Authors: Nicholas Grabowsky
Tags: #Fantasy, #Horror, #Paranormal, #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #Suspense, #General
...and on his face. It was this self-infliction in particular, which relieved him, made things seem all better afterwards, cleansed him of all sin, made the world a brighter place after all...the sweetness of the blood, the beauty of the sharpness piercing the surface of his skin, producing a clean crease, which bulged droplets of crimson that flowed to the beckoning of gravity. All for blissful penitence. All for rapture, for forgiveness.
All for
shit
, now.
Now, he was to be reborn and nothing of what he used to do or be mattered anymore. He was purchasing a second life, a chance to erase everything and start over, becoming
born again
without having to accept any other Lord and Savior but for his own self.
Alice Bradshaw’s body was motionless, naked, spreadeagle across the disproportioned and sunken mattress of the corner bed. The rain-speckled beams of light avoided the body but reached the brownish tiles of the floor beyond, producing a turpid glow over pale skin. Her ankles and wrists were bound almost enough to cut short blood circulation, with electric extension cords wrapped around the wooden headboard and the tarnished brass posts at her feet. Her chest rose and fell at dilatory intervals beneath apple-sized breasts. Manifold beads of sweat glistened across the surface of her body, spread like transparent pigmentations of disease.
In a silhouette, Scratch emerged from the curtained enclosure, which contained the mirror, wash basin, toilet and makeshift shower receptacle, abandoning the glow of the light bulb behind him. His shadowing nakedness straggled forward, past a cluttered dining table, past a two-door wooden clothes closet, past a white refrigerator and stacks of navy-blue milk crates. There was a shabby maroon sofa facing a Zenith color TV, and amidst a piled array of videotapes on the lower shelf of the television stand sat an older-modeled video recorder, built before knobs were replaced with buttons. There was a minikin table situated under one of the windows that held a four-burner hotplate, beside which was a dismal green metal stand supporting a microwave oven. To the left of the refrigerator was a medium-sized cabinet full of various knick-knacks flanking jelly jars containing thick, gelatinous grey shapes afloat in transparent liquid.
Eyes. Dismembered. In jars displayed for the moment to beckon a certain reminder of the recent past, sealed shut to hide the smell. Animal eyes, for the most part.
To the right of the television, past rows of steel-grey shelving replete with books and other objects, past a freshly-dusted metal manual typewriter resting upon a crooked stand, stood a ramshackle recliner baring a color to nearly match the tile floor. There Scratch seated himself, the silent young woman stretched upon the bed before him.
He scratched his beard.
He reached over to the metal shelf beside him, leaning, fingers fumbling through the clutter of paperbacks and unwashed drinking cups and the morning’s breakfast remnants, until he withdrew a plastic sandwich bag. He raised it and peered into it, his hands opened it, entered it, pulled out a square paper object. On this square were dotted creases bordering more than a few dozen tinier squares, tan squares, blotter acid. LSD tabs. Carefully, he folded two of these tiny squares until they tore loose. He returned the bulk of the paper to the sandwich bag, returned the bag to the metal shelf.
He stood, a move preceding a silent approach to the edge of the bed, knelt against the mattress, before the side of Alice’s lovely head. He brought the fingers of one hand to her mouth, separated her lips delicately, the pink-red glistening of her tongue rolling, seeming to gag her. Her eyes flickered open, then shut; Scratch did not know whether she saw him, in her drug-induced hallucinatory
Reap-the-Wild-Wind
, nor did he care. He slipped the tan paper squares beyond her teeth and moved his fingers to close tight her mouth.
“I am not here.” His words stroked the air like vapors of hush vanishing as they gently met with her ear and caressed it slyly. “You do not know me. I do not exist. This is a dream. Hmmmm? Yes, you’re doing reeeal good. This is a dream.
I
am a dream. Hear me, young Alice. A dream. I am a dream. When you awaken...
that’s
the real world. And in the real world, you must bare the child, Alice.
Our
child.
Your
child, and the
child of the dream
. I am the dream. You must bare our child for me...so that everything that is pure in the dream can enter into the real world and be born again, can live again and be pure....”
As he repeated these words over and once more, he arose, stepped back; he crept, avoiding the recliner, further back, until he arrived at a darkened, pillow-laden corner near the farthest window, beyond the dim light streaming in from the outside afternoon haze. There, his gaze drifted around the expanse of the attic, bathing in the shady, surreal atmosphere, so dark...how he cherished the pleasant dark....
When he sat, he leaned back, and when he did so the palm of his hand met with an uneven stack of typewritten pages embedded between two pillows beside him. He fumbled for a firm grip, then, lifted the stack into his line of vision, into the dim light.
The title page of the manuscript faced him, typewritten and centered, and it read:
THE EVERBORN
A Novel
By
Ralston Cooper
Scratch knew who Ralston Cooper was. And he had read every single title the acclaimed horror author wrote, and loved it. He had waited in long, long lines leading into bookstores, for book signings of Ralston Cooper books signed by Mr. Ralston Cooper himself. He had mail-ordered Ralston Cooper books, purchased Ralston Cooper video movie releases
without
waiting for them to go down in price.
But never
ever
had he acquired any Ralston Cooper work
this
way, by it typing its
own
self out both magically and prophetically through Scratch’s personal Corona typewriter.
Conventional people,
normal
people, would have freaked over such a seemingly
para
normal experience. But Scratch and Scratch’s circumstances were far far faaaaar from conventional and normal.
So he took it differently from the rest of us.
He took it as a Godsend.
He took it as something special.
He took it to heart.
And, reading it, he took it as destiny.
He was doing what he had to do.
To save himself.
18.
Max Goes To Church
Max sped past this vehicle and that, as the mild flow of Sunday traffic eased his Mustang further down the stretch of Artesia Freeway. Another cigarette expired from between fingers wrought in twitchy anxiousness and was jettisoned from the opened gap in the car window; he’d barely renewed the habit and was already finding himself needing to cut down. He reached for a cell phone from a slot beneath the dash and thumbed across its numbered keypad for a second try to contact his wife. If he caught her machine again this time, she’d have to catch the entire update later...
...and settle for his first message:
Melony? Mel, you know that Matt McGregor has never been one to waste any of our time when it comes to business, and just now, more than ever he carried on this tradition. I’m calling from the cell phone. I need you at your phone, in the next hour, the next minute, right now. Thirty minutes and I’ll be unreachable. I’m going to church.
Events were beginning to unfold all too rapidly for Max now, intoxicating him with a reckless anxiousness which he fought against for the sake of a mental sobriety in handling the events to come. Times like these often evoked a high-strung tension with Max at the outset, and he would soon enough get over it as he was always sure to. But where he now headed was certainly not the average “gotta-investigate-this-one” site of juicy paranormal intrigue. He was headed to the haven of a twisted killer who in literal terms wasn’t altogether human, wasn’t human to Max’s convictions, and Max could stake his career on that.
He felt a sense of guilt in ditching Matt McGregor like he did, but apologies had to wait.
Max
himself
couldn’t
wait.
And he couldn’t have waited for Matt. Not this time, not for this. He knew Matt had caught on by now, was likely on his way in pursuit somewhere far behind, probably cursing and raving about that goddamn crazy sonofabitch Maxy. But Matt was well aware that a spontaneous insight or gut feeling required an equally spontaneous response in both their fields...maybe not for other UFO experts, but for most cops...and particularly for anyone who made it his business to read between the lines of Man’s existence in effort to expose enough fine print to change the way Man exists forever.
Matthew simply wouldn’t be able to realize that, in this case, it was
because
he was a cop that Max had up and went running on his own. Sure, a purposeful encounter with Simon BoLeve was crazy to attempt alone, especially to attempt without Matt and above all with the protection Matt possessed in being a
cop
. And Matt shared an intimate involvement with the bizarre nature of the whole thing. For Matt, it must not have seemed right for someone like Maxy to hightail-it the way he did and without him.
Max felt like a goddamn crazy sonofabitch.
And maybe he was.
The truth about this was that Matt’s joining him to meet BoLeve was inevitable.
Max was simply determined to meet BoLeve
first
.
Casually.
In some respects, like the way Melony handled Andrew.
But unlike the efforts with Andrew, should it be that a mentally unbalanced Simon carelessly unleash a hellish secret that gave away his alleged inhuman nature, regardless of this risk being Max’s objective, Max could only hope that Matt McGregor would come running to save
Max Polito’s
ass for a change.
The freeway lanes were narrowing now, and the blinking yellow beacons of END OF FREEWAY signs commanded the slowing of sandwiched vehicles in their approach towards intersection traffic lights.
Max seized the Thomas Guide from the passenger seat and plotted the remainder of his course, and likewise plotted his first moves for when he’d arrive at
The Rock
and the fate which awaited him there.
***
So far, so seemingly good.
He’d found his destination and drove past it, noting the dual police cars conspicuously double-parked at the streetside shoulder of its overflowing parking lot. Making a right at the neighboring intersection and nestling his Mustang stubbornly into a curb space between two tattered pick-ups, he methodically retrieved a change of clothes from his car trunk.
He emerged from the back seat minutes later in grey slacks and a collared white dress shirt with a preppy slate pullover, paused to straighten his attire, then reached into a pouch behind the driver’s seat for an old pair of reading glasses and placed them over his eyes. He stuffed an armful of the clothes he changed out of into his trunk, rummaged briefly, and found himself a hardcover Ethics textbook; its dust jacket discarded, it would pass reasonably well for a Bible. Before he continued, he rummaged again for one final cigarette and smoked it hurryingly, shoved the pack into a trouser pocket, seized his notebook and micro recorder and locked up his car.
He’d hoped that Matt hadn’t radioed ahead a description of Max in an effort to stunt his plans, but he was prepared for such obstacles. If Matt had done this, it would be right to assume that he’d also radio ahead a description of BoLeve, along with enough orders and warnings to make the shit hit the fan...and to make it impossible for Max to get to BoLeve first.
But there
was
a slight chance...
ever so slight
a chance...that McGregor would handle things on his own, was on his way to meet up with Max alone, that he understood what this was all about…that he understood the way Max
wanted
him to understand…and he’d allow the law to enter the picture as soon as they both wanted it to.
Max was riding on that chance.
He
prayed
to
God
for that chance.
He reached the corner, gazed across the street and towards the church and he thought,
what better place is there to pray for that chance...?
***
Contemplating...speculating...observing.
A lot like his ages-past security job, to watch and observe. This time, for a short while, then, from the street corner.
But that was a little over an hour ago and after toying with his own mental chemistry, he found himself and his convenient quick-change of clothes stepping across the street, down the sidewalk, and in through the double entrance doors. He found himself relieved to have gotten past a pair of officers as he made his way inward, found himself then beside a couple of colorfully-mohawked juveniles who moments later lost interest and abandoned his company for the outside. He set his gaze beyond a sea of peopled pews and metal folding chairs to the front pulpit and beyond. He clutched his Ethics book/Bible and remained calm.