SETKHQ QSBH!!!
Pete sat back, somewhat baffled and amused. “Oh, right!” he said aloud. “Where is that secret decoder thing?” Laughing, he got up and headed for his stash in the Easter Island head on the altar.
~~~
Steve rolled another natural twenty. “Direct hit!” he said. “Bam!”
This I awoke to: Steve’s voice, as obnoxious and presumptuous as always, muffled by intervening walls, coming from somewhere nearby.
I opened my eyes. The prismatic light of a crisp, spring morning peeked through a panoramic window at one end of the room. I lay in a bed—a king-size, hotel bed.
I sat up.
“Ouch!” a different voice exclaimed joyously. Someone clapped their hands. “That guy’s toast!”
On one wall: a stylized map of what appeared to be a college campus, framed in wood and drawn in three-dimensional perspective. The invigorating aroma of coffee in a percolator on a wooden desk alerted me to the scent of eggs and bacon, frying merrily somewhere outside the room.
I swung my legs out of the bed and noticed that I was wearing flannel pajamas. My jeans and T-shirt, hooded jacket and underclothes, lay neatly folded and apparently clean on another little table. I could stand. Very easily. I was not—dead, was I?
Voices, one of them obviously Steve’s, still murmured somewhere outside of the hotel room.
I got up and strode over to the window, at which point I practically fell over. Once again I questioned my relative degree of corporeality.
Outside the window, some distance away, like the sight of mountains from a valley, stood a pyramid of such vast and incredible majesty, I could barely comprehend it. I rubbed my eyes. I gazed out the window again.
Still there.
The window appeared to be a few stories above an empty parking lot, which backed up to a run of little hills with a highway behind them. There were trees, forests of them actually, and buildings—houses, shops, convenience stores...a fucking strip mall...?
Curiously, though, the place seemed—well, empty. No cars moving on the road, no people strolling about. Nothing.
I changed into the clean clothes and poured myself a cup of coffee. After one tentative sip, I had to avoid burning myself in an attempt to chug the entire thing. I poured myself another.
In the bathroom, I found hairbrush, toothbrush, mouthwash—everything. After ensuring that I looked once more the part of Charles Leland, Captain of Whatever, I proceeded boldly out of the room.
With a dramatic flourish, the little man—who looked like an emeritus professor of philosophy from some quaint liberal arts college—scribbled on a sheet of scratch paper. “As the creature expires before you,” he pronounced, “it rolls to the side, revealing a door set into the wall of the cavern.” His warbly voice reminded me of an excited cartoon character.
Steve’s eyes widened. “I approach the door,” he said.
The hall outside my room opened onto a large meeting area a few doors down. By the look of the maps, dice, and pewter figurines strewn about on one of the tables, Steve and the “professor” were in the midst of playing Dungeons & Dragons.
The little man continued. “The shimmering of gold pieces heaped about the room momentarily blinds you—”
“Charley!” Steve noticed my approach. He began waving excitedly. “This guy is the single best DM in the entire fucking universe!”
The little man responded with the most genuine smile I had ever seen, unblemished by even a hint of self-consciousness. “That’s so very kind of you!” he said. “It’s a passion of mine!” He adjusted his wirerimmed spectacles. “Tea? Coffee?” he inquired, lifting his eyebrows at me. “Or something else? I’ve probably got it!” He chuckled, indicating a few plates sitting on an empty table nearby, bearing the remains of breakfast.
I lifted the half-empty styrofoam cup I had with me. “I’m good, thanks,” I said, trying to sound normal. “Um—”
“Julie’s downstairs,” Steve said, idly shaking a handful of dice. “She’s reading,” he said with mock disdain.
I nodded. “Great, uh—” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to any of this. I decided to simply dive in. “Steve?”
Steve was making an annotation on his player character sheet as the “DM” adjusted a few figurines on a grid between them. “Yeah?” he responded, not looking up.
“Um—where the fuck are we?” I blurted out.
Steve laughed. The little old man looked up at me, pursing his lips as if to keep from joining in Steve’s response, then bowed his head gracefully and stood up.
“I,” he said, striding over to me and reaching out one pale, thin hand in greeting, “am the Dreamkeeper.”
I shook his hand limply. “Okay?” I said.
He patted a little, immaculate badge pinned onto his light-green cardigan sweater. “You can call me Roland.” The name was etched neatly on its faux brass background. “PROP.” it read beneath it. I immediately got the feeling that the name “Roland” was merely a convenience.
“Good to meet you, uh, Roland,” I said, feeling lame and a little embarrassed.
He nodded, smiling, not missing a beat. “And this,” he continued, waving his hand about him, “is my Emporium!”
I gazed about the room. It was cool—kind of. There was an old-school cigarette machine on one wall, next to a jukebox. Booths and tables and chairs. Two racks against another wall, one filled with magazines and the other stuffed with paperbacks. A comic book spinner display. Something that looked like a checkout counter fronted the area, with an old cash register set on top of glass display cases, beyond which was a little entranceway: a sort of “front door” with a glass window in it, through which I could see only darkness.
I forced a smile. “Wow,” I said dryly.
The Dreamkeeper smiled even more widely. “Oh, Charles, I apologize!” he began. His warbling, cartoonish tone was strangely endearing. “I really, really do! Your friends awoke some time ago—we simply didn’t want to disturb you. They insisted that I let you get some much-needed sleep!”
I nodded. “Thanks?” I said.
“I think—oh, I don’t know,” the Dreamkeeper turned to Steve, who was flipping through one of the rule manuals stacked next to him. “What do you think, Steve?”
Steve looked up. “Oh, man, Charley!” he exclaimed. “When I tell you that you ain’t ready for this, you gotta believe that you ain’t ready for this shit, my man!”
“I encourage you to wander—truly wander — with the utmost disrespect of convention or intentionality,” the Dreamkeeper said. He paused momentarily, his eyes searching some invisible space above and beyond me. “Boy, doesn’t that just ruin it? How can you find out what you’re looking for if you’re looking for some thing before you start?” He seemed genuinely baffled by this question.
“At any rate,” he continued, waving his hand toward the entranceway. “Have at it!”
“Wait a second,” I said, trying to resist the Dreamkeeper’s infectious enthusiasm. “I get what you’re saying. Thank you for the invitation. Thank you for the hospitality. But I don’t think either of you are quite answering my real question here—” “Charley! Charley,” Steve got up reluctantly from his seat. He strode over to me and clamped a firm hand on my shoulder. “Just trust me for a second, okay?”
“Excuse me, Steve?” I said. “Trust you? Forgive me if I’m out of practice on that count—”
Steve was chuckling again. “I would go with you,” he said, patting me on the shoulder and heading back to his seat, “but it just wouldn’t have the same degree of explanatory power. You dig?”
Roland the Dreamkeeper had stepped back a pace. His smile continued unabated.
I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, heading toward the entrance. “Fine.” Something about Steve’s unhesitating confidence in the situation, combined with Roland the Dream
keeper’s utter lack of affectation despite the context of what he was saying, made the decision for me. I turned to face the entranceway.
“Oh, wait,” Roland said, reaching into his shirt pocket. “You should take this.”
He handed me a plain old Bic ballpoint pen—the kind you can buy in packs of twenty for a dollar—and immediately headed back to the game table.
“Thanks?” I said, and stood there dumbly for a moment holding it out in front of me, waiting for some sort of explanation. The only thing unusual about it was some writing on one side of the cap, done in the same white stenciling as the words on the pen’s body. It read “Box 1132.”
Roland had returned to the game. “That’s a hell of a lot of XP there,” he said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Now, you realize that without the Sword of Astonishment, you still don’t have much of a chance against the Silent Goblin Gang outside—”
“Where’s Julie again?” I asked. “Somewhere downstairs,” Steve said.
I walked briskly to the door. Gazing through it up close, I could, in fact, see what appeared to be a stock room, piled high with boxes on shelves from floor to ceiling, and lit by fluorescent track lighting.
“Yay, Charley-boy!” Steve cheered behind me mockingly. I turned to see him pumping both fists into the air. “Go for it! Show ’em how it’s done!” I shook my head. His laughter followed me through the door, into what I “couldn’t possibly be ready for.”
And I definitely was not.
All the world could not have prepared me for the Dreamkeeper’s Emporium. Not midnight resurrections, not sorcerous boxes with spellbooks and magical keys, not bat-winged demons nor horned half-wolf humanoids—nothing.
The cavernous, winding labyrinth of the Emporium stretched out in seemingly endless array from my point of departure. I tried to make a mental note amidst the sheer jam-packedness of cool stuff and fantastic distractions in the place of where I had left Steve and Roland.
The hall I initially found myself traversing continued endlessly—and I found no evidence that this could be just a figure of speech. Both sides of the hall were decked in movie posters and artwork of the most extraordinary variety, between numerous doors, no one of which seemed quite the same in appearance as any of the others.
I made a sincere effort to form a more general mental layout, but the place got the better of me in short order. The only thing that seemed reasonably consistent were openings into sitting areas around decorative water fountains that appeared every now and then. Beside these you could find immaculate restrooms, what appeared to be slots in the wall for mail next to sets of PO boxes, and knick-knack shops that “sold” refreshments, souvenirs for all sorts of random locations (I thought the “Wish You Were Here?” shotglasses, with little pictures of the Empire State building or the Eiffel Tower amusing), along with a wide variety of stationery, envelopes, stamps, and, surprisingly, lottery tickets. After the sixth or seventh turn down the eighth or ninth hallway, I stopped trying to keep track. The sheer volume of stuff was overpowering and incredible.
I began to try doors at random. A number of them opened onto strangely prosaic displays that resembled little hotel or motel rooms, such as the one I had awoken in, but with windows looking out on various types of intricate outdoor scenery. One room had a window looking out onto piles of new-fallen snow; upon opening the window, a freezing cold blast of air flooded the room, which kicked the room’s wall-unit heater on. I waved my hand about outside the window. Cold. Real—or so it felt. The room “next door” to it had a window looking out onto a crisp spring morning dawning over a sea of oak trees, the scent of fresh blooming flowers floating on a light breeze.
Other doors opened onto rooms piled high with stacks of old, crumbling newspapers...window furnishings displayed on various types of frames...old clothes strewn about art-deco furniture, smelling like mothballs...boxes with odd labels handwritten in marker on them (my favorite read: “This is a box of pizza boxes. The pizza has been eaten!”). One room even opened into a small foyer with another, identical door at the end of it, which opened back into the hallway I had come from (I went back and forth in both directions twice just to make sure).
I must have spent hours just basking in the radiant weirdness of it all. Rooms upon rooms. And as I progressed through it, it changed and grew, almost as if it was somehow learning about me from my reactions. A perfect replica of a comic book store from my youth—Fantasy Comics (even the comics hadn’t changed!). A music studio, drums and bass and guitar and microphones all set up and ready to go on the other side of the sound-room glass. The concessions area of a movie theater, which let out into another set of hallways leading to full-size movie theaters, a few of which were playing films—almost as if they were bored of not being used. Fifteen minutes of the original Back to the Future convinced me that the entire movie would be played, perfectly, from beginning to end, were I to stay and watch it.
The place did seem to be missing one crucial element, however.
People.
There were none. Zero. Not a soul graced the halls or rooms—although their handiwork appeared in every way, shape, and form no matter where you looked.
That is, until I stumbled upon Julie.
The Smoking Room—for so the plaque above the door read in exquisite calligraphy—was a little nook outfitted with a grand, old armchair beset on one side with a fat, intricately carved tobacco pipe; on the other side of the armchair was a pleasantly hooded reading lamp and a stack of what appeared to be old ’80s paperbacks. Seated comfortably in its midst, sheer joy enveloping her features, was Julie Evergreen
“Julie?” I said quietly.
She gazed up at me. “Charles!” she spoke kind of slowly, as if my name was a lovely memory she was unwilling to let go of. “I haven’t read these since—” Julie’s voice caught for a moment. “I had to sit down for a bit.”
The warm little room had a small, cozy fire crackling in a fireplace and walls covered floor to ceiling with neatly framed pictures and drawings and portraits—most appeared to be of scenes from classic fantasy novels like Alice in Wonderland. I happened to notice a weird-looking version of the caterpillar scene, with the caterpillar sitting on what looked like a bean bag chair instead of a mushroom.
I nodded. “I was just—” I started.
Julie busied herself lighting the pipe with a long match from the side-table. She took a few puffs. “Meerschaum,” she said. “And this is” — she paused, frowning, and then smiling— “periqu´e. Soaked in...rum!”
I nodded again. “Right,” I said. I was unsure of how to continue—not to mention the fact that she seemed so genuinely...well, happy. I had never witnessed this Julie Evergreen.
She smiled up at me, folding the book in her lap. “Have a seat!” she insisted, waving at a little couch shoved between two bookshelves.
I obliged her and sat. Above me, a detailed oil painting of a wise old cat, crouched in the midst of more books and a yellow table-clock, gazed in earnest down at me.
“So,” I began, trying to choose my words with care. “About this Dreamkeeper place—”
“I am happier than I’ve ever been,” Julie said to me, her smile broadening. “In my entire life.”
“That’s—” I interrupted myself again. How was I supposed to respond to that? I decided to cut out all the bullshit—happy Julie or no. “Julie, what the fuck is going on?”
The smile didn’t diminish. “I think,” she responded, “that we may be dead, Charley.”
I sighed. Dead? Okay, maybe. But I had a suspicion that it wasn’t so. A nagging hunch.
“All right,” I said. “All right! All right.” I leaned forward. “But what about Mike Flowers? He was dead too. That didn’t seem to make much of a difference.”
Julie seemed undeterred. “Nevertheless,” she said.
“‘Nevertheless,’” I quoted. “Are yo
u kidding me? Look, I woke up today and saw a goddamned pyramid outside my window. A pyramid! Do you understand me? Steve kicked that box and something happened—”
“It blew up,” she said. “We died. Case closed.
Just accept it, Charley.”
“Did you see the fucking pyramid?” I asked. “Because I’d consider that pretty fucking out of the ordinary, Julie.”
“Yes, I saw it,” she said. “Steve saw it too. And yes it’s out of the ordinary. So what?”
“So what?” I responded. “So you can’t just assume that you’re dead now! And even if you did— hey, did you ever think that maybe weirdness like that should be investigated?”
Julie was shaking her head. “No,” she said. “Not always.”
I was getting a little concerned. “Hey, Julie, come on,” I pleaded. “I need somebody else to help me, here. You and I both know that Steve’s not going to listen to reason. But you—”
“What if I want to be dead, Charley?” she said.
I stopped myself.
“Don’t you understand?” she continued. “That other fucking life? The one where I’m always fucking trying to get out of doing stuff?” She laughed bitterly. “Oh, yeah, great, another day of fucking school. Another day where I’m either guilty because I didn’t do something or guilty because I did?”
I could sense the memory of her Ordeal swimming just below the surface of her outburst. “I’m constantly figuring out how to check out early, Charley. Even just a little bit.” She sighed and set the book down on the table beside her. “My only two friends are a fucking psychopath and you,” she said, turning to look at me. “And I am sick and tired of being your goddamned chauffeur.”
Julie opened a little drawer beside her and pulled out a long, black cigarette. Thick smoke billowed out of her mouth after she lit it, along with the scent of burning cloves.
I felt instantly sorry I had tried to push her. “Julie, hey,” I said. I stood up. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed. “I know,” she said. “I know. Me, too.”
“Julie,” I continued, “you know what? You’re right.” I reached for the cigarette. She handed it to me and I took a long, deep drag. Clove X-Tras. It figured that you had to fucking die and go to heaven in order to come across them ever again.
Fear Club- A Confession Page 8