Holy shit! I have been given a peek into what lies ahead—a future that will provide an outlet for my overactive imagination and publishing success. The alarmist part of me is worried this is a setup to a major catastrophe.
Does she really want me to be a writer or to just be out of her way? In truth, no one could stop a woman that can hide in the past or future—even if only for 87 minutes at a stretch. I’ll go with the understanding that I would never be able to prevent any of the expungings—no matter how hard you tried. Am I seeing part of her that isn’t consumed by revenge? Saving my life and getting me on track is arguably much more than a touch of goodness.
“Hope, in general, is difficult to come by,” she adds, touching my arm caringly. “It is the talented people with the loudest voices that make the most significant changes. Without my reading as a child, I may have decided to destroy much of mankind—never to be hassled by another human. If I don’t get to read your books in the future, I may just decide to destroy mankind out of boredom.” She laughs. After what happened today, I may never know if she’s actually kidding. Now, that is pressure!
“Can I ask what you’ve become?” From all she knows about me, this question will satisfy my own morbid curiosity. “You are definitely a witch, but you seem to be so much more.”
“Let’s not spoil the fun by knowing everything. I am much more than you are able to comprehend at the moment. I will be a riddle you will try to solve on those sleepless nights spent ruminating. As more mysterious and tragic events unfold, you will uncover more details and fill in the gaps.” She really means more deaths! “You’ve secretly wanted to be Indiana Jones throughout your life. Instead of the quest for archaeological treasure, you will be seeking clues about what I’m doing. I will enjoy knowing that you’ll be inspired creatively by my actions—even if you don’t fully condone them. Each passing of those from the Wilkinson Creek bloodline will rejuvenate my unimpaired exterior while amplifying my strength.”
By that logic, the demise of thousands of people should magnify her power to that of a black hole sucking in planets and stars.
“A pivotal decision seems to be right around the corner.”
“There is no time to ponder,” she informs. “The time to make this decision is almost upon you. When you get wind of something that may sound unexplainable, let it fuel your creativity.” She grabs the polka dot umbrella in her right hand and leans her left hand over the zebra-stripped handle—a move I saw her make against Agnew. “You may be initially upset with what I’m about to do, but it’s a wish I’ve wanted to make for a long time. You’ll grow to appreciate the simplicity of the heartfelt gesture.”
In the time it took me to blink, I’m surrounded by tall stalks of corn. I can hear a cacophony of buzzing insects and a light breeze blowing back the tassels.
I laugh at the simplicity and creativity of the action. “She wished me into the cornfield. How fucking poetic!” The corn stalks are less than six feet tall while the field appears to stretch beyond the horizon. I am most likely standing dead center of what may possibly be the most massive damn cornfield on the planet.
“You couldn’t make it easy for me, could you?”
I begin walking towards the setting sun. After a dozen steps or so, I am snapped back hard as if I collided with the soft wall of a bounce house. I reach out my hands, touching a translucent, yet impenetrable force field. I look like a mime exploring with my fingertips extended—not that I have an audience to worry about. As I follow the force field around me, I am left with about a twenty-foot diameter to stand within.
An object is jabbing from inside my left pants pocket. I reach inside to find a handheld tape recorder. A bright pink Post-it note is attached to the outside with “Play Me” written in big letters. I place my thumb on the green-arrowed button and press it down.
“Hello, Mr. Delaney.” Abellina couldn’t be fully captured in a photo, but her voice can be recorded. Well, this is an intriguing development! “You will be allowed to leave with this portable recorder to plot out your first best-selling novel, or you are welcome to leave with your badge. The barrier will only come down when you forfeit one or the other! If you leave behind the badge, this will become a contract to quit immediately with only a letter of resignation. For your creativity to proliferate, the safety net your job provides must disappear. Your vehicle is waiting at the end of the cornfield—keep following this row to the north. You are roughly 100 miles from where our journey began. I’ve wiped away all evidence that you ever stepped on the soil in Wilkinson Creek. I am counting on you to make the correct decision. I must stress that this is your decision. Until we meet again, adieu.”
Her closing words clearly indicate that she will be crossing my path one day in the future. I can’t be expected to reach a resolution while surrounded by an invisible force field in the middle of nowhere! I better listen to her message once more. I click rewind for a few seconds and press play. Nothing seems to be recorded. I turn up the volume, and not a single sound emits from the rectangular recording device. Well, that certainly answers whether or not she can be recorded. It was like a verbal message in disappearing ink.
Making such a life-altering decision is a mountain of pressure—especially after just witnessing one of the most disturbing death scenes of all time. Then again, she saved me from being shot and having a target on my back. Abellina just might be my protector and a much-needed voice to guide my future.
Very little air circulates inside this barrier, but that is the least of my concerns. After the horror Mandi endured moments before her death, I’m willing to be uncomfortable—at least I can see blue sky and the placid white clouds floating above. I relax in the soil, contemplating about the life I want to compose in the foreseeable future. I’ve been in a creative holding pattern for too damn long.
My inability to act on my writing goals has always stemmed from an acute fear of not having enough money. Is it time to quit fretting over the unknown all because my savings account isn’t overflowing? She read books written by me in a future that once was—or maybe the future that I’m supposed to choose. By writing my ass off, it’s evident I won’t starve by taking that path. Is it time to cast aside caution and make a radically different decision?
Luckily, it only takes ten minutes of contemplation to reach the obvious conclusion. As I walk between what already feels like an endless row of corn stalks with the sun setting to the west, I place my hand into my right pocket and remove the silver recorder. Yes, I made the appropriate decision—as if there was any doubt. My badge is buried beside a tall stalk of corn. All I can hope is that a tiller never unearths the damn thing.
I push the red ‘record’ button, move the device to my lips, and take a deep breath. “Some serial killers are created by abusive parents, but that is not always the case. One bloodthirsty killer came into this world because of a foolish decision . . . ”
Kicking off a story this way is worded too much like a biography. I click off the recorder.
Come on, Derek . . . think. You don’t want to give away everything. Would you continue reading a chapter presented in such an obvious manner? Where is the best place to begin the story?
I rewind the tape and bite my lip. Out of nowhere, the entire story develops in my head as if it’s being channeled from my future voice. I may not be able to capture all of my ideas quickly enough.
“Chapter 1. Mandi in all caps followed by a return.” I rewind the recorder to make sure my voice is being captured. It plays back, “Chapter 1. Mandi in all caps followed by a return.”
I think she would appreciate the use of her given name considering she didn’t get the happy ending she deserved. Being immortalized in a story just may give Mandi’s distressed soul some rest.
I was dreading the thought of walking through this vast and humid cornfield. Suddenly, the hike to the truck doesn’t feel long enough. Due to the interruptions and the complete mayhem I’ve encountered throughout the day, I need to remain in the “
creative zone” until I pull everything from my head and get it onto this recorder. In the past, I’ve had imaginative ideas rapidly flow out of me, but never with such vivid intensity. I take my first dawdling steps to the north.
I press down the “record” button, take a deep solemn breath, and begin constructing the story.
“Applying for a job can be nerve-racking. When you have a lot to hide, the experience can be downright daunting. And boy, do I have some skeletons in my closet! If I lived in Chicago, I’d be able to blend in with the other misfits. I happen to be stuck in a pint-sized town of 7,000 residents. You could say I stick out like a hand missing its middle finger. I have pretty much made a catastrophe of my life, and I’m only 29. Look at my present situation: I live with my crotchety grandma, bartend at a sleazy tavern, and got stabbed a little over a year ago by my former boyfriend . . . ”
– – –
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
In Dark Places Page 39