see you.”

Frowning, I shook my head. “But why? I don’t know any of you people. I don’t even know if I really know the people that brought me here.”

The tall woman glowered as she gave a nod. “They have done you a great disservice. They knew you were the one and yet I bet they tried to dissuade you from entering the house, didn’t they?

My heart started thudding faster in my chest. “What house?” When I saw the knowing smile on her face, I stopped and nodded. “Yes. They didn’t force me not to, but they worked to dissuade me without telling me no.”

The woman nodded again, and I noticed several more nods and murmurs in the crowd around us. “Yes, they couldn’t refuse you directly, not in that place, but they could trick you into leaving. If you had just gone inside, all of this would be over. You would understand and know who you truly are.” She looked sad momentarily before brightening. “But there is still time. Do you still want to go inside the house at Wizard’s Folly?”

I surprised myself by nodding again. “If it can make things better, or at least where I can understand what’s going on, yes I do.”

The woman gave me another awkward hug, though it was quicker this time and I didn’t have to free myself from her grasp when it was over. “That’s wonderful! We will start heading for it right away. By tomorrow evening we should be there.” 

---

Credits

 

The Honeymoon (Part 3/5)

  

I was expecting Wizard’s Folly to be a dilapidated ruin. Tall grass and encroaching woods peppered with vine-covered skeletons that had once been buildings and stands. I half expected that we wouldn’t be able to get in at all, or if we did, we would poke around for half an hour before leaving dejected because the reality of the park fell so far into the shadow of what Pete’s story had built up in our minds.

But nothing could have been further from the truth. As incredible as his story had been, the appearance and condition of the amusement park was even more awe inspiring. We entered easily through the front gate at precisely ten in the morning, all three of us looking around for signs of security in case the plan had somehow gone awry on the guards’ end. Within moments any thought of being caught had fled however, as we were all gasping at what we were seeing.

Everything was in nearly perfect condition. The grass was cut, the buildings looked recently painted, and there was none of the expected signs of disuse or ill-repair. We had taken a rural road up to the edge of Firenze, but our route turned us left towards Wizard’s Folly instead of right towards the ghost town. Because of that, I had only a slight idea of how the town compared to this place, but the glimpse I’d had of an old gas station at the edge of town had made sense. It looked long-abandoned, with rusty, old-fashioned pumps out front and morning sunlight glowing dimly through the caved-in roof of what looked like a small attached garage.

By contrast, if I had been told this park was open just an hour earlier, I would have believed it. We walked further up the main road, passing by a hot dog stand and a small building that appeared to contain public bathrooms. Up ahead, there were more buildings and the looming shadow of a massive wooden rollercoaster off to the right.

“What the fuck…” Pete’s expression matched my own feelings. “What is this? Are they reopening this place?”

Marjorie looked over at her brother. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here? This place does not look abandoned. And there’s a lot more here than what you described.”

She was right. We had already passed a gift shop, a small sit-down restaurant, and five different stands housing what looked like carnival games. All of them pristine and with lights blazing. Pete stopped and turned back to us.

“I mean…we’re trespassing either way, right? But so long as we don’t hurt anything, it shouldn’t be too much hassle even if we were caught, which we shouldn’t be. But…none of this makes sense. Why would the lights be on in these places? Why would everything be so…well, not new exactly, but intact?”

I knew what he meant. None of it had the feel of things that had been recently built, but rather just maintained very well. I pointed to one of the carnival game stands where you tried to pop balloons with darts. “Look at that shit! The balloons!” My description wasn’t overly articulate, but it didn’t have to be. Once you looked at the stand, it was obvious what was wrong. There were probably fifty balloons on a large corkboard at the back of the stand, and all of them were fully inflated.

Pete shook his head. “What…those balloons had to have been put there yesterday at the latest.” He looked around, his expression growing paranoid. “I don’t know what this is, but I think they’re either reopening it or something is way different than what I was told. Either way, if ya’ll want to go, I’m fine with it.” He was looking at Marjorie, but I was the one that spoke up.

“No, let’s keep going.”

---

We rounded a curve and saw that the park opened up before us, with multiple paths leading off toward rides and shrouded thoroughfares that wound deeper into the property. This was also our first good look at the mansion, albeit from a distance. It was strange and imposing even far away, with dark stone and black shingles swooping this way and that like the contours of a giant gargoyle just waiting for us to get closer. A large hedge maze acted as a barrier between us and the house, and when I went to enter it, Marjorie tugged on my arm.

“No, Phillip. Let’s not and say we did. I do not want to get stuck in that thing, okay?” When I nodded, she went on, gesturing towards a path off to our right. “Let’s try this way. We can see more of the park and find a way around to the house if we’re lucky.”

Pete chimed in. “Yeah, Phil. I think she’s right. We’re on a clock here, so we’re better off taking in as much as we can rather than taking time for the maze.”

“Sure, yeah. Makes sense.” I started walking with them down a brick path that led closer to the massive rollercoaster, a familiar sense of strangeness coming back to me. Why were they deferring to me so much now? Acting as though they need to persuade me or as though I was in charge? I had just been going along with whatever, which was fine, but why now did they ask my opinion? Was this some of the weirdness I was worried about? I was snapped out of my reverie by the fear and wonder in Marjorie’s voice.

“My God. I smell popcorn. I smell popcorn and cotton candy.”

I realized I smelled it too. Fear crawled up my back as I looked around, but I saw nowhere it could be coming from. My eyes met Pete’s and he shrugged. “I don’t know, Phil. I smell it too, but no clue how or why.”

My roving gaze fell on the rollercoaster again. We were probably fifty yards from the entry for the ride, which a large and brightly lit sign proclaimed as “The Hunter’s Blind”. It seemed a strange name for any ride, much less a rollercoaster, but the thought left me as I realized something.

“Pete, didn’t you say they only partially built the rollercoaster?”

He nodded. “Yeah. And you saw it in the picture too, remember? The park shut down when they were only about halfway done.”

I pointed ahead of us. “Do you see any part that’s unfinished on that thing? I’ve been looking at it, looking for a break in the track or some sign that something isn’t in place yet, but I can’t find it. It looks like the rest of the place—ready for business.”

Pete swallowed. “You’re right.” He rubbed his cheek and glanced at his watch. “Okay, we’ve got a little over an hour left. Shit, I didn’t realize that much time had passed. Anyway, what do you guys want to do? This place is weird and creepy as fuck, but obviously they have to be renovating it, right? There’s no other reasonable explanation, and this is from the guy that believes in all kinds of fucked up shit.”

Marjorie laughed nervously. “Yeah, I bet that’s it. Has to be.” She turned to me. “Phil baby, are you good with us going now? They may have more security if they’re getting ready to do something with this place, and I really don’t want to go to jail on our honeymoon.”

I grinned at her, but it was forced. I really wanted to keep going, felt driven to explore further into the park and reach the house. But I also didn’t want to disappoint her or Pete, and I could tell they were both anxious to leave.

Her brother chimed in, “It’s your call, Phil. We’ll do what you decide. But if you’re ready to head out, we are too.” Again that strange deference, that odd tension and expectation that I had never noticed before. Something about it made me want to stay in the park even more, but when I glanced back at Marjorie I pushed it down.

“Nah, it’s cool. We’ve seen plenty, and we probably shouldn’t risk it.”

The relief from both of them was palpable, but I tried to ignore it. I was teetering on just telling them to go wait in the car for me, but then Marjorie took my hand and I let myself be led back to the front gate and beyond it. Within a few minutes we were back on the road in the rental car Pete had procured earlier in the morning. I found myself looking back at the park with an odd wistfulness until its dark silhouette had slipped from view.

That night I had terrible dreams that I didn’t remember upon waking except for an acid taste on my tongue and the uncomfortable sensation of something gripping my thudding heart. Marjorie stirred restlessly beside me, but when I lay back down in the cool dampness of the sweaty sheets, she slipped back into a deeper sleep. I stayed awake, my mind adrift in a shadow sea of unfamiliar thoughts and feelings as I stared up at the ceiling I couldn’t really see. As gray dawn began crawling through our balcony window, I gave up on getting back to sleep. The rooms really were very nice, and the hotel itself was massive and far more expensive than anywhere I had ever stayed before, but I felt trapped in there. Trying to be quiet, I got dressed and slipped out of the room.

I headed downstairs with the idea that I would just walk around a bit. The area we were in was lushly forested, and between the hotel’s golf course and the series of walking paths through the woods on the resort grounds, I had plenty of options for an early morning constitutional. I’ve never been much for exercise, but I needed to clear my head, to be away from the two of them for awhile. So for the next couple of hours, I walked.

As I went, the thing I kept coming back to was that I felt we’d made a mistake not going on to the house. Or at least I had made a mistake. It seemed like one of those ephemeral moments in life where picking right or left will have major ramifications somehow. You can’t say why it’s so important, but you can feel the weight of…what, fate?...bearing down on the decision you’re making. If you make the right one, you feel a sense of harmony and well-being. If you make the wrong one, you feel utterly discordant and lost.

I felt lost. I couldn’t explain it, but I somehow knew I had chosen wrong, and the further I walked, the more I mulled it over, the more certain I became that I had to go back there. Then suddenly Marjorie was running up to me, telling me that we had to get back to the room and pack. That there had been some kind of major accident back at Pete’s trucking company and he needed to start heading back now.

She was tugging on my arm, but I resisted with a frown. “Why do we have to go back now? Can’t he just leave us and go back?”

Marjorie scowled at me. “No, idiot. We have no way of getting back then, and no money to spend on a flight or even a bus.” She put her fingertips to the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Pete’s just freaked out and so am I. Apparently there was some kind of chemical spill and three of his people are at the hospital. ICU bad. He’s worried about them, worried about getting sued and losing his insurance…he’s worried.” She reached out and touched my arm. “But that was still shitty of me to say it like that. But can we just go? He’s in no shape to drive the next several days back by himself, and he doesn’t want to risk leaving the semi here.”

I nodded, ignoring the voice inside screaming for me to stop. “Sure, honey. I get it. Let’s go get our stuff.”

---

When we met Pete in the lobby twenty minutes later, he looked haggard and red-eyed. He apologized for cutting the trip so short and helped us quickly load our things before we were on the road and headed back the way we had came. I felt a growing sense of restless unease as we traveled east, but I kept quiet. Whatever weirdness I was going through, Pete had enough on his plate as it was. I felt bad for him—I knew he had worked hard building that business up, and it was easy to see how stressed out he was from fear he might lose it all.

The thing was…as we traveled throughout the morning and early afternoon, his worries seemed to slip away. Not that I expected him to stay in a state of high agitation and fear for hours on end, but I’d have expected some noticeable level of distress to hang around for at least the rest of the day, if not until he was at his company and had a better handle on what was happening. Instead, him and Marjorie were back to joking around, singing along with the radio, and generally acting like they were still on vacation. For the hundredth time, I found myself questioning my perceptions of things, wondering if I was just being an asshole.

When we had settled in at the same motor lodge we’d stayed at just two nights earlier, I suggested we all get dinner together, my treat. I could tell they were both resistant, but I pushed on with cheery determination until they gave in. I wanted to watch them out of the truck and see how they acted. See if Pete acted carefree or concerned. See if any quick, secret glances passed between them.

The meal was uneventful until the end. They were both acting abnormally normal, but that is such a subjective thing that I quickly began doubting myself again. It was only as I was leaving the waitress a tip that I glanced up at Pete’s face. Marjorie must have seen it a moment before I did, because she was already up and moving, pulling Pete from the booth the same moment my eyes met his and my tongue went numb.

His face was sliding off. Or at least drooping. It looked as though he was wearing a latex mask that had gotten too hot and started to melt, the eyes and nostrils and mouth drooping low and revealing something red and wet underneath. I let out a startled grunt and put my palms against the edge of the table. I shoved the table towards him, but he was already out of the seat with Marjorie’s help, so the far edge just bumped against the back of the booth he was sitting in. I went to stop Marjorie, to make her understand that something was terribly wrong, that he was a monster or dying or something, but she was already leading him away. She turned back briefly to give me distressed look.

“He’s sick, Phil. I’ve seen this before. Go back to our room and I’ll be there soon.”

Before I could protest, she had turned the corner with him, heading towards the back of the restaurant and presumably the bathroom. I considered following them, but when I saw the few other customers in the place staring at me over the commotion, I reconsidered. I wasn’t going back to the room, but I would wait right here instead.

I know what I saw. His fucking face was falling off. And now I want some goddamn answers. 

---

Credits

 

The Honeymoon (Part 2/5)

  

We were off the interstate for the most part now, Pete taking us back routes that he said would be both quicker and more scenic. And he was right. We wound our way further west across the Mississippi and into Missouri, and by eight o’clock we were pulling into our stayover for the night, an older but nice motel on the outskirts of Kansas City.

I was inexplicably tired that night, and after we grabbed a quick burger at the restaurant attached to the motel, I quickly fell asleep watching t.v. with Marjorie in our room. When I awoke, I had a moment of disorientation in the darkness of the unfamiliar room, and after fumbling my phone onto the floor, I finally woke up enough to grab it and see it was just past midnight. I reached back to Marjorie’s side of the bed, but it was empty.

My first thought was that she was in the bathroom, but when I looked, nothing. I tried texting her, but a moment later I heard a buzz from where her phone had been left on the far nightstand. The beginnings of real worry and fear woke me up the rest of the way and I pulled back on my pants, absently grabbing a key card off the table on my way out the door.

The air was cold so late at night, and I hadn’t taken time to grab my jacket, but I didn’t care. Looking around in the gravel parking lot, I saw no signs of other people, which was understandable given the hour. We were in room 103 and I knew Pete was in 108, so I headed that way to see if he knew where she was.

Something made me hesitate as I reached the door. It was only for a couple of seconds, but long enough that I heard a woman’s giggle from inside Pete’s room. My first thought was that Pete had hooked up with some local after we had went to our room, and I debated whether I should disturb them before I looked around a bit more. Then I heard the giggle again, and I recognized it this time. It was Marjorie.

I knocked hard on the door, an unpleasant mix of fear, uncertainty, and anger surging into my chest. I waited, counting to ten internally before knocking loudly a second time. There had been no further sounds from the room, and another ten count was nearly done before the door cracked open and I saw Marjorie’s face poking out of the dimly lit murk within.

“Hey, what’s up, honey? Something wrong?” Her expression was one of surprise and mild concern, but I wasn’t sure if I trusted it. It was hard to tell in the blue-tinged light of the parking lot security lamps, but she looked…flushed. Flushed in a way I was familiar with, but that shouldn’t be happening with another man.

But no. Pete was her brother, for fuck’s sake. And not that people didn’t ever lie or do fucked up things, but I had known him for months and I didn’t think they were lying about being brother and sister. And I didn’t think they were…I didn’t think they were doing anything unnatural. I pushed the thought away and forced out a hollow laugh.

“I was just looking for you. I woke up and you were gone, and when I saw you left your phone behind, I got worried.”

She smiled. “Nah, I’m fine. I just wasn’t ready to go to bed yet and I didn’t want to wake you up, so I came down to hang out with Pete for awhile. I’ll be back down in just a few minutes. Love you, hun.” I was weighing whether I should push the issue and make my way into the room, but she had already shut the door back before I could respond. Hating myself, I pressed my ear against the door and listened for further sounds or voices. I did hear something that might have been muffled whispers followed by a stifled snort of laughter, but it might have been my imagination as well. It might all have been my imagination, after all.

I went back down to 103 and sat on the bed thinking for several minutes before undressing and getting back into bed. As I was dozing off, I heard the door open. Marjorie slipped quietly into bed and gave me a hug before quickly falling asleep.

---

The morning light made the night before seem like some kind of strange dream. I went through a mental inventory of all the interactions I had ever seen between Marjorie and her brother, looking for any sign of anything inappropriate, but there was nothing. They would joke around and hug each other occasionally, but it was just normal brother-sister stuff not much different than I had done with my own brother before he died. And as for her being in his room…Well, she wanted some quality time with a brother she didn’t get to see very often. Nothing wrong with her laughing and having a good time, and anything weird was just me projecting my own insecurities or making something out of nothing.

Satisfied, I tried to act normal through breakfast and the morning drive, and by the afternoon it wasn’t an act. Part of this was because they weren’t acting weird themselves. My fear was that they would suddenly be awkward with each other or me, or Marjorie would suddenly make a point of only paying me attention, all of which would only reignite my twisted fears. But there was none of that. Just normal talk and hanging out as the roads unspooled before us.

By late that afternoon we had made it to a small town called Brimley. It was the last planned stop before we pushed on into the heart of Utah. As we pulled into the large truck stop there, I saw it had a store that looked like a massive log cabin. After the last few days of dirty chain gas stations, something a little better cared for and homey was a welcome surprise. Pete was fueling the truck and Marjorie had ran off immediately for the bathroom, so I decided to go explore the store for a bit and stretch my legs.

The air was definitely turning cooler with each day as fall set in. We were traveling at a fast enough rate that it was actually hard to judge how much of the difference was due to the change of seasons versus the change of locale, but the feel of the crisp air as I walked to the store reminded me of autumns growing up in Virginia. The thought made me smile and glance around at the town surrounding the truck stop.

It was odd. Though it was almost five in the afternoon on a Thursday, there was next to no one else around. A couple of other customers getting gas at the pumps looked back at me disinterestedly, but the only other real sign of life was an old man frantically mowing his grass with a lawn mower several houses down a side street. A small black and white dog stood yapping happily at the man from the street, though whether it was cheering him on or heckling him, it was hard to say.

The signs of normal life, of the energetic dog, of the world outside of the truck and Marjorie and Pete—these things should have cheered me more than they did. Yet I still felt a thin thread of unease running up my spine as I entered what a sign next to the door proclaimed was “Hattie’s One-Stop Emporium”.

---

The store seemed to be an odd mix of items you would expect to find in a truck stop, those you’d find in a grocery store, and those you’d find in some kind of souvenir gift shop. At first, I gravitated towards the souvenirs, thinking it might be funny to get a random Midwest t-shirt or shot glass, or a hat that proclaimed the greatness of Brimley. Then I realized that the souvenirs were all wrong.

They weren’t from around the area for the most part, yet they were oddly specific. Have you ever been in a store that has I love N.Y. stickers or California shirts, even though the store is thousands of miles from either? That I would have understood. But this was stuff like “I visited Tallulah Gorge. The first step was a doozy!” Or “Providence, Rhode Island. Home of Marco’s Original Pepperoni Grinder!” Weirdly specific stuff that dealt with obscure places that would have no significance to most people passing through this little town.

The next thing was that there wasn’t more than one or two of any given item. I’m not saying the store had only a few souvenirs for sale. I mean that out of literally thousands of clothes, hats, knick-knacks, cups, signs, and other miscellaneous bric-a-brac, there were a few twins or triplets, but that was it. Which made the next thing a bit easier to notice.

I think all the souvenirs were used.

I don’t mean they were dirty. Aside from a thin layer of dust here and there, they were perfectly clean. But a lot of them looked worn, especially the clothes. It was almost like they had everyone that came through donate a souvenir and then the store turned around and sold it like it was new. The thought struck me as funny until I thought about the horror movie I had seen where waylaid victims’ belongings were stockpiled by the killers. As I decided I needed to move to the snack area and out of this weirdness, I ran headfirst into Marjorie.

“Ow! Man, you’re in a hurry,” she laughed, poking a finger in my chest. “You still looking around or you ready to go?”

“Sorry, baby.” I saw an extremely tall figure moving around on the far side of the food section. I couldn’t see their face or body, but the top of his head was a platinum blonde, and the way the head moved, it looked as though they were moving down the aisle with a discordant and ungainly gait. Shivering slightly, I looked down at Marjorie and shook my head. “No, no. I’m good to go. Let’s get out of here.”

---

I had asked Pete about Brimley when we were back on the road, and he had told me this was his first time stopping there. He said he’d had to alter his route after the truck stop he used a few towns over had burned down, but the prices were actually better at Hattie’s, so maybe that was a good thing. He asked why I wanted to know about Brimley and I shrugged, saying it just seemed like a weird little town.

He laughed and nodded. “No doubt. A lot of these isolated little places are. Worlds unto themselves, I guess you could say.” He slapped me on the arm. “But no worries, brother. We’ll be in California soon enough, and after I drop off this load, it’s on to the Folly.”

The rest of that day and the next were uneventful, with no more quirky stores in weird towns or strange ideas from me about my wife and brother-in-law. I started having fun again, and by the time we had settled in at the Alpine Estates hotel an hour south from Firenze, I was actually looking forward to our trip the following day to Wizard’s Folly. 

---

Credits