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Yuki trudges into the laboratory, bundled up tight, and wipes her brow. She acknowledges her assistant briefly before dropping into office chair, breathing heavily.
The Assistant keeps quiet for a beat and says, ‘Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you bundled up so much? It’s hot as shit outside.’
Yuki gives him a look, manages to lean forward, and replies, ‘This is no gag.’ She points to her face. ‘This is not sweat; it’s rain.’
‘Why are you breathing so heavily then?’
‘Wind. Blowing so hard. Walking into it the whole way back.’
‘You’re kidding, it was sunny just—’ he clicks over to the weather app on his desktop, ‘—what the hell? It wasn’t even supposed to rain today.’
‘You really need to get out more. It went through every season before Tuesday. How many hours you put in this week?’
The Assistant hesitates and redirects his boss’ attention. ‘I’ll drop off my timesheet as soon as we get done with tonight’s excursion.’
Yuki leans on the arm rest of her chair. ‘Oh yes, we really should get to that.’ She collects herself and discards her thick jacket and makes her way over to the Void. ‘We’re checking in again with Damien and Olivia shortly after a child predator was outed to the public. Damien is also still adjusting to whatever the hell is going on with him. Join us now for part three of:
***
XXI
Damien, Olivia, and Grandpa Roberts were wrapping up that evening’s dinner: an eight hour smoked brisket with the usual lineup of veggies fresh from the garden (why not if you were going to keep to the house more often than usual?). All of them much more animated than they had been in the past few days.
Grandpa Roberts, true to his word, kept an eye on the kids during their cemetery detail in the late morning and early afternoon. He sat on a cushioned folding chair listening in to some chill tunes from local AM station, WGCP, when the press conference broke in. Turning the volume dial down, Grandpa Roberts picked up the little box and held it close to his ear. When they, and the conference, wrapped up, he joined the kids on the walk back, telling his grandkids simply, “They found him.” Sure, he was going to escort them to and from town for now, but he needn’t keep them in view every second of every day. He promised next summer the lead would be slackened to normal, pending any incidents from that point to the following vacation. The kids, in mock exasperation, conceded that they guessed it was alright.
Now they sat at the table, cutting it up with jokes and thinking of plans for the coming weekend. All was going well between mouthfuls of beef and slugs of soda, when Damien’s smile faded to a frown. His wrists lowered to the table and he stared past his cousin and grandfather.
“Damien?” Olivia said, noticing the abrupt change of his demeanor.
“What is it, bud?” Grandpa Roberts got up from his seat.
Tears welled up in Damien’s eyes. “I don’t know.” He pushed back from the table. A weird feeling overcame him, one that he wasn’t able to adequately convey to his grandpa: a sadness, more incredible than he’d felt in his entire life, but for no discernible reason.
To Damien, there were only two instances of loss in his life that came close. His parents bought a cat, Scout, before he was born and had him until he was seven years old. Like his namesake, the cat would routinely patrol the house in the early evening hours and then the perimeter of their yard until morning, coming back inside for a tin of Kal Kan and a nap. One night, Scout went out for his normal wander and was never seen again. Only a few months before, in the spring, Grandma Roberts passed away. Damien was sad, of course, but at six he didn’t fully comprehend the finality of death; he remembered vividly not shedding a single tear at the funeral (more than anything, the sight of his parents’ and grandpa’s grief was what got to him). Not so deep down, he hated himself for that. Every once in a while – lying in bed trying to sleep or after waking in the middle of the night – Damien found himself choking back sobs until the dam inevitably burst.
What he felt now was that multiplied several times over. He drew in deep breaths and fought to get them out and started to cry; the teen was inconsolable. His vision blurred and started to go dark. After being scooped up by his grandpa, the last memory Damien had of that night was him being carried to the bedroom with the sound of sirens wailing in the distance.
***
The only thing that stopped John Roberts from calling his daughter straight after putting Damien to bed and calming down Olivia was the stream of blue and red lights hauling ass down Valley Road from Crowley’s Point.
He settled his granddaughter on the living room couch and put a light blanket over her lap. “I’ll be right back sweetie, just gonna check up on something.” John put on his slippers and stepped outside. The sirens were distant now, not fading entirely. He stepped out to the street. No emergency lights; it wasn’t a traffic accident. The closest house was Carter’s place.
A minute later, John came to a rolling stop shy of the long gravel driveway leading up to the old farmhouse. An ambulance and firetruck were parked nearest to the front door and two cop cars were off to the side.
What the hell is going on in this town? John thought to himself and turned his eyes back to the road.
All thoughts of calling Monica were off the table now. First Damien started to feel ill not too long before the sheriff came by with those photos of Olivia; then he has an unprompted crying fit minutes before all the emergency vehicles roared past the house. He wasn’t a believer of the supernatural or the paranormal. A psychic being able to see the future, to him, was just as likely as little green men on Mars preparing to invade Earth.
And still…
***
In ten minutes time, two headlight beams swept across the living room windows. The sound of a car door squeaking open and closing came next, followed by slippered feet scraping and slapping down on the concrete, and the front door lock clunking open. Grandpa Roberts slowly entered, cradling two large McDonald’s cups.
“Sorry that took so long,” he said to Olivia, closing the gap between them. “Gotcha a strawberry shake; chocolate for me.” Grandpa Roberts handed it over and sat down next to her.
Olivia took a sip. “Is Damien gonna be okay?”
Grandpa Roberts nodded. “I think so.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“I think he needed some sleep is all,” Grandpa Roberts replied after a moment. “Waking nightmares is what they called it when I was your age. Lot of people were worried about the war and couldn’t sleep properly. And some of the guys that came back had hard times sleeping, too. They’d end up dreaming while wide awake.
“The last four days have been stressful for all of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t been sleeping well. Has he been tossing and turning or staying up late watching TV?”
“Mm-mm.” Olivia shook her head. “And I’ve been waking up first in the mornings.”
Grandpa Roberts considered this. “That might be because he isn’t sleeping well.” He placed his hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze. “After tonight, it won’t be a problem. Like I said earlier, the police got the bad guy and we’ve got nothing to worry about now.”
I’m not sure about that, Olivia thought. Damien’s been acting strange a lot longer than the past few days; it looks like he’s getting worse.
Olivia and Grandpa Roberts finished their milkshakes. He left to clean up in the kitchen while she turned to the bedroom for an early sleep (there was still a hint of pink in the sky when Grandpa returned).
Her cousin was sound asleep. A gentle snore escaped his nose. He wasn’t moving around or making any other distressed noises. Olivia stood at his bedside for a few minutes, making absolutely sure he wasn’t about to spring up screaming his head off. Convinced that nothing was out of the ordinary, she climbed up to her bunk.
What’s happening to you, Damien? she thought and eventually drifted off to uneasy slumber.
***
And for this morning’s news. A tragic story is unfolding in the outskirts of Crowley’s Point, where a teenage girl has died overnight as the result of a suspected suicide. This comes little more than a day after the body of Cameron was found not too far away. More details to follow.
On the subject of Cameron: the sheriff’s department is still on the scene of the accident to determine what may have happened. Sheriff Ederman has advised they will attempt to establish a timeline of the events once all the damage has been looked over and further evidence collected. A toxicology report is still pending.
Given the limited number of available deputies with these two cases, the sheriff has stated he is partnering with the Maple Valley police to assist with regular town matters.
Moving on to the local weather—
Grandpa Roberts switched off the radio. Not even ten o’clock yet and the day was already filled with bad news. What an insufferable summer this was.
“That poor girl,” he muttered, massaging the bridge of his nose. In all the decades of living in Crowley’s Point, the was the first time he admitted that the changing world was starting to influence the area and not for the better. The last tragedy this town saw was back in ‘42; a property dispute devolved into a drunken shooting between two parties leaving one man dead and the other severely injured. Now, in the span of a week there was a revelation of a predator living right under their noses and a teenage suicide. John Roberts wondered how bad life had to be nowadays for a child to want to take her own life. A more disturbing thought: how many more unseemly activities were going on in the shadows and nooks and crannies of a quiet rural town?
It had not been an easy discussion (with either of his children) regarding the news that broke with Cameron. He did not want to spoil Damien and Olivia’s vacation nor did he, selfishly, want them to go. He promised that they would be safe; and they were. It pained him that he kept the pictures of Olivia out of the phone conversation . . . he could not bear to instill fear and paranoia in Olivia’s parents. The poor girl would be under lock and key even after she turned eighteen. With that video clerk son of a bitch dead now, there was nothing left to worry about.
He turned his thoughts to the next summer. Maybe it would be good for all of them if they got away from Crowley’s Point. Spend some weeks travelling and let the grandkids see more of the country. That’d be fun for them, right? He hadn’t been out of the area more than a few days at a time to Forest Run or Maple Valley. The last vacation away as a family was when Monica was still in high school. A smile crept up on John’s face in spite of the dreary radio broadcast.
***
There were no smiles in the mortuary that morning. The stone solemn faces of Sheriff Ederman and the medical examiner and his assistant looked down at the young girl on the cold steel table. Her half-lidded eyes stared, unseeing, at the fluorescent lighting. The warmth of Janie’s strawberry blonde hair and freckles stood out against the cold pallor of her skin.
It wasn’t protocol for the sheriff to be present for this process, but he insisted that he stay. He leaned against the cold plaster of one of the cinder block walls and watched them begin the procedure with a morbid curiosity.
Once the examiner hit the record button of the tape deck, the sheriff started to tune out and gather his thoughts. The whole time frame with Cameron dying and Janie (allegedly) killing herself unnerved Ederman something fierce. None of the photos, including the ones developed at the department, were of her, but there were plenty in Evidence that didn’t have anything shown above the waist.
He wondered how he got to all those girls.
With that, Ederman’s mind veered off track to the whole “stranger danger” hubbub in the ‘70s and in the earlier half of the decade. It seemed to be all the rage for all the major news networks. Damn sure didn’t dissuade people here from letting the young ones loose. Kids walked to and from school by themselves, out to the stores and parks, and played out in the streets far from their own. Their community was a small one and tight-knit. Everyone knew everyone (at least, they thought they did). And until a few days ago, they still did. It might take a day or two, but since Cameron was pronounced dead, the kids might be out in full force to enjoy what’s left of the summer vacation. The parents will be vigilant, but he suspected that, too, will wane as the days go on. Ederman frowned, guessing he answered his own question.
The sheriff thought next of the girl’s home life: a very possible factor in her choosing to end it all. The family had land, sure, but farming was down and money was tight. They were poor-poor when it came to cold, hard cash. Carter could have gotten a boatload of money for the land alone, but was vehement in keeping the lot in the family. His deputies had been called to the watering holes, what ones that would still serve Carter, multiple times as of recent. There he’d be, at the bar or staggering in the open parking lot lamenting on his misfortune in life. Carter could be a rat bastard, too, if the drinks (or lack of nicotine) hit him right. Maybe he took his frustrations out on his family? No domestic disturbance calls came in – not one. Janie was usually bright and bubbly; her younger brother, too. They’d wave at him on the street and he’d do the same. Other days both’d be withdrawn, shying away like kicked puppies. Carter and Daisy would need to be questioned, certainly. If the examination yielded no connection to the photos, he’d grill Carter’s ass hard. Dead daughter or not.
The medical examiner finished up his initial assessment of Janie as she was brought in; his assistant began removing her clothes so they could inspect each and every detail of her body. Sheriff Ederman averted his eyes as they did. Minutes dragged on like hours while they noted every detail from the chipped red nail polish on her chewed fingernails, to the thin scabs weaved across arms (thistles and tree branches, the most likely culprits), to the fatal mark snaking around the girl’s neck. Ederman’s eyes flick to the body each time a distinguishing characteristic is audibly confirmed and he mentally went over the photos, trying to jog his memory. None of those ring a bell.
He very well could have waited until the report reached his desk and pored over the details with the offending pictures at his disposal, but if he could cross Janie off the list sooner, all the better.
The medical examiner studied her sides and rolled Janie onto her stomach. Ederman’s eyes briefly went back to her and away and back again. He saw it: a mole. Dark, resembling a coffee bean, on her upper left thigh, four or five inches below her butt. His blood runs cold.
Sheriff Ederman realized how dry his throat was and held back a cough. He didn’t interrupt the men and silently walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. He made it halfway down the corridor before relinquishing into a coughing fit that brought up the tang of vomit to the back of his throat. Ederman grimaced and paused, letting the shit go down again. Once he was out in the parking lot he spat out the nasty taste and made a bee line for the station.
Back in Evidence, Ederman thumbed carefully through the Polaroids until he find the image that his looking for: the backside of a young girl on her hands knees, legs slightly splayed outward. And there it is: the coffee bean mole. Same shape, size, and place. He shuffled the film back into place and resealed the bag. He stood in place, feeling more of the hairs on his head going gray, feeling more wrinkles being stenciled into his face.
Defeated, Ederman dragged his feet to his office, feeling like he wasn’t in his body anymore. Someone was speaking in the background, the voice strangely muffled. It might have been his name being called out, but he ignored it. He stepped across the threshold and his fingers, still at his side, swiped the door shut. More than anything, he wanted to go to Carter and Daisy and report the news and get it over with, but he has to wait for the examination to be completed.
Had he known all along that the connection was there and needed to see the proof first-hand? Or did he stand in for the observation to prove to himself it was all a coincidence?
Ederman sat down at his desk, crossed his arms on the top of it, and buried his face in the crook of his elbow and cried.
October 1988 – February 1989
XXII
By the time the weather started to cool and the leaves changed their color, the otherworldly excursions Damien had at night seemed to have run their course. Normal patchwork dreams, good and bad, clung to him until he stood out at the bus stop. We now return to your regularly scheduled programming, as they say. Between the acid trip visions and the kosher variety, Damien still toyed with the idea of writing the stuff down before the details muddled into nothingness. But that felt too much like homework. Now, when he actually needed something like that for English class . . . maybe.
The other kinds of visions he had: floating around and inhabiting different people’s bodies and whatnot cooled off, too. When he first got back home, it looked like the land the trailer park sat on only . . . different. No mobile homes or propane tanks or cars. In the clearing between the trees, a dozen domed huts made of sticks and animal pelts sat in their place. Indian families made camp here (not surprising, he and the other kids found arrowheads when they were in elementary school). He often watched the kids playing, the older ones went off with the men to hunt. Sometimes he saw them come back with beavers or deer. The women took care of the crops and prepared the available food.
Those trips cut into the off-world ones while he slept; most often when he was hanging out in the woods behind the trailers. The reception got bad if he had those moments in the city area of Forest Run. His vision was scrambled like the Viewer’s Choice channel or HBO if you weren’t paying for it. At times he could hear voices, part of the time in English. Luckily, no one really noticed the moments if he wasn’t alone. At most, he was given shit for tuning out.
At the tail end of the month, Damien found himself looking up at the clock, counting down the final minutes of Chemistry. Four questions left on his worksheet. He frowned, no way was he gonna get this done when the bell rang for next period; one or two, tops. The next block was marginally longer to give the classes time to get to and from the cafeteria for lunch. Homework was annoying, for sure, but a good way to get Damien to not give a single fuck about it was to have four subjects of textbooks and papers to cram in his backpack for the trip home. By his eighth grade year, he knew himself well enough to know the textbook was not going to make it out of his locker at the end of the day (not with having to read the excerpt of 1984 from his English book and his pre-algebra book work). He was going to finish off the last questions before and after lunch. Three less pounds to carry out; good deal.
The bell above the door clanged and everyone gathered their papers and shoved them into their marked folders and binders. Damien zipped up his Trapper-Keeper and stood from his desk. He blinked as something caught his eye. Faint colors flooded the classroom like sunlight shining through a prism. Confused, he swept his attention to the line of windows on the far wall. Nothing; only varying grades of tinting from one pane of glass to the next.
He blinked his eyes several times to see if that would fix it. Nope. The barely-noticeable colors expanded and contracted and swirled around with the movement of his classmates and his teacher. Around Damien as well; he was surrounded by a blue-ish band of light that followed him as he walked.
Damien sighed. Given all he’d seen and done this year, he didn’t call attention to it, just let it roll. What was one more weird happening to add to the plate?
He navigated the crowded halls down to the first floor and worked the combination on his locker. Picking out the girthy English book and vocabulary packet, he piled them up with his current load and went back up the staircase.
Rounding the last turn, his elbow caught the handrail, causing the smooth surfaces of the books to slide against each other. Panic hit Damien as the weight distribution and the pressure between his arm and his side changed; he knew in a split second his stuff was going to fly everywhere. The books clunked to the floor and notebook sheets sandwiched between the pages shot out.
Faces turned and focused on Damien and his mishap; the laughter swelled. The myriad of colors conformed to a mass of red; the color around his arms as he scooped up his crap turned to a solid yellow (though he was certain his face was burning red for the benefit of those pointing and laughing).
The warning bell rang and the lookie-loos bolted.
We can’t go just one week without getting embarrassed, can we? I got a new record, at least, Damien allowed himself, almost made it through Friday. Better luck next time, I guess. Why couldn’t today have been Halloween? He could’ve hidden his flustered state instead of adding more gas to that fire.
Damien let out a low growl and ran down the hall. The yellow around him faded and became brilliant white. He wanted to murder the clowns that laughed at him.
***
He was seething for the the majority of pre-algebra, to the point his was almost unable to finish his Chemistry problems. No way was he going to drag all those fucking books . . . Damien closed his eyes and breathed deep. He concentrated on the paper and answered the questions while the rest of the class filed out for lunch. He decided to skip out and finish the math problem homework too; Damien wasn’t feeling terribly hungry.
The light on Damien’s fuse snuffed out between the end of third and fourth period. The light around his body slowly deepened to a gray-green. By the time his bus pulled up to the intersection of Jupiter Drive and Neptune Avenue it was a healthy emerald green.
Out of habit, Damien ran to the mailbox (with only the English book in his bag) and checked for deliveries. One subscription renewal notice for TV Guide, a copy of Reader’s Digest for his mom, and a letter addressed to him from Maple Valley Junior High – Olivia’s school.
He dropped off the other mail to the dinner table and ripped open the envelope walking to his room.
***
Dear Damien,
Hi, it’s Livia. We’ve started a pen pal project in class yesterday. We got a list of names from the school to write to. I snuck this letter into the stack because I don’t think Mrs. Barbour (my Language Arts teacher) would notice. She didn’t pay attention to the ones she got before mine when she put them in the mailbox.
How have you been? Has anything else funny happened, like back at Grandpa’s? You scared me for a bit there. But I’m better now.
I wish we could have had a better end to the summer. I think it’ll be better next time, bet you can’t guess why.
For Halloween this year I’m going as Elvira. What about you?
Hope to hear from you soon.
Sincerely,
Livia
***
Dear Livia,
Sneaky. It’s been fine here. School sucks as usual and I already can’t wait for Christmas vacation. And no, nothing really different than normal. Glad you’re doing better.
Mom and Dad were freaked out with all that happened. They even told me on the way home that they thought about coming back early for me. Neither of them said anything, but I think they wanted me to stay home next year (don’t worry, they’re totally bringing me back for the summer). And I give up, what’s happening?
That’s awesome! How’d you convince your parents to go as her? I’m going as Beetlejuice. I have the costume and wig. Mom’s taking me out to get the facepaint this weekend.
Gotta go for now.
Sincerely,
Damien
***
The week after Halloween, Olivia’s next letter arrived. Damien delivered the bills and junk mail to the usual spot and sat down on his bed to read his. Inside the envelope, behind the folded notebook paper was a 4×6 Kodak print of Olivia, standing in her living room against a wall lined with family portraits. Sure enough, she was fixed up like a miniature Elvira. The costume, black and flowing (it must have been hell trying not to trip over that while trick-or-treating), was like many you’d find in a costume shop – close, but somehow not right.
***
Dear Damien,
That’s good to know! I like visiting Grandpa, but I would get so bored being the only one there. And cleaning the graveyard would suck so bad!
I overheard Grandpa talking to my parents about taking us on a trip for a few weeks. He’s planning out the places to visit and things to see and do. It’s one of two things: drive in a car and stay at motels or rent and RV or campervan and park at campgrounds.
That’s so cool! You have to send me a picture of you in costume. Here’s one of me. Mom and Dad have no clue who she is. When we all go to the video store, they stay away from the scary movies. I didn’t even see her videos where we rent from, only the place by Grandpa’s. And it was no big deal to dress up like her. I found an Addams Family costume and found a wig that looked like hers. I don’t have Elvira’s boobs to fit in her costume anyways. Ha ha ha ha. I got so much candy that night. Mom was close to stopping early because there was too much in the pillowcase. How was your night?
I’ll hear from you soon!
Sincerely,
Livia
PS – From my last letter, I meant has anything funny happened?
***
Since he had one of the rare days with zero homework, Damien decided to write down his response straightaway. He wanted to update his cousin on what was happening to him, but could risk his aunt or uncle intercepting the letter. Calling long-distance was out of the question; no telling how long that conversation would go.
Then an idea hit him: he’d write a normal reply and include a “story” for her. Hopefully, Olivia would catch on.
He ripped a clean sheet of paper from his notebook and grabbed a pencil.
Dear Livia,
Oh, I know how much work it was to keep up with the graveyard by myself. I’m glad you started to help me out.
Going on a vacation during a vacation sounds like a blast! We’ll get some ideas for our own trip in a few years. I’m still making sure I don’t spend all my money. Where do you think Grandpa’s going to take us?
Your costume looked great! Mom took some of me too. I’ll have one with this letter. My Halloween went well. We did a lap around the whole trailer park, so I know I didn’t get nearly as much as you, but it’s still a lot. There’s plenty left, even with Mom and Dad helping with the candy I don’t like.
Halloween’s over now, but I’m including a story I wrote for English. Short but spooky!
Take care in the meantime.
Sincerely,
Damien
Over the front and back of two pieces of paper he wrote:
Charlie stepped out to the patio wrapping the last few inches of bandages around his arm. It was nighttime. He looked at his street and watched ghosts and witches walk up and down the block. Both of his parents were working, so he had to take himself around the neighborhood. Charlie decided to start with the trailers to his left since the trailer park ended five houses down. Then he’d jump to the other side of the street and loop around the two other roads and end at his own place.
It was slow-going. He had to stop every few doors and rewrap the gauze. The full moon rose higher and higher as his pumpkin pail got heavier and heavier.
Charlie wasn’t only looking at the costumes all the kids and some of the adults were wearing. Charlie was looking at the colors around them. You see, he had the ability so see how other people were feeling. Whether they showed it on their face or not. If they were angry the light was white; green was a happy color; red if they were amused; yellow was embarassment; blue was confused; and they had a purple glow if they were scared.
There was plenty of red and green floating between the trailers and some purple from the fraidycats at the places decorated like haunted houses. Charlie’s pail filled up faster than he expected somewhere on the third street, so he decided to start walking back home.
When he turned down the opposite side of the last street he noticed a purple glow coming from the woods behind the trailer park. And it wasn’t just a little light from between the branches. It started to grow bright like the spotlights from the high school football field.
He had to see what it was.
Charlie snuck around to the nearest backyard and slipped into the woods. He kept his candy guarded and didn’t care how much of the bandages he lost in the bushes. The purple light got brighter the further into the forest he went.
Suddenly, he stopped hearing the laughter and screams of the other kids; he no longer heard the sound effects tapes or party music. All he heard were crickets, the wooshing of dried leaves . . . and new voices. It didn’t sound like English.
The bushes closed in tight for several yards and opened up. There was a field, filled with huts made of wood. All of them were on fire. Thick smoke chugged upward as the flames turned the wood to ash. Indian men, women, and children were screaming in terror. They were running every which way. It was an attack, Charlie couldn’t see by who. The purple light grew stronger. There were no other colors. What could it have been? Maybe not an attack . . . lightning probably? The flames spread from the huts, catching on the fallen leaves and dried grass; it took over the whole field.
A wave of fire swept toward Charlie. He ran back the way he came, getting scratched and cut by branches and sticker bushes. The sounds stopped. He looked over his shoulder to the Indian village. It, and the purple glow, was gone.
Charlie caught his breath and walked slow and careful back to the trailer park until he could see the red and green lights again.
***
The story took the rest of the afternoon and evening to write, on and off over the hours. He found himself at a loss (only twice) for what to write and grabbed a snack and watched TV while he mulled ideas over. Damien stopped once when his dad got home from work and was interrupted by dinner and having to get a shower. Right before bed, he finished off the last paragraphs and grabbed an envelope from the kitchen pantry.
On the way into school, he’d drop it in the collection box out on the curb.
***
Dear Damien,
That was such a cool story (Damien hoped that the underline meant she understood it wasn’t entirely fictional)! You should write some more. Looks like watching all those scary movies is starting to pay off!
Lucky you that they’re only taking what you don’t like. Mom especially is eating more than I like. Dad at least made himself sick with his handfuls. He’s staying away for now.
Heck yeah! I’ll remember to pack up a notebook when we leave. If we can’t go to some places we can write them down and see about making our own map.
Gotta go for now. Dad wants me to help him dig out all the Christmas stuff from the basement. Talk to you soon.
Sincerely,
Livia
***
With each letter after, Damien included a story for his cousin; no more than three pages. He didn’t think about them at all until he received a new envelope from Livia. Truth be told, they weren’t entirely original; the stories came from urban legends he’d heard from the area. He tried to keep it palatable enough that Livia wouldn’t have nightmares or get too grossed out.
One creepy tale involved a woman driving home in the rain; the bridge leading home was flooded over, but the only other route would take thirty extra minutes of being out in a severe thunderstorm. It ended with her Volkswagen being turned over and swept away by the current. Another was about an old man answering a knock at the door by a tall man asking for his wife, after he called for her, he turned back around to find no one in sight, and no place at all to hide. The only story Damien had second thoughts about while sending off was the campfire tale he heard when he was still in elementary school: the bridge (the same from the Volkswagen story) down the street from his trailer park was a meeting place for bootleggers during Prohibition. One night, there was a dispute over payment and a man was left with his eyes gouged out and left for dead next to the (then) dirt road. In the years following, anyone crossing the bridge at 2 a.m. is liable to see the ghost of the eyeless man.
***
The letters came and went through January when the pen pal writing program officially ended. Damien kept writing his stories, wholly original or not; good or bad. The process relaxed him, particularly on days where his temper almost got the better of him (the light that surrounded his body told Damien as much). During the school day, where he usually noticed the anger, he took a couple breaths and thought up new ideas, things he could write down between assignments or at home.
With the help of some allowance money, he bought himself a sturdy 5-subject notebook in February. He wrote with a Sharpie on the cardboard dividers: Horror, Sci-Fi, Comedy, Fantasy, and ? on the last one for the odds and ends stuff he wasn’t able to categorize easily. Needless to say, more of the horror and sci-fi pages were filled out. How much he had in the comedy section was more than he initially thought he’d write. But the amount of dumb shit he heard in the hallways offered plenty of fodder.
***
Damien wasn’t the only one to find some relief in his writing; Monica came to realize one snowy morning that she hadn’t been called once in the either of the eighth grade semesters. She wasn’t able to pinpoint the exact moment when she stopped worrying about her son, but she reflected the night before his first day she tossed and turned for hours. It was much the same for each school night during the first week. And the week after that. There was the possibility it was exhaustion from waking up early and getting off to work that allowed easier sleep in the succeeding days. That feeling of dread edged its way into the back of her mind, but did not burrow so far that it was forgotten entirely. When Monica had time to herself, that pang of anxiety would rear its head at some point or another. It would hide itself for a time and pop up and disappear for an interval like a mental Whack-A-Mole.
Sure, she was thinking about the troubles now, but the accompanying fear was not there. No what if scenarios played out. Monica smiled. In fact, she found herself nearly in tears that Damien was working out his problems, whatever they may be.
She wasn’t ignorant to the fact that he spent his time writing in that little notebook of his. More than once she thought about asking what he was writing, but thought better of it; it could have been a diary for all she knew. And did she truly wish to read what her son really thought? Monica shook her head, trusting he would share with her and Arthur if he wanted to.
Whatever you’re doing, keep at it, Monica wanted to say. I hope what you’re writing goes well and helps you get through your day. She let out a quiet snort. That was cheesy as hell, but dads couldn’t have all the fun with embarrassing words to their kids.
She paused at that and grinned at a sudden idea: for getting through middle school, she’d go to Walden and get Damien one of those fancy notebooks for him to write in. On the inside cover, she’d write that cringeworthy line for him.
June – August 1989
XXIII
“Woah,” Damien said, stepping into his grandpa’s garage. He looked in awe at the shiny Chevy G20 conversion van. It wasn’t a motorhome as Olivia had speculated, but it was still a better option than a car. The sucker was huge and barely fit under the roller door.
His dad whistled at the sight. “Must’ve cost a pretty penny. I’m surprised you didn’t sell the truck. And you could haul twice as much stuff easily.”
Grandpa Roberts smirked. “Still plenty in the bank account. When you see the inside, you’ll see why I wanted to keep the old clunker.” Without another word, he put the key in the back door, unlocked, and opened the doors; he stepped to the side and did the same with that one.
“Alright, I see what you mean,” Arthur said and ran his hand over the upholstery. “I’m surprised you found a van without shag.” He assessed the storage behind the back seat. “You won’t have any problems with luggage at all for the trip.” He stepped on the rear bumper and leaned in. “Hmm . . . well, whenever the inside gets worn, there’ll definitely be more room for cargo.”
Grandpa Roberts climbed in through the side door and walked to the rear bench seat. “Nope, these aren’t ever coming out.” He held down a button on the wall. A motor whirred to life under the seat; the backrest slowly lowered and flattened out. “I don’t wanna know what each of these things weigh with all the machinery.”
Damien and Olivia oooh’d and aaah’d. They climbed in behind their grandpa and sat in the captain chairs in the center. Both of them stuck their legs out and kicked. So much space! The chairs’ wooden armrests moved up and down; the outside ones had built-in cup holders while the inside ones had a series of buttons. With a few presses, the kids found out they were able to move the chairs back and forth, get them to recline a little—
“They have butt warmers!” Olivia cried.
Damien pointed toward the ceiling. “There’s even a freakin’ TV!”
Indeed there was. The center overhead cubby housed a 10-inch Sony television. The enclosure to the left held a VCR and the one on the right had a sample of VHS tapes normally found on the shelves in Grandpa Roberts’ living room.
Monica stood on the running board at the foot of the passenger-side door and leaned in through the open window. She looked over the the dash and center console, which was more akin to the cockpit of a small airplane. “What’re those, Dad?” Monica asked, pointing to a cube sitting on the middle of the dashboard and a pair of small screens underneath.
The kids watched as Grandpa Roberts knelt down and crawled up to the front. He flipped a cap on the front of the cube, revealing a compass. Next, he took the keys and put them in the ignition, turning enough to power on the electronics.
“The first one you can toggle between different readings,” Grandpa Roberts explained. “Right now, it’s set to show how many miles per gallon I’m getting while driving. The next one I can set to zero and see how far I’ve driven in a specific trip. I can even turn this dial here and set the amount of miles and count down.” He grunted while reaching into the pocket on the driver’s door and produced a booklet with a map on the cover and the Triple A logo in the corner. The old man shifted his body so that he had his back against the console and showed it to his grandkids. “So, for example, let’s say our first stop, according to this trip plan, is eighty-nine miles away. Well, I just turn the knob up here, and we know how far we’ve got to go. Neat, huh?”
Monica tapped the smaller screen. “And this?”
“Police scanner. The more it lights up and the faster it beeps, the closer the cops are. Perfect for speed traps.”
Monica rolled her eyes and sighed.
“What? You know I don’t have a lead foot,” Grandpa Roberts tried to defend himself. “We’re gonna be going through the mountains, they like to set up at the bottom of downgrades. Not exactly fair, is it?”
“How’s it feel?” Arthur asked from the back.
John Roberts didn’t hesitate to answer his son-in-law. “Smoothest and quietest ride I’ve ever had.” He glanced at his watch. “If you guys don’t mind an early dinner, we can take the van to town for some burgers and shakes.”
Like anyone was going to say no to that.
***
A week after his fourteenth birthday, Grandpa Roberts herded Damien and his cousin into the back of the van. He let the kids sprawl out on the backseat, still in the down position. They wrapped themselves in the blankets and promptly fell back on pair of pillows while he slid the luggage into the space below.
Not bad time at all, John Roberts thought, looking at his watch. No rush to have the grandkids awake. Daybreak was an hour away and the heavy cloud coverage would spoil the scenery. According to the map, it’d be closer to eight o’clock until they had some sights really worth seeing. We’ll be parking nearby, so no rush. The first day of road trips are the most tiring. It’s been fifteen years, give or take, since your last big drive, and you’ll be snoozing right alongside the kiddos.
Grandpa Roberts put himself behind the wheel and steadily backed up the driveway. Get yourself an hour down the road and reward yourself with another hot coffee and a Croissan’wich.
At the edge of the road, John sat on the brake and flicked on the dome light. One last time before setting off, he studied the route, committed the exit name and number to memory and set off.
***
The smell of gas fumes helped Damien edge out of his increasingly fragmented and chaotic dreams. With the arm not pinned between his body and the seat, he reached toward Olivia’s back and prodded her gently. A groan and a squeak of a yawn escaped her throat.
“Whas happenin’?” she asked, stretching out her legs like a cat.
“We’re stopped. Filling up, I think.”
The dull thunk of the gas cap being removed and the scrape of the fuel nozzle confirmed this.
“Good, cuz I gotta pee,” Olivia replied and sat up, her hair stood out like ruffled crow feathers.
“Yeah, me too.” Damien’s stomach growled on cue. “And hungry.” He swung his legs out from the covers and felt the slight prickle of cooler air. Nope. He tucked them back under. The inside of the van wasn’t freezing, but it felt less comfortable than his current spot. It was a weird trait Damien was vaguely aware of: if he had commitments like school or working out in the cemetery, he begrugingly ripped the Band-Aid off and got out of bed; if it was a day off, he made no hurry to leave the warmth of his nest.
“Come on!” Olivia nudged him back. She fastened the buttons to her overalls.
“You go first.” Damien wrapped the blankets around him.
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and exited through the side door.
Not a problem, Damien thought, Grandpa will make sure I don’t have to go before leaving. And if he doesn’t, we’re probably close to stopping at a Waffle House or Bob Evans.
“Mornin’, Olivia,” he heard his grandpa say.
“Good Morning!” Olivia replied. “Do they have bathrooms here?”
“Mhmm. Right over there, on the left.”
“Okay, be right back!” Her shoes clopped and skidded off into the distance.
No sooner did he close his eyes than he felt a terrifying sensation. Damien forgot about the trivial coolness against his skin and unraveled the sheets draped over his arms; he crawled to the back door and pulled the velvet curtain aside. There was no need to scan the area; the color was all around. It overwhelmed the entirety of the gas station.
Livia!
Damien bolted from the bed and jumped out the side door. If his grandpa said good morning, he didn’t hear it. All his attention was on the restrooms.
A painted wooden fence jutted from the side of the convenience store, shielding the entryway to the toilets from the view of anyone at the pumps. Damien looped around the barrier and stood between the men’s and women’s, back against the wall and facing away. The color surrounding him wasn’t fading or turning, so the most probable scenario was that the person was still out in the parking lot. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t an inkling of fear around him. Good. If he stayed where he was, no guy would up and walk into the ladies’ room.
They wouldn’t right? Damien questioned himself. Let them fucking try, an answer came from the recesses of his mind. Whatever the voice was, it was ready for a fight. No—not even that, it was ready for a goddamned massacre. The teenaged crossed his arms and stared menacingly at the turn of the fence.
No toilets flushed; no faucets expelled water at full blast; and no hand dryer kicked on at deafening levels. Was anyone even in there? Crap! Was she?
“Livia? You in there?” Damien called following a moment’s hesitation.
No answer.
“Yo!” He said, louder.
Silence still.
Now he was starting to get nervous. I’m gonna have to go in there, aren’t I? Oh, god . . . Damien sighed. C’mon, it won’t be a problem. No sound. No answer. Of course, that really was a problem. Olivia ran off to use the toilet, so why the hell wasn’t she—
“Why are you yelling!?” Olivia hissed in a hushed tone right behind him.
Damien jumped. “Why didn’t you answer?”
“I didn’t wanna talk while peeing! And not if anyone else was around.”
“Whatever.” Damien shook his head and sighed.
Olivia looked at him funny. “What’s wrong? Your face is red and you’re sweating.”
“My bad,” Damien apologized, “I must’ve nodded off.”
“Thought something was wrong?” Olivia inquired. Her features softened.
“Yeah. I ran straight from the van. I was probably still dreaming halfway across the parking lot.”
“Thanks for coming out.” She punched her cousin in the shoulder. “You gonna go while you’re here?”
Damien nodded. “Might as well. I’ll see you back in the van.”
Olivia started to walk off; Damien escorted her around the fence and kept an eye on her. She stopped and looked back at him. “You sure everything’s alright?”
Damien looked to his left, then to his right. The pink light was all-encompassing. “Yeah. It’s all good.”
***
‘Ugh. Another one already?’ the Assistant says with a grimace on his face.
‘Oh, you poor naive thing,’ Yuki tuts. ‘If you were one of us, you’d know firsthand how many guys are creepy as shit.’
‘You too?’
‘Mhmm. The worst part is it dawning on you so many years after the fact. We’ll keep an eye on these two. If Damien can sense these kinds of feelings, then a lot of people are going to end up hurt or worse.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’
‘Maybe not.’
Behind them, Yuki’s PC chimes.
‘What’s that?’ her assistant asks.
Yuki walks over and checks the screen. She smiles. ‘Looks like we got a break in the weather.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Yup! C’mon, let’s get to the shed. Time to get the Halloween decorations up. Hurry! We’ve got about twenty minutes ‘til the next storm!’
Tales from the Void 