In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  “Oh man, don’t tell me anything else; you’ll ruin all the surprises,” he says. “Some of that better be jotted down on paper.”

  “It’s simmering.”

  “Well, don’t let it simmer too long or most of it will evaporate.” Travis is great with metaphors. “Write it all down before you forget a key point. I haven’t read many books lately, but I’d definitely consume this one—and not just because you wrote it. I’ve said many times that writing is your calling, so get cracking.”

  “Just to verify, would the character be completely different than the body she stepped into 25 years later?”

  “Everyone in her community would be different in many ways because her uncle wouldn’t have been arrested,” he considers. “She would have physical similarities due to environmental factors, but she may seem foreign to the people around her—and vice versa. Movies are only beginning to scratch the surface concerning the effects of time travel. Think about the movie The Parent Trap.”

  “That is not a time travel flick,” I remind him. Whenever we talk in theory, we always use movies or other comics to illustrate our point further. When we’re in this basement, we’re all nerds.

  “I’m referring to the twins being separated from each other by an ocean,” he says. “They looked identical, but one spoke with an English accent while having separate personalities from the other. That’s what distance does, and I believe time travel would be quite the equivalent—especially with 25 years of unique experiences. That’s something like 13-million minutes she wasn’t making the same moves—most of the time. Delaney, the way you are thinking is correct. Inarguably, her motor skills and other aspects of her personality would have transformed.”

  “What about a woman granting wishes and being able to travel through time? Does that sound a little thin?”

  “Dude, with all the superhero powers these days, that is probably a bit tame,” he points out. “I’m not knocking your creative process, but you may want to consider beefing that up a little. Her abilities seem more logical than a woman able to throw fireballs or shoot lasers from her eyes. Since the girl was granted a wish, that seems more in the ambit of a genie or witch’s capabilities.”

  “I appreciate you letting me bend your ear on this.”

  “Well, show your appreciation by writing this book as soon as possible,” he says, standing up. “The date she traveled back in time was definitely the key component to her life changing in the present. 25 years is enough time for things to get pretty fucked up.” He pauses because I don’t add anything. He made some excellent points that I’m trying to recount during the silence. “So, did you want me to grab the envelope or will you be buying the comics at a later date? No pressure, man.”

  “You might as well grab them,” I say.

  Once we’re back out front, he places the contents of the envelope on the counter. Nearly $65 is about to recede from my checking account. It’s hard to believe that in 1967, comics retailed for 12¢ and Marvel and DC were still able to turn a profit. In those days, comics were filled with tons of advertisements offsetting the production costs. I imagine all the ads for Grit, x-ray vision glasses, and Sea Monkeys kept the cover price down. Current comic books still have full-page ads, so I don’t understand the inflated cover price. In 50 years, the price has risen out of control. Considering that both Marvel and DC have their hands in movies, toys, television shows, and assorted merchandise, why can’t they keep the price realistic?

  “Wait a second,” Travis says, rubbing his left temple. “This shouldn’t be in here.”

  He pulls a comic from my pile called Rouge Psychic and sets it to the side. I’ve never seen this particular comic before.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s an obscure comic that came out a few months ago,” he reveals. “It’s a ‘zombie meets medium’ type of trip. It’s kind of cool and edgy, but I have no idea why it was placed inside your envelope. Maybe one of the other guys threw it in as a joke, although I don’t get the punch line. I’ll throw it back on the shelf.”

  “Na,” I say, staring at the cover of a brunette woman holding a sharp cross. “I’ll actually take it. I need to expand my horizons a little. If I don’t care for it, you won’t see me buying a later issue.”

  “Good plan. I’ll knock off a buck since it was our filing error.”

  What I’m not telling Travis is that the adventitious inclusion of this particular comic feels like a sign sent straight from the dark corners of the universe.

  Chapter 13

  Derek

  Mandi claims her rearward journey happened on July 23, 1994. From my memory, nothing newsworthy occurred on that day. She also pinned those unspeakable crimes on her uncle. If her testimony was bullshit, there had to be a motive for spinning such an intricate narrative. Unless Willie felt her up during her adolescence, why would she have it out for the guy? She wasn’t being charged with anything, yet she presented such an elaborate story full of intricate details. Since I was only two miles from my house, I returned home to dig around for a journal from the summer of ’94.

  I’m not expecting a huge revelation to leap from the pages, but I’d like to see what was happening that day—at least from my perspective. I jotted down anything I was feeling or observed. Writing proved to be a safe place to broadcast my views privately. Even as a child, my vanilla family often got uncomfortable when I verbalized any observation that didn’t line up with what the mall was trying to sell them.

  So far in my search through these plastic bins, I’ve discovered nothing more than insignificant nostalgia from my childhood—some of which would pull a hefty price on eBay. I certainly didn’t throw much away. As I remove the lid from the bottom container, it’s full of spiral notebooks. Bingo!

  Luckily, the dates are scribbled at the start of most of the entries. The first few notebooks are from my high school years. Although I’m attempting to ignore anything not pertinent, I do glance over an entry about how disgusting the soggy pizza tasted in the school cafeteria. I wasn’t quite the thinker in those days.

  I cannot afford to be sidetracked further—enough of that has happened already. I’m looking for one specific entry if it exists. Just as I’m about to give up, I open a green spiral notebook to find a scattering of dates throughout 1994. After flipping through a dozen or so pages, I stumble upon July 23rd. Shit! It contains nothing suspicious other than a brief commentary about being disconcerted over the murders. When I read the entry dated July 24th, my pulse begins to race.

  Staring back at me is:

  July 24

  Something strange is happening to me, but I know better than to tell Mom. Late last night, I woke from a strange dream. It was like watching a movie from the character’s point of view. In the dream, I was trying to keep a woman from bleeding. She was lying face down in the center of a road. Her blonde hair was streaked in blood from a stab wound on her back. After the ambulance arrived, I noticed someone watching from the trees. I was about to go after this person. I even pulled a pistol from the holster, but then I woke up.

  This sounds like the exact dream I’ve been having over the past few weeks, so I’m not about to write it off as coincidence. I haven’t opened this box since it was packed over ten years ago. Therefore, I couldn’t have mentioned any particular day in 1994 to Mandi because I had no idea the date was significant until I looked it up. I often wondered why I held onto these aging journals. My only excuse is just that a writer has trouble throwing away his old material and drafts until something shows up in print. It’s a bad habit, but I wouldn’t have found this entry otherwise.

  During my interview with Mandi, she claimed that I rescued her on Route 27 last summer after her boyfriend stabbed her in the back. She explained that not only had I saved her life that night, I had also arrested her boyfriend in the woods. Even at 13, having a dream about undoing a holster to go after someone in the woods seems way too specific. As a kid, I wasn’t having random thoughts about bounty hunting or l
aw enforcement. Why did I dream something this detailed at that age?

  I turn to the next page to see if there is any additional information regarding the dream. After lying dormant for years, it may have been a recurring dream back when I was in middle school that is mysteriously showing up again.

  As I begin reading the following entry, I take a deep breath.

  July 25

  This morning, I was standing in the snack aisle at the Piggly Wiggly when Willie McAllister strolled up next to me to grab a pack of Fig Newtons. I felt this rumbling as he inched closer. I didn’t imagine it. When Willie walked away, the vibration settled down. After he left the store, the feeling was gone altogether. I thought it must have been my imagination. Just to be sure, I rode my bike over to Emmett Court. As I stood near his house, the vibrations started up again. They weren’t as harsh as what I felt in the grocery store, but they were unmistakably there. I’ve never felt vibrations like this before. Maybe I’m just scared because Benny was arrested this morning for murdering a bunch of people. I said hello to him only two days ago. I had no idea I was greeting a killer.

  “Holy shit!”

  Apparently, this was the first time I ever sensed those vibrations. This is probably the right time to confess a secret. For many years, I’ve felt these strange pulsations radiating within my body at odd times. Feeling an inner vibration doesn’t mean I see grim reapers, dead people, or sense the onset of a zombie apocalypse—that would definitely be more interesting. This ability has always sensed the negative intentions emitting from the subconscious of wrongdoers. Incidentally, whenever I’ve encountered the quaking, a felony was usually about to be committed.

  It wasn’t long before noticing a pattern; I suddenly had this foresight to inhibit crimes. I used it when it wasn’t too obvious, but I also forced myself to back off many times. As a police officer, I can’t kick in someone’s door all because I sense something originating within my own skin. Nope, I’m forced to follow the bullshit protocol. Over the years, I could have easily prevented several senseless deaths, but it has been important not to draw too much attention to myself. I certainly don’t want to deal with a shrink trying to get to the bottom of a sixth sense that only shows up on sporadic occasions.

  What are the odds that this ability originated just two days after Mandi claimed to have changed the timeline? Those radiating waves became a regular occurrence following the incident with Willie. One time, I felt those vibrations around my science teacher. Three days later, he was arrested on burglary charges. My body was telling me that Willie was guilty of something big; I just didn’t understand the signs. This is a total game changer.

  When we had Agnew surrounded outside of the National Bank and Trust, the vibration grew out of control as I’d imagine your nervous system would feel during a three-day crack bender. When he gave us the slip, the buzzing was gone instantaneously.

  If that recurring dream is directly related to Mandi from a parallel existence, how could my 13-year-old self have seen that dream? Even in a different time and space, the event on the highway would have been twenty-some years away. When she traveled back in time, part of her psyche must have attached to me. It’s too coincidental that I began feeling those vibrations in 1994—the day after she claimed to have altered the timeline.

  In the dream, I do remember my hands being covered in the woman’s blood. A minuscule amount of her blood may have seeped into my skin through small cuts on my hands—causing traces of her DNA to have entered my bloodstream. Theoretically, if some of that DNA remained inside my cells at the time of her departure in 2019, that DNA may have also traveled back to 1994. This sounds a bit aggrandized, but the DNA could have located my 13-year-old body as its host and simply remained inside after she returned to the altered present.

  It’s well-documented that DNA is able to seep into the soil from a dead body so her blood could have absorbed into my skin during the misadventure. Maybe the reason my dream cuts off at that point is that I wiped most of her blood from my hands. Could the intrusion of DNA in the bloodstream be enough to have developed a sixth sense? There are probably only a handful of people on the planet that could quantify the likelihood of such a theory. However, I began to feel those vibrations the day following her claim of changing the past. It seems to be the most reasonable deduction. Being able to actually remember a remnant of a parallel life could be evidence of science fiction becoming fact. This would be the equivalent of having your life overwritten like shaking an Etch-a-Sketch.

  Listening to Mandi’s wild story of changing history is one thing, but connecting it to my life is another. If I keep thinking preposterous thoughts, Franklin Hills will be reserving a room for me in the north wing. At the first opportunity, I’ll need to find Route 27 and see if any stretch of that county highway resembles the location from my recurring dream. It would be the quickest way to crush the likelihood that my dream is a vision from a parallel existence.

  My counselor, Bridget, warned me not to attach any bizarre ideologies to criminal cases. Rather, she requested for any “extreme” thoughts to be shifted to my writing. My boss sent me to see Bridget because he felt I was losing touch with reality after being shot by Agnew. I may just need to pop in and see her today. Before that, I need to visit someone with knowledge of the paranormal to discuss a few of the concepts that sprung up during my time with Mandi. I need someone rational and knowledgeable to substantiate a few of her claims.

  Chapter 14

  Mandi

  Now that I’m free from Delaney’s interrogation and back in Wilkinson Creek, my first order of business is locating Patricia Jackson—Benny’s mother. I drive down Garfield Avenue looking for the white house with the rusted wheelbarrow out front. Not one home on this street resembles her gaudy place. Patricia doesn’t seem cheery enough to have added fluorescent green shutters to the exterior, so I’m ruling that house out.

  It has been quite a while since I’ve driven down this dull street. The only familiar house belongs to Billy Stevens. If he’s home, he will be able to point out Patricia’s house. Indubitably, I need to thank him for coming to my rescue last night. I’m still surprised at how hard he smacked Robbie. For all the times Billy has probably masturbated to my graduation photo, he undoubtedly built up some strength in that right forearm. Regardless of how well Billy was doing when the fight began, chances are good that he took quite the beating from Robbie. I am so narcissistic that I didn’t even think of Billy’s welfare until this moment. What is wrong with me?

  One of the two garage doors is opened. A silver Jeep Liberty is parked inside on the right side. From everything I know about Billy, his garage has always been packed with band equipment. I wonder how his mom forced him to consolidate that space in order to park a vehicle inside.

  I knock on the front door, fearing that Billy’s mother will be crying over the concussion he may have endured last night. As the noisy door opens, a clean-cut man, wearing a plaid Izod shirt and black jeans, answers the door.

  “Can I help you?” He asks this impatiently as if I’m some religious nut about to hand him an unsolicited sermon.

  Although I have to do a double take, the man standing before me is Billy Stevens. He has never been this put together. I reach out and hug him. “Holy crap, Billy. I’m so glad to see you. I wasn’t expecting you to be in one piece.”

  He backs away, breaking my embrace. “Mandi McAllister?”

  “Yeah, dork, it’s me.” I cannot believe he would prematurely end a lingering hug that I initiated. “I was worried that Robbie really did a number on you, but you look unscathed. Did the hospital give you a morning makeover?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Since I have repeatedly treated Billy with complete disrespect, he’s apparently acting distant to drive the point home. Everything I said last night must have forced him to change the way he presents himself. From this metamorphosis, the Hair Barn must have talked him into investing in one of their ultra-beauty packages.<
br />
  “I’m just telling you how much I appreciate your intervention last night in the alley. Robbie must have given you a few barbaric thumps. How’d you get away?”

  “You must be mistaking me for someone else. I didn’t go anywhere last night.”

  “Yes, you did,” I remind him. He’s acting all cool and dismissive, but I’ll break him. “You were sitting with us at the Dragon for a half hour. After some good-natured ribbing, you stormed off and parked it on the barstool. You were still sitting there after Jackie left.”

  “Jackie?” He asks, snickering. “We were home watching some episodes of Frasier. What are you after, Mandi?”

  “Are you trying to convince me that you were here with Jackie last night? That would be a good trick. You almost had me going. Unless you’re talking about someone other than Jackie Morgan!”

  His eyebrows squint—a little unsure of where this question is heading. “She used to be Jackie Morgan. She has been going by Jackie Stevens for quite a while now.”

  “Come on, Billy. Due to your unabated dreams of superstardom, she would never hook up with you.” Has Nick Morrison slipped his mind? Have I also been erased from his daily fantasies?

  “Superstardom?” he asks, clearly miffed. “I have no dreams of superstardom or anything like that.”

  “Yeah, right! Why else would you own all of those guitars?”

  “I sold both of my guitars before heading off to college.”

  “You had a dozen guitars the last time we spoke.”

  He continues gazing at me with a dazed expression. I suddenly have a sinking feeling in my gut, so I glance down at his hands. His spotless fingers look as if they just received a professional manicure. For the past seven years, his hands were permanently stained by Quaker State. Outside of using a medical solvent, there would be no way to get his fingers this clean without retaining some residual blackness.