Chapter Two: Down the Line (Finished)

02-02

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Clive Carson

Clive’s vision was limited by the hazy gleam of mercury and density of chromecast trees. Leafless limbs reached toward the dark sky like devout worshipers praying to a god looming overhead. He wandered among the sea of devotees, feeling like an undesirable whose presence was known and contemptible to the assembled masses. Hollow knot eyes stared palpable daggers in his wake.

Stagnant was his word of choice to describe the woods and the earth below. It was stuck in perpetual stagnation like an insect stuck in amber. The sky churned vaguely, sickeningly, so perhaps this was what a dead world might look like, in which case the description seemed even more apt. He wondered uncomfortably if his very footsteps were a defilement to a mass grave—a thought that he took strangely seriously.

He tried assured himself it was lucid dream, but he had never been prone to lucid dreams. In truth, he’d dreamed lucidly on only one occasion and it was an unpleasant experience which fueled a lackluster novella which released to mixed reception about a man whose imagination turned against himself in an inaccurate representation of lucid dreaming. He had garnered some additional knowledge on lucid dreams after publishing the novella, and that contributed to his difficulty in declaring this a lucid dream. A lucid dream was defined by the awareness that one is dreaming, godlike control or not. He was aware, scarily, of precisely the opposite.

He felt like a nut relaying the dreams to Melissa and couldn’t satisfiably convey the realness of it all with words. The chalky texture of the trees, which he was beginning to think were charred, felt real. The ash got under his fingernails, it coated his hands, it itched, it simply felt real.

Clive froze, his eyes wandering upward. Meanwhile, either his legs were shaking or there was a weak tremor in the ground.

Skeletal branches swayed overhead, scratching lightly against one another.

His skin crawled. Overwhelmed with a feeling of vulnerability for a reason he could not determine, he crouched behind a tree. He rationalized that the sudden reintroduction of something even as basic as a breeze was what had unnerved him, due to the previous lack of it, but even so, he wasn’t certain. He spent the remainder of the dream with his eyes watching sky and the dead woods around him.

Eventually, Clive faded from one form of consciousness to another, and his blurry vision opened upon the woman in bed with him, whose gray-rooted auburn hair was spread wildly over her pillow and whose paleness was understated in the dim light. Clive smiled and gently caressed a stray lock of hair. Without surprise, but accompanied with a sad frown, his thoughts turned to the little girl.

He carefully rolled the lock between his fingers—once again acknowledging its color as one of the similarities his wife shared with the little girl he’d seen—before he set it down and slowly rolled over to get a look at the digital clock. The time was 07:47 AM. Melissa’s internal clock would wake her soon enough, and if he wanted to surprise her with breakfast, he couldn’t loiter.

He climbed out of bed slowly to compensate for a lack of grace, slipped on his slippers, and shuffled into the hall. He used the downstairs restroom to freshen up without the risk of disturbing Melissa, skipping his morning shower and shave to save time. In the kitchen, he set out the indigents and got cooking. He whisked, seasoned, and poured the eggs into the pan, then diced a variety of peppers and tossed those in as well. He sprinkled a handful of cheese. The omelet sizzled in olive oil, becoming fluffy, and when it was finished, Clive slid it off onto a plate and got started on the hash browns. Once crisp and golden on the outside, he put the hash browns on a plate adjacent to the omelet. He set both plates out on the dining room table and looked at his work with satisfaction.

He washed the dishes he’d accumulated with no real haste, allowing his thoughts to drift toward his dream as he scrubbed dishes and set them out to dry. The breeze still unsettled him, or was it really a tremor? He was less sure of his rationalization—that he was merely shocked—now that he was awake. His mind went back to his dead world theory and thought about its state—stagnant and a lack of motion and noise—and how he was the only one who whose footsteps made the ground crunch, who made and caused noise. Had someone or something else caused the ground to shake, the branches to sway?

Was he really alone in the dream?

It’s a dream, he told himself, breaking off the train of thought as he dried his hands on a towel. Don’t shit yourself over a dream.

He didn’t want his mind muddled with anxiety. Especially not today, because it it was already an anxious occasion for him, since he and Melissa were playing host and hostess that evening to the Pages and Schneiders for Thanksgiving dinner. The food was all made and just needed to be warmed. All that remained was to pick up cranberry sauce, which he’d forgotten until last night and by then it had been too late to go out and get it. He’d run out for that after breakfast.

He made a pot of coffee and a thought that was not new crept into the forefront of his mind. Yes, he decided he would ask her.

It was ten after eight when Clive heard Melissa moving around upstairs. He checked and the food was thankfully still warm. Three minutes passed and she descended the stairs. A smile painted her expression, as sleepy as it was, and she planted him with a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re such a sweetie,” she said, a rare air of sarcasm in voice. She sat across from him and allowed him divide the omelet. Her smile was smaller now but it never faded completely. They ate and discussed the happenings around town, the school in particular, Tyler Gavins’s encounter that they had read about in yesterday’s paper. There was no talk of dreams or hallucinations but their separate thoughts certainly brushed upon those topics.

“We could invite another person or two, couldn’t we?” Clive asked suddenly as the meal was winding down.

She gave a small shrug. “There’s enough food, but seating would be tight. Why, do have a few someones in mind?”

“Maybe,” he answered, pushing the remains of breakfast around his plate nervously. “How would you feel about Thomas Callahan coming over?”

She smiled a sad smile. “That’s a wonderful idea, Clive. If Thomas doesn’t have any obligations, I’d very much like to meet him.”

He nodded. “I feel bad for him.”

“You feel responsible for him,” she corrected.

Clive looked up and smirked. His tone was lighthearted. “So that’s it?”

“I think so.” Without saying it directly, her tone and choice of words implied she knew exactly how he felt.

He chuckled and sat his fork down on his plate. A few bites remained despite its tastiness—he just didn’t have the appetite. “Gotta leave room for tonight. May I take your plate, madam?”

“Much obliged, kind sir,” she replied similarly.

“It’s been a honor,” he said, taking her plate and his and scraping the scraps into the trash before turning the water on at the sink. She hugged him from behind and slightly to the left, hindering his ability to wash dishes for the moment she kissed his ear. He felt a pang of anguish unbefitting of the moment as she withdrew and ascended the stairs. He was left to ponder what he’d felt just then and how he might phrase his phone call.

02-04

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Tyler Gavins

On the morning of Thanksgiving, Tyler rode Bernie’s decade-old bicycle toward the quarry for a more private looksee. His father had driven him there yesterday morning, so he knew the slope where he’d passed out was rainwashed and most evidence of his and Clifford’s presence had been erased, but he wanted to check it out on his own nevertheless.

Bernie had lent Tyler his bicycle indefinitely under the one condition that Tyler not crash it into any body of water deeper than a puddle. With a thankful yet distracted smile, he had said he made no promises. Bernie had clapped him on the back and watched him ride down the street until he’d turned the corner with, Tyler thought, a peculiar look of consideration that normally didn’t cross Bernie’s expression. Coasting down the street, out of sight, Tyler had wondered if Bernie detected something off about him.

Something was off, of course: he hadn’t slept the previous two nights.

Now, as he approached the Joneses’ diner, he hadn’t slept for three nights in row, but he was none worse for wear. The sleepless trend had begun when he’d lain down for rest after his confrontation with his father concerning the markings and had persisted as recently as the previous night, and Tyler was positive it wouldn’t go away tonight; he knew the affliction would last as long as the markings on his back remained. The effects of sleep deprivation hadn’t set in yet, and he wasn’t certain they would set in at all. As it was, he felt a little drowsy in the late evenings and early mornings for a brief period, but his efforts to capitalize on the moments of tiredness never paid off. He wasn’t familiar with insomnia (then again, he wasn’t even sure the markings adhered to the rules of insomnia) so he guessed it was possible a few more sleepless nights were required for negative effects to show.

Presently, there was nothing more than a dullness, a gray cloud that had expanded in his head and muddied his demeanor—more likely depression than anything else—that made him worry his sanity would deplete without a way to shut off. That, Tyler supposed as he rode, was what Bernie had faintly detected yesterday evening.

Although he hadn’t told him, Tyler knew his father suspected something was wrong and he wasn't telling him what it was. His father could always read between the lines of his assurances and too-quick dismissals, and what had seemed to Bernie a subtle tick was as obvious as a signal flare to his father. It was only a matter of time before his father would sit him down, his father’s expression set and one good eye drilling a hole, and state softly, “You haven’t been sleeping, Ty, have you?”

The truth, which he would have no choice but to divulge, his eyes downcast and his tone submissive and lifeless, was his last semblance of sleep had occurred when he’d fainted during his first and only encounter with Clifford.

He hadn’t seen the monstrous mutt again. Although his one and only sighting had been a thoroughly disturbing experience, he needed to find the mutt and get its help if he ever wanted to remove the markings.

Wednesday's issue of the Pyramid featured a cover story on the missing gym teacher that requested people contact the city office in Hawley to learn how to assist in the ongoing search. Below it, a footnote on the front page invited to people to read about a wild animal of terrifying proportions with a picture of a single paw print. Turning to page two, one was greeted with the actual article, featuring Mitch Jenkins’ relation of Tyler’s account, and two more photographs: the plaster cast with two tape measures denoting its alarming length and width, and a second photo, a trail of paw prints bathed in the white camera flash. Attached to the lower right corner of the article was a credit thanking Daniel Gavins for contributing the photos.

Thankfully, the confusing detail that Clifford had carried him back to the diner was omitted. It would have certainly prompted ridicule among his classmates when school resumed on Friday. His father’s opinion, that it sounded like a Disney movie, would likely have been shared by them. But because of the omission, the article failed to portray Clifford’s potential for intelligence. It was a dangerous concoction of men and women searching for a missing man, on edge due to the article, but still underestimating what they might be dealing with. Some people might even harbour thinly veiled intentions to find the mutt.

And Tyler was afraid they’d find it and kill it. He needed Clifford’s help removing the markings, and if Clifford was dead, the markings could remain there forever. That was main avenue of worry for Tyler, branching with fears of the long term effects the markings would certainly have on him. He was thankful only the sheriffs would be armed during the searches and that the city had prohibited hunting while the search for Pittman was underway, but he was in no way put to rest; guns could be concealed. A sickening scenario kept resurfacing in his mind: someone killing Clifford and turning the mutt into a trophy, a head mounted on a wall or a rug.

Clifford had pulled a vanishing act and he wasn’t too upset by it—just as long as he could find the mutt before insomnia became a real problem. Assuming, of course, he found a way to strike a deal with it.

Tyler hadn’t left the paved roads on his way to the diner. Arriving in the parking, he slowed to a crawl as the trailhead neared, enclosed on either side by a wall of leafless trees. He wondered, suddenly unnerved, if Clifford had just happened upon him by chance, or if he’d been stalked before the crash. He shuddered, tossed aside his apprehension, and plunged into the woods. He paused at the fork that had almost led him off a cliff and had to admit it was easy to miss in the dark, but he knew there was no one or thing to blame but himself and the reckless speed he’d been going.

He continued, slow and cautious, and got off Bernie’s bicycle well before he reached the clearing. His legs resisted his approach and he stopped about four feet from the cliff, all-too aware that he’d get dizzy. He looked down, finding that a thin layer of ice had frozen on the surface.

If I didn’t noticed I had missed turn, he thought, I wouldn’t have realized my mistake fast enough. He would have seen the border of pure darkness, but it would be too late. The ground would have dropped out beneath the tires, falling through darkness, splashing into a bitter coldness that would have knocked the air from his lungs. He would have swallowed mouthfuls of freezing water before he could discern up from down. The sheer drop of the cliff was less than ten feet from where he’d jumped off his bike. I nearly died.

Tyler backed up slowly, feeling woozy and nauseated, and didn’t stop until he was standing roughly at the spot where he’d dismounted in haste that night. He left the path, following a corridor of broken branches, some eight feet off the forest floor. Decomposing leaves that were brown and peppered with dark dots squished underfoot. The tree that stopped his tumble bore no visible marks. He sat down, propped himself against it like last time, and tried to get a bearing on where Clifford’s eyes would be. Probably a little higher than eight feet. Then the eyes had loomed closer and lower, leaving a trail of light on his retinas, its breath hot and coppery...

Goosebumps broke out on Tyler’s skin at the vivid recollection.

Then a twig snapped far back up the trail.

Tyler’s head whirled and he looked back up the path, seeing nothing. Hearing, however, gravel consistently crunching under several pairs of shoes. The sound was growing louder, drawing closer. Tyler hopped to his feet, kicked up his kickstand, and twirled the bicycle to face away from the quarry. He pedaled fast and hard, the lingering soreness from his crash flaring suddenly from the exertion. He caught a glimpse of possibly three people in winter attire—who paused as they caught a glimpse of him as well—before he left the trail, rode several dozen feet through the woods, and came out onto the path he had intended to take the night of his encounter.

Following the map of tangled paths in his brain, he made his way toward the meeting place. The fact that a literal monster was roaming these very woods just three nights ago never left his mind. The woods’ sinister unease was evident in the leaves fluttering across the path and branches cracking together overhead.

02-06

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Tyler Gavins

Thick, oppressive clouds churned past the canopy of branches clicking above Tyler’s head. The pleasant smell of decay rose from the soggy carpet of leaves that he crouched over while absentmindedly picking apart a pulpy log with a stick. He was humming a colorless tune, patient despite Sam’s lateness.

A small streak of red flew in the dreariness of Tyler’s peripheral vision . He turned as the cardinal came to perch on a limb not high off the ground. The red little bird eyed him with suspicion then set about scratching the underside of its wing. Sam approached from that direction, and as she passed near it on her bike, the cardinal jumped to a further off branch with a frenzied flutter of its wings where it resumed its activity after shooting Sam a dismayed glare.

Sam dismounted and parked her bike beside the other. Her smile—first directed at the disgruntled bird then Tyler—was small and a tad guilt-ridden. “I’m sorry for making you wait so long,” she said softly, stopping next to him. “Mom had me working and I didn’t want to make myself suspicious.”

“I don’t think this offense can ever be forgiven.”

“Heh. You’re difficult to pity, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

They were silence for a while, but Tyler’s mood had already brightened in his friend’s presence. They watched the cardinal flutter between branches and go about its own affairs until it was a fair distance away but still the only speck of color in the drab woods.

“I’ve kept something from you,” Tyler said at last. “But it requires I show you my back.”

“What?”

“I just want you to understand the consequences if someone catches us out here... me with my shirt up and you looking... they’ll think you’re a pervert, Sam.”

“Either shut up and take it off or just shut up.” A second later, she added, “Dickweed.”

Tyler smiled, turned his back to her, and pulled up his shirt. Silence enveloped their surroundings. He lowered his shirt and turned to be sure revealing the markings hadn’t cause her mind to implode in on itself or something. Her mouth was merely agape. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Jeez,” he said sarcastically, “I know: awestrucking—but what do you think about the markings?”

She clearly didn’t appreciate his sarcasm. “You had that on the car ride to the hospital and didn’t tell me?! You are an ass!”

“In fairness, I didn’t know about them at that time.”

“Tyler!”

“I wasn’t contending the ass part.”

“Be serious, dammit!”

“Fine,” he said, a little cooler than he’d intended. At first, his eyes were downcast—like during his father’s interrogations—but then he remembered he could comfortably meet Sam’s eyes and did so. He breezed through the topic of when he had discovered the markings, deemphasizing the measures he took to wash them off (that might have concerned her). Now came the trickier part. His tone betrayed his anxiousness. “So... I haven’t slept at all since I fainted Monday night.”

The anger—that sort of anger a family member gets when another member of the family does something incredibly stupid; loud but with your best intentions at heart—drained from her face, and Tyler suspected what replaced it really was pity, sympathy for a friend. “I... didn’t realize it was that traumatic. Are you okay?”

Tyler blushed, feeling the pity was misplaced, feeling like he was making Sam jump through unnecessary hoops with his sarcasm—it had become a habit that followed him occasionally at inappropriate times, especially around friends, whom he would become too comfortable around and forget there were times to be serious. He dropped the sarcastic pretense and nodded. “I’m okay. The painkillers have handled the headaches and the concussion is better. And I don’t think I’ve been traumatized by my encounter or anything, but I’m not really qualified for a self-diagnosis. I’m… okay, above all.”

“That’s good,” Sam said, soft and genuinely. “You think it’s the marks causing it?”

“Yeah. There’s little doubt in my mind about that.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“I’m going to find Clifford before I start to experience any bad effects from lack of sleep,” Tyler said, watching the cardinal flutter closer, recede, then flutter closer again. “Clifford did this to me, so it’s probably the only thing who can undo it.”

“Well, count me in.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“No problem. Any leads?”

“None to speak of.”

“We’re off to a flying start, then.”

“I’d say,” Tyler said.

“We should bring Kayla in on this,” Sam suggested. “After all, she’s the only one between us with a brain.”

Thomas Callahan

---

02-08

Thomas’s eyes—with a nervousness that was unbefitting of the casual evening ahead of him—briefly held on items before jumping to different things around his room, to the abstract art prints hung on the walls, the wired telephone sitting in its crib, the darkly stained furniture, which were dotted and speckled with dents initiative of age and use. He refolded the clothes on the dresser. He paced, and when that got on his own nerves, he seated himself in the loveseat set into the corner. He stood, inspected various things, refolded, checked the mini fridge under the counter, announced to himself that he wasn’t hungry, seated himself, unconsciously rose again, then slammed himself back down into the chair before he could repeat the whole damn ordeal again.

Five came, but time’s passage seemed to be impeded by sap, as the digital clock didn’t change for the longest time, until finally it did. Thomas couldn’t remember a time when he was simultaneously this bored and anxious waiting for something so mundane—merely a dinner with an old friend, his old friend’s family, and a new friend, all of whom he was on good terms with, no less—since prom night, more than ten years back. He felt ridiculous, was probably ridiculous, was going to be blushing ridiculously throughout dinner.

Thomas rose to his feet and steered himself away from what he’d been distracting himself with. He approached the dresser, successfully resisted the urge to straighten the laundry folded on top, and picked up the message the innkeeper had written down for him and given to him the moment he returned from his walk. The message was brief: ‘It’s Clive. Come here if you’re free late this evening. Call ahead, if you can.’ Thomas had followed its instructions. Speaking to a cheerful Clive, he had learned that he could attend both Russell’s and Clive’s separate gatherings, so he accepted Clive’s offer and told him he would be there.

He replaced the note, then checked the clock hopefully, and his hopes were squashed: five-o-two.

Thirteen more minutes of nervous antics grinded by, and he saw, through the second-story window, a pair of headlights come to a stop in the early winter twilight by the curb. He zipped his heavy jacket up over his only other dress shirt (he was unpleasantly reminded of its predecessor’s fate); this one was a clean white, and he hoped it would last, because he was running out of formal wear.

Three days earlier, he left the inn, climbed into his car, and drove out to catch the soccer game; afterwards, he made the spur the moment decision of driving out to Russell’s bar. Now, he descended those same few steps, walked the same path down to the curb, and climbed into passenger’s seat of Russell’s car. They greeted each other sincerely, and Russell, having been informed of Lana’s acceptance of his invitation and her address, guided his car in the right direction. For a time, Russell followed the same streets Thomas had followed that evening three days ago, which Thomas was uncomfortably aware of. They finally deviated from the route once they’d past the school and turned off the highway, pulling up in front of an apartment complex.

When Thomas remained seated, Russell reached over him and popped the car door, a large smile plastered on his face. “Your cue, bud,” he said merrily. “Good luck.”

Thomas rebuked him with a grunt before stepping into the cold, followed out by a good-natured if chastising remark from Russell. Thomas’s laughter betrayed his anxiety. Huffing and puffing pale vapor into the dying light, he hoofed it partway up an outdoor staircase, paused at the landing to adjust his clothes and hair and catch the breath which had left him, and climbed the rest of the way at a more modest pace.

Thomas passed apartments 201, 202, and 203, then came to a white door with the numbers ‘204’ attached at eye level. He stood in front of it, hand poised over the doorbell. His parents returned to the forefront of his mind and, for terrifying moment, it was a certainty that he would cry. He crouched, pressing his face with both hands while he hovered above his heels, and the moment passed. Standing, he breathed, pressed the doorbell, and straightened his clothes one last time.

As the door cracked open, he pulled his hand from his collar and stood stiffly. Lana’s face appeared in the crack, her lips—colored a vivid red that contrasted her paleness—bore a small, glad smile. He stared at her face. Her lips moved, then stopped.

Thomas realized she had said something and he had missed it completely. His whole face must have reddened and he hoped the dusk concealed it. “S-Sorry?”

“You look very hand handsome,” Lana repeated patiently. Her light brown eyes flashed. Her smile told him to relax without the use of words.

“Thanks,” Thomas said stiffly. He glanced behind himself, past the guardrail, and down to the car by the curb. When he looked back, he hadn’t quite composed himself, but his voice no longer sounded like it was emanating from a thirteen-year-old. “You’re very pretty yourself.”

“Thank you,” she replied, adjusting her jacket. She was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a green blouse. Slipped over the blouse was her jacket. She glanced him, at the car waiting for them. “Let’s not keep him waiting, handsome,” she said, and took his hand.

The hairs on his neck stood on end, but not unpleasantly. Besides that, he smiled, nodded with unexpected ease, and allowed her to lead him toward the stairs by hand. The matter of his parents was forgotten for the time being (and would not be remember again at all that night). Following Lana down the stairs, entering a brief sanctorium of light offered by a yellow-tinged bulb located at the landing, leaving the light for unthreatening darkness as they descended the last stairs, Thomas felt happy.

02-10

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Thomas Callahan

They arrived at Russell’s house a little before five thirty in the afternoon. Thomas and Lana walked side by side up the sidewalk, led by Russell to the porch. They passed a weather-worn rocker set on the porch and, going through the front door, they stepped into a living room, the wood grain walls covered in well-maintained picture frames bearing images of a large family, most of whom Thomas had never met, but some that he had. Many pictures were faded and marked by age. Many of those who were depicted, Thomas realized, were likely dead.

Hugh—Russell’s youngest, a boy of five years of age—jumped up from where he’d been sprawled on his stomach in front of the TV, having been watching some program about prehistoric marine life on a nature channel, and ran into their path. He stopped there.

The little boy smiled at Thomas and his father, then gave Lana an uncertain look. “Hi?” he said uncertainly.

“Hello,” Lana said gently, smiling down at him.

That seemed to put the little boy’s worries to rest, as he smiled back widely, proudly revealing the absence of several teeth, and giggled before darting off into the adjoining kitchen.

Thomas stepped further into the room and glanced at a particular picture frame. He felt a small stirring of emotion, smiled, and quickly looked elsewhere. His eyes had caught a picture of himself and Russell—a small white middle-schooler and taller, three-years-older black high-schooler—posed with two puppies that they had received from the same litter. Hooper, held in young Thomas’s small hands, was frozen in mid-nip at his brother’s right ear, who was reeling back with surprise.

Even though he’d been distracted for only a second by the nostalgic picture, Russell’s seven- and nine-year-olds—two boys named Leland and Ron, respectively—caught Thomas in his reverie from a well-plotted hiding spot behind the sofa. They both tackled him at once, and he staggered back but remained standing. Thankfully, Russell, rumbling with laughter, pulled the older boy into a hug and lifted the boy’s feet off the carpet, allowing Thomas to deal with Leland, who had succeeded in climbing him. Thomas wrapped an arm around the younger boy’s waist, so that he wouldn’t fall, and the boy was content to stand on Thomas’s hip while holding onto his shoulders.

Thomas turned to Lana, the boy on his hip, and they both show her their teeth—some their smiles less whole than others. Appearing suddenly a little out of her environment and holding her entwined hands in front of her, she shook her head, but the ghost of a just barely suppressed smile was visible on her vividly red lips.

“Are you Uncle Thomas’s friend?” young Leland asked.

“Yes,” Lana said, smiling.

“Bed buddies?” Leland ventured innocently.

Thomas could just make out the blush beneath her makeup. After all the fun she’d taken embarrassing him, he still couldn’t find pleasure in the turning of the tables, because he was painfully aware of how hot his own face had become and was sure he’d just gone beet-red.

“He means—!” Russell paused in clearing the air, letting Ron, who was struggling against his grasp, go. Russell then came over and took Leland out of Thomas’s arms. “Apologies. He’s asking if you’re dating. That’s what he means. Sorry.”

“Are you?” Leland asked.

“Quiet!” Russell hissed.

Before Thomas could fumble a response—which would further embarrass himself, Lana, and his host—Lana surprised him. She quietly, gently said “Yes” and smiled at him. Thomas guessed, while it hadn’t been specifically stated, that they were dating. He smiled back and they all passed into the kitchen.

There, they introduced Lana to Cara, Russell’s wife, with whom Thomas had been acquaintances for almost as long as he had been with Russell. There was little lead up before dinner: they performed the last bits of set up that required and, with several minutes, the seven of them took seats around the dining room table.

02-12

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Thomas Callahan

For a while, it seemed the dinner at the Armstrong’s could not be going better: the food was delicious, the conversation was captivating, and the children and their parents got along wonderfully with Lana.

Not long into the night, however, Thomas became anxious, a little frustrated, and terribly sick to his stomach, all for no apparent reason. He excused himself from the table, found the bathroom, threw up into the toilet, and returned to his seat pale but otherwise fine. He wasn’t sure if they had heard him retching, but since no issue was raised, he assumed they hadn’t. His inexplicable frustration had faded, but the nausea and anxiety lingered ever so slightly, so he set out from the conversation and merely observed, realizing quickly that the topic was how he and Russell had met.

“Skyward Basketball,” Russell explained to Lana, laughing. “It’s church program. Still ongoing, and I’m actually coaching Ron and some others in his grade. Anyway, it’s just a program for the Sunday schoolers, like little Thomas back in the day. As a teen, I was the assistant coach for Thomas’s team.”

“Is that so?” Lana said, smirking at Thomas. “Well, was he any good?”

“Are you kidding? He was horrible! And way too short. He couldn’t shoot a hoop if his life depended on it. Of course, it was all, and still is, all in the name of run.” He glanced over his shoulder, toward the living room where the kids were watching some program or other. “In truth,” Russell went on, lowering his voice, “I’m still dealing with amateurs. You’d think they were a bunch of little kids or something.”

Lana smiled, nodded slightly, but didn’t laugh. She fixed Thomas with a inquisitive look which was all-too piercing, and Thomas knew the jig was up: she knew he was feeling uneasy. To their hosts, she said, politely, “If you’d excuse me.”

She stood, touched Thomas’s shoulder, and her fingers lingered as she drew away. Thomas took the hint and excused himself a moment later as well. He found her in the hallway leading to the bathroom, which looked out into the living room. There Hugh and Leland laid on their stomachs and kicked their feet while Ron laid on the sofa, all watching a nature show about chupacabras. On the television—which was now showing an arid landscape over commentary by some Australian woman—there were two watermarks; one was the station's logo and the other was the program’s initials: I.S.M.I.

Lana was leaning against one wall of the hallway, watching the children, when Thomas entered and leaned on the wall opposite her. He didn’t look her in the eyes at first, afraid he had spoiled the evening by his attempt to conceal his sickness. He ventured a glance, though, and saw her smile, faint as it was, hadn’t faded.

She looked at him, and she didn’t appear upset. Not in the slight. Softly, and with Russell's nickname for him, she said, “Not feeling well, bud?”

Thomas rubbed his neck and sighed. “I guess you heard me throw up.”

She looked startled upon hearing this. “No. I didn’t.”

“Oh.” He rubbed his neck more fiercely. Face hot and red, he said, “I’m feeling better now, though.”

“Well, I glad,” she said.

He moved, leaned on the wall next to her—to keep his blushing face out of her direct line of sight—and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

There was a pause. Then she said, “I am. Surprisingly. I wasn’t completely sure when I got the invitation. I guess when you asked I didn’t really show it. I really wanted to go...”

That last sentence left strangely incomplete to Thomas, like there was a ‘despite…’ cut off from the end of it. He looked away, eyes glued to the mahogany wood grain walls, and pondered this. Instead of asking about that, which may have been personal, he thought of another question.

“Can I ask you something? It may sound strange.”

“Sure,” she said softly, looking at him more attentively.

“Why did you come?”

“That’s a little vague.”

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be.” She sighed, dug the heel of her tennis shoe into the carpet, and gave her head a self-deprecating shake. “I felt . . . I don’t know . . . a connection. To you.”

The hairs on Thomas’s neck tingled.

“Are you sure . . .” she asked a moment later, “that we’ve never met?”

He looked at her strangely, not because he thought her strange, but because he had the same sort of question in the tip of his tongue and would never be able to articulate. “What,” he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry, “makes you ask that?”

“Something’s familiar about you,” she answered.

“Familiar in what way?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I just know that that night I got the strangest feeling of déjà vu when you came to talk to me.”

“Monday? At Russell’s?”

“Yeah.”

Thomas was silent. He remembered, vividly, the sensation of being captured by her gaze and proceeding her direction without any clear thought on the matter. To an extent, he felt it again while looking at her in half-profile, at her browns eyes and dark eyelashes cast toward the carpet, possibly in embarrassment at her admission. He felt a faint feeling of familiarity in her facial features, the paleness of her skin, even the cut and white dye of her hair.

Thinking about the discrepancies with the car crash and his injuries, the dream and the Prince of Wolves’s vague instructions and warnings, even the animal that kid supposed saw in the woods, Thomas said, involuntarily, “Something freaking weird is going on, if you ask me.”

“I think you’re right,” she agreed. Giving no more thought to the odd matter, she indicated the kitchen, and the beyond it the dining room, with a nod. “We probably shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer. They’ll think we snuck off.”

Thomas followed, thinking about the prince’s self-proclaimed partnership with him and what the hell that actually meant. He rejoined Russell and Cara at the table with Lana and they talked. The anxiety and nausea still lingered, but the feelings were vague and distant, like he was only experiencing them vicariously.

Whatever the hell is going on, I’m at the center of it, he thought. There was a black pit of worry in his stomach, softly churning with daunting notions and foreign feelings. Whose feelings, he wondered suddenly, crazily, with paranoia, am I experiencing?

His name, a familiar voice answered, is Tyler Gavins. And he needs your help.

---

Suddenly Thomas was standing in a tall hexagonal chamber. Before him was the prince, the weed- and feather-like material of its cloak hardly touching the clear crystal floor. Behind the prince, three of the room’s facets were devoted to the image of the chapel from his earlier dream. In the front-most pew, he saw the top of his head, himself collapsed on the bench. Thomas looked behind himself and saw, in the three remaining facets, himself, slumped, sleeping in his chair at the dining room table while the three around the table regarded his sudden drifting off to sleep.

He felt dizzy, and a variety of curses came to his mind as he crouched to regain his balance, but none escaped his clenched jaw.

“Thomas.”

He looked up at the Prince of Wolves. The skull-mask was emotionless, ominous.

“Uh...” Thomas muttered.

“Tyler is the only dreamer who was reached before he could taste the Divine Dream and become intertwined in its spell,” the prince said. “He cannot sleep, or dream, and so he cannot be touched by the lion’s typical methods. Though he’s not out of his reach entirely...” The prince paused and adjusted its hollow stare, seeing straight into Thomas’s soul. “But the lion is not why I’ve brought you here. It’s Tyler’s father. I do believe you felt it... there’s a slight empathetic link between you two…”

“Slight?”

“They were rather strong emotions.”

“Slight,” Thomas repeated stupidly. He managed to gather his wits. “Is Tyler Gavins okay?

The prince was silent and ponderous. “Physically, he is unharmed. But the psychological damage is high, the toll great. He made himself sick trying to say, aloud, that his father killed his brother some years ago.”

Thomas was once again stuck stupid. He ran his finger through his hair. “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” the prince said. It sighed strangely, like a stale shift of air through a dark cavern. “Perhaps, I thought, you would want to help him. I can give you all the information, and you can use it to report to the authorities—anonymously, I should add, so as not to become indisposed with the proceedings of the law, like you would be if you reported directly. We can’t have you become indisposed. So, what do you say?”

“I’ll do it,” Thomas whispered.

“Then all you must do is listen and follow my instructions exactly as I tell you to.” What followed were several names and the precise location of the body, then orders on how to carry out the task. The prince’s last command was unexpected. “Lastly, you have to do this tomorrow. Tonight, I want you to attend Clive Carson’s dinner.”

Thomas very nearly reeled. “Why? Tyler’s in the hands of a murderer. He’s in danger!”

“Not immediate danger,” the prince replied coolly. “It’s far more imperative that you get Clive talking about his dreams.”

“That hardly seems as important!”

“I assure you, Thomas, it is very important.” They stared. Thomas broke the off first. “I repeat,” the prince continued, “it’s imperative that you get Clive talking about his dreams. I have a hunch Clive is special.”

“How so?” Thomas questioned.

“That I don’t know. Perhaps we’ll learn hints if you go speak to him.” It paused, tilted its skull-mask. “Please,” it said, almost sincerely, “go to the dinner, speak to Clive, and tomorrow, use the information as I’ve instructed you.”

Thomas felt a flicker of defiance, even while intimidated beyond measure. “Tell me,” he asked, “why can’t I do it sooner?”

The prince stared. Perhaps it glared, disliking having its authority challenged. Whatever the case, when it spoke, its voice was calm and carried no hint of aggression, or threat. “It’s a merely matter of priorities, Thomas. I suspect Clive is the key to locating the two missing dreamers, and I would like you to see what you can learn from him without interference from the Sheriff’s apprehension of Daniel Gavins. Displacing Tyler could cause ripples, and while that is something I will allow tomorrow for his sake, I would prefer your night at Clive’s not be put at risk by initiating Daniel Gavins’s arrest.”

The prince paused, thought for a moment, and looked downward, as if a tad remorseful. “Perhaps it’s too much to ask of you to stand by while Tyler remains in his father’s presence, and perhaps I’m being overly cautious. No matter. Since we’re partners, Thomas, I will leave this to your discretion. All I ask is that you keep my concerns in mind.” The Prince of Wolves extend a scaly talon from beneath its cloak of weeds or feathers and pointed toward the glass panes behind Thomas. “I recommend you return quickly. They’re getting curious. Just step right through.”

---

Upon passing through the pane, Thomas’s eyes slowly fluttered opened. He was slumped in his chair at the table. He sat upright. The others were looking at him sympathetically. They hadn’t disturbed him. Russell and Cara—and Lana, Thomas suspected—knew how difficult and tiring the last few weeks had been. They had let him rest.

He tried to hide how unsettled he was yawning. He wasn’t sure if it was convincing. “Sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t even realize I was dozing off.”

Russell nodded. “Do you think it might be time to call it a night?”

Thomas looked at Lana, feeling very sorry for what he was about to do, but before he reply, she gave a slight, understanding nod. “Yeah,” Thomas said softly, feeling a little surprised and guilty atop uneasy. “That might be for the best.”

---

Thomas walked Lana to the flight of the stairs leading up to her apartment level. Russell had driven them back there, and he waited in the car. The two of them stopped at the base and meandered a bit at there, kicking their feet against the cold. Thomas spoke first. “I had a really fine evening with you. I’m sorry to have cut it short.”

Lana looked up from where she was milling about and smiled. “Don’t be,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. “I had a good time, too.” She overcame her hesitation, crossed the remaining distance, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

She turned and quickly, almost fleetingly, ascended the stairs. Thomas stood, staring in her wake, for nine thunderous heart beats before he blinked against the cold, which stinged his eyes, and hurried back to Russell’s car. Russell patted him on the shoulder approvingly, said Lana was a fine, kind woman and that he had enjoyed meeting her, and drove Thomas home to the inn.

---

Alone at last, the taillights of Russell’s car vanishing around the street corner, Thomas on the sidewalk in front of the Wooded Inn. He was submerged in the yellow glow of streetlights, breathing vapor into the cool night air, while his mind raced through the prince’s instructions.

He glanced one last time through the windows at the inn’s welcoming, lit interior before beginning a brisk walk toward the library, a block and a half away. He came to pass under the large eve over its entrance, where the pay phone was tucked away. There weren’t any cameras that he knew of. He inspected the phonebook, which was attached by chain to prevent theft, then he deposited some quarters and dialed.

It rang once, twice. Thomas was holding his breath. It rang a third time, then it was answered. “Hello?” a teenager asked. She sounded tired, even though it was a little past seven. “You’ve reached the Joneses. Is anyone there?”

“I need to speak to Alan Jones,” he grumbled at last, trying to disguise his voice.

“Sure,” the girl said. “Just a moment.”

Thomas waited. He heard muffled voices. He heard the phone exchange hands. He heard a sigh breath into speaker before the man spoke. “This is Alan Jones,” the Sheriff’s Officer said. “Can I help?”

“Yes.” Thomas hesitated long enough for the officer to inquiry if he was still on the line. “Yes,” he grumbled again. “Daniel Gavins murdered his son, Michael, and hid the boy’s remains in the wall just opposite you if you’re coming down the stairs.” Before Alan Jones could formulate a response or inquiry, Thomas said, “Please help Tyler,” and disconnected the call.

Heart racing, Thomas steadied himself on the pay phone. He replaced the tethered phone, rubbed his eyes, and eyed his vicinity suspiciously, like he was being watched. He saw no one. Night had descended early, and the library had closed two days ago for the holidays, along with the other establishments around the town square—anything that was still open this afternoon had closed early for Thanksgiving. The City Office, Thomas realized, wherein was the Sheriff’s Office, was sixty feet away at the square’s center. Spurred by that thought, Thomas hurried back the inn.

02-14

---

Clive Carson

Dinner had been marvelous. There was turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce as well as roast with steamed potatoes and carrots, fresh homemade rolls, and mash potatoes and gravy, along with much more. By the time dinner was winding down, everyone was positively stuffed. And admittedly, more than a little drunk. Red wine had flowed freely over the course of the meal, and once that had run dry, someone had found and broke out the beer. Only David, Clive, Amber, and Alex partook in the beer. Although Melissa and Ed had had their fair share of wine, the two seemed mostly sober, and Ed a tad somber.

They were gathered again in the living room. Clive and Melissa were on the hearth, David and Alex were on cuddling the couch, and Ed and Amber were squeezed onto an easy chair meant for one person.

“Will you show us?” Amber asked. Clive had, off-handedly and with the assistant of alcohol, mentioned that he had finished the next chapter in his current writing project, which was originally meant to be a book but was shaping up to be a novella of sorts. “Maybe,” she went on excitedly, because she was an unabashed fan of his work, “we could do a reading.”

Clive shrugged. For all it did, alcohol still couldn’t fully nullify his self-consciousness, especially regarding his writing. Though it made him more inclined to the idea than he would have been otherwise. “I don’t know. Maybe if everyone was interested. Is everyone interested?”

The idea was endorsed by nods, vocal agreements, and the slight spillage of some beer. That, Clive thought, settles that.

“Whoops,” Alex whispered.

“Leave it,” Clive said, standing with difficult. He moved slowly, so he wouldn’t stumble. “I’ll grabbed some paper towels on my way back.”

He made his way upstairs, entered his study, and gathered the most recently written pages from his work desk. The pages had been typed using a typewriter he had owned and maintained for a long time; his first published novel was written using it so many years go, along with its subsequent drafts, and before that a score of short fictions.

He stopped in the kitchen before returning to the living room and handing Alex several paper towels. He sat next to Melissa and tapped the pages on his knee to align them.

“Well,” he said, “does anyone want to do the reading, or should I?”

“Man I?” Amber asked drunkenly.

Clive shrugged, leaned forward, and handed her the pages. Only Melissa had read the previous three chapters, but everyone in the room was familiar with the premise to some extent. Besides, it could be summarized pretty aptly: after the death of his father, a man rents a cabin to clear his head and get his thoughts in order—there, he is a stalked by creature.

“‘Several Days and Nights, chapter four,’” Amber said, slurring her words. She coughed before going on. “‘There was a scratching sound.

“‘Gilligan stirred in his sleep,” she continued, “‘trying to ignore it, not fully compre…’” she paused, appearing she might be sick, then continued “‘...comprehending the sound he was hearing. When the noise persisted he at last opened his eyes. Clear, soft scratches. Perhaps on glass. He sat up in bed and the noise abruptly ceased...’”

Any and all nuance to the writing was lost in her drunkenness.

“May I?” Ed asked. She handed him the pages, looking a little disappointed. He realigned them and loudly cleared his throat. “‘Gripped by a mounting sense of isolation, Gilligan swung his legs of the bed, stood with the blanket wrapped around him, and pulled his boots over his socks. First he added some more wood to the dying fire. Second he wandered about the house, checking the windows for any signs of—’

“‘Scratches. Standing in stark contrast to the woods which the window overlooked. Gilligan slipped a hand out from under his blanket, touched the glass where the crisscrossing scratches met, and felt a demented chill play his vertebrae like a xylophone.’” Ed’s deep and clear voice, and perhaps the gloominess he acquired while drinking, complemented the narration. Everyone listened raptly, David in particular.

Ed went on: “‘He got closer to the window—closer than he would have liked to on a cold and lonesome night such as now—and tried to see out, see if whatever had scratched it had also left tracks, but the firelight dancing within the cabin only tossed his reflection on the glass and did nothing to penetrate the darkness outside.

“‘Gilligan returned to his bed and sat but entertained no thoughts about getting back to sleep. He debated with himself. Finally curiosity got the better of caution and he left behind the blanket and slipped his jacket over his sleepwear. Before he stepped onto the porch he grabbed a flashlight and flicked it on.

“‘His breath hung in the air as vapor,’” Ed continued. “‘He played the beam off the massive drifts in the open field opposite the porch, then off his car, buried almost to its hubcaps in snow; its ice-encrusted windows shone the light back at him fragmented and weakened. He turned the beam to the ground and shined it in front of him as he made his way around the cabin.

“‘There were no stars or moon out. Behemoth clouds veiled the sky in darkness.

“‘His boots crunched through the snow’s frozen layer of crust as he walked—the only sound besides the soft click of branches just ahead of him. He rounded the second corner and walked, slowly, two more paces.

“‘The flashlight played across the snow and filled the tracks with shadow. Gilligan stopped dead away. The cold, he thought, had not ever felt colder. Shivering, using the beam he followed the tracks until they vanished into the woods. He reluctantly moved one foot forward, then the next. Closer inspection revealed they were indeed footprints, but not made by hoofs or pads, and not by a human, regardless of whether they were barefoot, in socks, or in shoes.

“‘The tracks led out of the woods and abruptly ended there at the base of the window. A horrible thought struck him. His gaze wandered upward…’”

The doorbell rang its singsong tone and David jumped, stifled a gasp, and tried and failed to catch a car of beer he had just upended.