Puck at Home

“Welcome home, Simon!” Puck’s wife called from the living room.

Puck put his briefcase on the floor.

“Hey you,” he said.

“How was your day? Any more luck with that wacko woman?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Puck sat on the couch. “She took us to meet the other guy from her story today. He verified everything she said, but that doesn’t mean I believe it. Meddling evil spirits, I dunno Angie, it seems like stuff from a kid’s story.”

“Aw come here,” she said. Angie pulled him toward her so he lay with his head in her lap. She ran her fingers through his hair. Her emerald eyes looked into his. He could see up her nose.

“You’ve got boogers,” he said.

“And you’ve got pimples. What does Andy think?”

“He doesn’t know either. It’s not like we can really do anything about it without proof. We’re still following the maintenance man lead.”

“You’ll find her.”

“I need to. Whatever happened to her, this poor girl, I just hope I can help her somehow. I hope it isn’t too late.”

“Hey now, you know thinking like that isn’t getting you anywhere. You stay focused, Mr. Puck, use that brain of yours. Now come on,” Angela pushed him up. Dinner’s done. Lets eat.

That night Puck awoke to the sound of a low surging electric sound. He looked over at Angela. She was dead asleep. Puck stood.

“Damn light again,” he muttered under his breath.

At the end of the hall Puck saw very tall man with a small, puckered mouth, sat in an arm chair before him.

“Hey, who are you?” Puck shouted, reaching instinctively for his absent gun.

“I am, a helpful friennd,” said the man. His voice was deep, and his speech was enunciated and elongated in an uneven way. “Look, no, further thaan, the woods.”

“I don’t know who you are-”

Puck blinked and he was in another room. It had dark red walls. At the other end was a fireplace. An armchair was in front of it. One withered hand sat on the armrest. It reached over slowly to a table next to it. A concierge bell sat on top of it. The hand pounded the bell over and over, and Puck was once more transported.

The sound of electric humming was stronger now. The floor was old grimy hardwood. Nails were coming up. The walls were old white cement. A window looked out at a barren sycamore tree, but nothing else. It was high up. Puck turned.

A foot behind Puck was a young blond woman with pale, blind eyes. Puck saw those eyes turn from fear to rage. She bore her teeth and started screaming at him. She backed away with wide, long steps until she reached a wall. Still screaming, she pressed herself to it. In the left corner a little person wearing a tuxedo sat in a rocking chair. He saw Puck and started clapping by extending his arms all the way at his sides and bringing them fast in front, still extended. The sound was delayed, so that when his arms were apart Puck heard the clap. Puck turned again. He sensed others here, but he knew somehow they were beyond his perception.

Slowly walking toward Puck was a man in jean overalls. He had long gray hair and deep, dark eyes. Puck knew him. He was the maintenance man. Puck turned and ran. He pulled open a door on his right and found himself in a field.

The building behind him was gone. Grey tumultuous clouds melded and dissipated slowly above him. Trees surrounded the clearing. Puck felt a persistent breeze. The air smelled like rain and dead leaves. In the center of the field was a white stone tower. It was a single ribbed cylinder. It reminded Puck of an ancient pillar, just much larger. Several windows were cut in the stone. Vines were climbing the building, reaching for dusky sky. Reaching for just a hint of sun. Puck made his way.

When he got closer to the door he heard singing. A woman. Ave Maria. A slow, sad Ave Maria. With an orchestra. Low violins kept time. An Oboe sang along. Through the threshold Puck saw the building was empty in the center.

A large table was set. The white table cloth had long ago been blown asunder by the winds, held in place only by the silver pitchers and plates. Water pooled in the creases. At the head of the table a woman stood on a chair alone. She sang. Her eyes were bright green, nearly the same as Angie’s eyes. Her dark eye makeup ran from the rain. Her lips were blood red, and as she sang Puck saw her tongue had been cut badly.

Sitting on the right was a man in a business suit. His head was on the table, like he was trying to sleep, but his leg bounced anxiously. Across from him was another suited man. Scarlatina had showed Puck a picture of Ashbrook. Same gray suit, clear blue eyes, even the stubble was the same. He saw Puck.

“I caaaaan’t belieeeve it,” Ashbrook said. His speech was distorted and slow.

“It woorked. Youu’re heeer.”

“Where am I?”

“Nnnno time, and I doon’t know. Liiiisssten. Youuu neeeeed to get heer to staaaay aaaawaaay. Toooo dangerouuuus here.”

“Scarlatina?”

“Yeeesssss. Staaaay-”

Puck sat up in bed. He was drenched in sweat. He felt his face. Still real.

“Dreaming?” Angie mumbled under the covers.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Family

Mike’s fingers traced his neck. The lump was inflamed. Its swell started just below his left mandible. It was big enough that his thumb couldn’t cover it. He could roll it slightly, but it hurt. He just woke up with it one morning last month.

He ignored it for a week, thinking it was his lymph node swelling. He did feel a cold coming on. But after a week, once it had swollen, he went to a doctor, who referred him to another doctor, who referred him to another doctor. Nobody was really sure, so Mike went to the hospital. The CAT scan was more conclusive.

The air was thick with bonfire and barbeque smoke. Mike was in a folding chair, under the shade of an old oak tree. He watched his nieces and nephews play their games. His son, Jason, bobbed in an out of the gaggle of children. Denise, his wife, was with his sister and brother. They had one eye on the children, and the other on the grill.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Denise said later, once the sun had fallen.

Mike stared into the bonfire.

“Just a hard day at work,” he said.

“It’s Saturday,” she said.

Mike shrugged.

“Fine,” she said, standing up, “I’ll wait until you’re ready to talk about it.”

She went to Jason, and helped him cook his s’more.

On the way home Jason slept in the back seat. Denise watched the window, not blinking, not thinking. Mike opened his mouth twice, but he didn’t know what to say, or how. Before he pulled into the driveway he grabbed her hand. Her slender fingers were cool between his. She looked him right in the eyes, smiled, and squeezed tight.

Secret Rooms

---

Tina’s footfalls were dampened in the thick carpet. The green wallpaper seemed to swirl as she walked, it always did. She looked in a mirror mounted on the wall. Intense eyes, full of fear and passion, looked back. They were her eyes, but it wasn’t her face. The mirrors were special, magical, in their own way. Invented by Tina’s great, great, great, great grandfather, Dr. Leopold Lamprey, the mirrors showed the watcher what they would look like in the future. Or they were supposed to. No one knew how they worked anymore.

The woman in the mirror was older. Her hair, really red now, tried to curl out of a tight bun. Tina felt her hair. It was long, curly, and untamed. Each mirror showed her older and older. Same eyes, more wrinkles, more white hairs. Until nothing, the mirrors at a point only showed her herself. She knew what that meant, or what it was supposed mean.

Tina started climbing the stairs. She heard voices.

“You see, Royal,” said Madam Lamprey, “the commercial says they’re the only exterminators who ‘know how spiders think,’ so I think you ought to give them a call.”

“I don’t know,” said the butler, “it may be dangerous.”

“I will not lose another poodle to those things!”

Tina tiptoed around her mother’s door. She was grounded. Supposed to washing all the pans for sneaking into one of the off limit zones of the house. Lamprey manor was huge. It had numerous wings, alcoves, passages, sub basements, and shortcuts. Each Lamprey was given a map of the house when they turned four, and many of them still used it when visiting the homestead. The maps weren’t complete, however. There were many hidden rooms in the house. Dr. Lamprey had the manor built with privacy in mind. And that included heirs.

Tina had been poking around a tiny lost library between the kitchen and the dining room. The room was accessed by clanging just the right pans together to make an A minor triad while the sink was full. The sink would drain, and the wall would open. There was nothing exciting in the lost library, but it was the concept Madam Lamprey didn’t like. There were bound to be dangerous rooms. That’s why they were hidden in the first place. Tina was anxious to find them all, and she had a good idea where one was. At the end of the hall, just beyond her mother’s room, was a painting of the late Dr. Lamprey himself. A few feet away was a portrait of his assistant, Hugo. The paintings were attached to the walls, and impossible to move.

Tina felt along the frame of the painting of the doctor, and of course, there was a switch at the very top. The wall between the paintings slid back, just slightly, and Tina pushed. She heard footsteps behind her. She darted in the passage and pushed the door shut behind her.

It was dark, and something smelled damp. Her hand found a switch. Ancient lights flickered to life. The bulbs weren’t anything like she had seen before. Dr. Lamprey was just around for the very beginning of electricity’s heyday. It seemed to Tina he had been ahead of his time. The room was big. In the center was a large metal slab. It was rusted with time. There was a huge primitive tape recorder in one corner. A few shelves jammed with old leather ledgers. Tina couldn’t read what they were marked anymore. She tried to pull one out, but it felt like it was coming apart in her hands, so she just left it for now.

The old room rumbled. Somewhere the air conditioner had turned on. Tina’s gaze fell on a table of glass mixing instruments. Beakers lined one shelf. One was shattered on the floor, right over a drain. Tina could only guess where that went. The neck still had an old piece of tape. Tina could make out the letters “GRO” on it, but the ink had faded long ago. There were more filled vials. Some were filled with red liquid, others blue, and just one purple.

Tina started picking up the glass when a voice behind her said, “You really shouldn’t be here.”

It was Royal, the butler.

“I’m sorry Royal, it was just so inspiring, knowing all these weird rooms exist, just waiting to be found.”

“I know dear,” Royal sat on the slab, “you know, your great, great, great, great grand father was a good man. He’d be proud of the woman you’re growing into. But please know, Miss Scarlatina, that I mean it when I say there are dangers in this house. You got lucky this time, but you may not always be so.”

“I’m sorry, Royal,” Tina said.

“It’s alright, Miss,” Royal took her hand, “now come, I understand there are some dishes that need scrubbing.”

Untitleable

I often find myself striving to describe a certain feeling. It is moot. Impossible. It is a feeling that goes beyond contentedness. It is fuller, and even less common. You can be content reading a book, or enjoying a quiet night with loved ones. No, I know contentedness, and it is not what I am talking about.

I have only ever had it alone. I have it right now, listening to the crickets sing in the branches. I feel it in the evening when the sun is low. It is one part unexpected old song, one part nature, one part solitude. And there is smell too. Cut grass and Lilac, but for you it’s different. Has to be.

I don’t claim to be a particularly religious man. Boy. Person. Whatever I am. But I believe in something, and I think that’s what I feel sometimes. It’s the closest I can get to describing it. The feeling of God there in the bird song and the nostalgia. And even now I know I’m not doing it justice. I’ve failed once more in telling you what it is. But I don’t care. I’m happy to be doomed, until the day I die, to trying to describe the feeling of window shade shadows on the wall, the heavy smell of Summer evening, and the weightless pang of a feeling.

My White Whale

“I’ll never find it,” I said.

I took my headphones off.

“Find what?”

“That damn song.”

“What?”

I sighed.

“In 2013 there was a trailer for a Batman video game depecting Batman’s origion story. It was only 52 seconds long. That song in that video has been stuck in my head for the last 3 years.”

“What was the game?”

“Batman Arkham Origins.”

“I just Googled it. It’s called Still With Me by somebody named Tritonal.”

“See, no it isn’t. That’s not the same song, its the same words but the song is different.”

“I dunno. It sounds pretty similar.”

“I mean kind of. Except this is like some kind of electronic orchestra, and the trailer song is just a piano. And she never actually sings ‘it’s all still with me’ like the trailer song. Other than that though you’re right, totally the same.”

“Hey, no need to get nasty.”

“Sorry. It’s just. Do you know what it’s like? To have something you know should exist but doesn’t. You can see it, or hear it, you can even chase it, but you can never catch it. Do you understand.”

“Nah, not really. It’s just a song. Why don’t you just watch the trailer over and over since you like the song?”

“I want it to be a full song though. It’s just the beginning of a song in the trailer.”

“I thought you said it was the whole song.”

“It is!”

“Then just listen to it.”

“But she only sings one line. There should be a whole song that conveys the feeling of these fifty two seconds.”

“I dunno what to tell you.”

“I’ll find it somewhere, I have to.” I said.

I put my headphones back on.

Catch Up

“I’m sorry, I just can’t believe you,” Andy said.

“I understand that,” said Scarlatina, “most people don’t believe in this stuff at first. I didn’t.”

“You need to understand,” Puck said, “that we are officers of the law. The message alone of us taking this story seriously would be a disaster.”

“I’m not asking you to make an official statement, I’m not even asking you for help,” said Scarlatina, “I’m just telling you what I know.”

The three sat in the office still. Deep bass notes came from the bar down the block. The sound was elongated over the distance, making it sound slow and distorted.

“So let me just say this aloud in summary,” said Puck, “it helps me. In March you and your partner took somebody named Erik Wesmecher to investigate an alleged cult without notarizing the police. You were attacked, which you never reported to he police, and your partner killed the leader.”

“Again, which you never reported to the police” said Andy.

“Correct,” said Scarlatina.

“Then,” said Puck. “your partner, this Percy Ashbrook, just vanished after having some vision, which you believe to be the work of some sort of spirit or demon.”

“Yes,” said Scarlatina. “You will have a hard time denying that these disappearances are unconnected. Each victim saw something unusual no one else saw, felt an increasing sense of panic, and then they suddenly disappear without a trace.”

“That’s true,” said Andy,” Jenna Odamer saw the spot on the wall, Louise Felitae called police because a little person wearing a tuxedo kept knocking on her door without saying anything, and Paul O’Donell complained of a bug infestation that didn’t seem to exist. But we saw Odamer’s spot on video.”

“Maybe they, whatever they are, leave a trace in the world to their victims before taking them. It isn’t unheard of. Entities usually need something like that to keep them moored to our reality. Once the deed is done they wouldn’t need the tether.”

“I don’t know about any of this yet,” Puck said to Andy, “but I have a feeling here. Why don’t we pay this Erik Wesmecher a visit and see if her verifies your story. It may not be related to the disappearances, but at least we’ll get another statement about the other crimes you told us about.”

Roses and Black Coffee

Jorge sat at the diner’s bar drinking black coffee. He turned his ring over and over. He didn’t read a paper, or watch the television. He just looked ahead, waiting. He was giving the waitress, Sharlene, the creeps. His dark skin caught in the light a weird way that made him seem to shimmer, and his black suit didn’t help.

“More coffee?” Sharlene said, gesturing with the coffee pot.

“Thank you,” he said, holding the cup out.

“If you don’t mind me askin’ sir, what’re you so dressed up for this early in the mornin’?”

“A funeral,” Jorge said. He adjusted the crucifix he wore on a gold chain.

“Oh, sorry ta hear that,” Sharlene said.

“Thank you,” he said. His eyes were dark brown, “but please, do not apologize on Death’s behalf, it is unnecessary.”

“I see,” Darlene looked around the diner. All of her customers had left, and the other waitress, Jodie, was far away.

“Were you close?” she asked.

“In a way,” said Jorge, “The man was my bitterest enemy. He cheated me, and in turn I cheated him. Many times we did this dance, but it got the better of him eventually. In fact, our rivalry started over this very plot of land many years ago.”

“If you hated this guy, why are ya going to his funeral?”

“My family is a family of honor, Miss, and we still always lay a rose on the grave of an enemy, despite their trespasses. In death, all is forgiven.” Jorge checked his watch, “It is time for me to go.”

Jorge stood, put a twenty dollar bill on the counter, and walked into the early Nevada sun.

Chickadee

At dusk I wander labyrinthine streets in a city I never knew. A heavy sun hangs in the horizon, smearing the world in misty blues, purples, and pinks. Clouds curl in spirals across its face. Fog clings to cobble stones, whisping like curious serpents around my ankles. Some streetlights turn on. They are old, black metal ones with glass cases. My skin feels cool, and the air smells like fresh rain and cut grass.

I pass over bridges. There are row boats and gondolas below; some are tied to docks, and others move lazy down the river. The buildings on either side of the street are old stone. Some are resurfaced, others are missing chunks. They are a network of balconies, patios, and terraces. Many windows are lighted, and some have flower planters.

I pass a people silhouetted in shadow and the colors of the setting sun. Sometimes we mumble greetings, or exchange an awkward nod. A church bell rings from very far away. It doesn’t mark the hour, I check my watch.

I find a damp bench facing the sunset. I cross my right leg and put my left arm across the back. The river is below me once more; the sound of waves bobbing wooden boats mix with people talking, but the sound of a solitary chickadee rises above it all.

Roach

There was a horrible digging sensation in Jan’s ear. She shot up in bed. Her right ear rang high pitched panic. She felt something hard and spiny against her earlobe. On instinct she tried to brush it away, but it moved up and in. Jan froze. Her mind racing, tears started to flow. She pulled back the covers and, keeping her head still, shuffled to the bathroom.

Jan turned her right ear toward the mirror and pulled her hair back. Extending out of her ear was the back half of a cockroach. Jan had seen them around her house, but they were never this large. Her head was pounding now. She grabbed the tweezers.

The room was starting to shift, her equilibrium thrown off. The ringing was higher now. She could feel the roach’s front legs scrambling for purchase. The lights seemed so bright. It took her some time to get her directions straight in the mirror. She brought the tweezers toward the roach’s back, but she couldn’t see clearly, and only nudged it. The roach tried to scurry away into Jan’s ear drum. She felt the unnatural expanse of her ear canal as the roach squeezed two more of its throned legs through.

Jan called an ambulance. She was close to passing out when they got there. On the way to the hospital one of the EMTs shined a light in her ear, but didn’t try to extract the bug. They arrived at the hospital around four in the morning. Jan was taken to a bed, and told to wait for the doctor. Jan waited for an hour and a half. Every now and again the roach would try to shimmy out of her ear, now realizing it didn’t want to be in there either. When it pushed its legs against her ear canal Jan fainted.

The doctor came in. He too tried to pull the bug out, despite Jan’s protests, but succeeded in driving it even farther in. Now the roach was fully stuck in Jan’s ear. A nurse came in and gave Jan a heavy dose of painkillers, and they scheduled her for emergency surgery.

In the operating room the doctors used surgical tweezers to pry the bug out. Though it squirmed, they were able to extract half of the bug. When Jan awoke she could still feel something in her ear. It didn’t hurt, it felt like she had wax build up. A nurse came in, and explained what had happened in surgery, and unfortunately, they were unable to remove the last half of the roach.

Event Horizon

Everything slowed as the ship got closer. Bennet was playing the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata when we reached the event horizon. It was slowed to the point of sounding like aquarium music. Light moved like water across our cockpit windows. I looked at Bennet. He was slowly operating the controls, keeping us steady. He had a faint smile, and I guess I did too. If we were to die, this seemed like a relatively peaceful way to go.

We were the first manned shuttle to enter a black hole. Our ship was special, made to withstand the gravity. The government had sent many probes when the hole first appeared just a few million miles after Jupiter. Partially because they were worried, but mostly because they were curious. The probes never managed to communicate with Earth after they passed the event horizon, so they built a ship, and started asking for volunteers. Bennet and I didn’t have any family, that’s mostly why we were selected. We weren’t fantastic astronauts, just lonely ones.

Bennet was writing now. I could see the ink saturating the paper, slowly spreading over the fibers. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I thought, The object traveling passed the event horizon should experience the fall in normal time. After some time, Bennet held the paper up. His eyes were wide now, his lips a thin white line.

The paper read;

1000 miles to go