by Troy McCombs
"And when you think you hurt someone and just wanted to help them," she said, "you injure your own spirit out of guilt."
He suddenly stopped and looked into her eyes now. "What do you mean?" His voice was shaky. He knew exactly what she was referring to.
"The girl in Oregon. You didn't kill your, John. It was not your fault. You had nothing to do with her death."
"I don't want to talk about that." He looked away.
"You're going to have to face it sooner or later."
"No!" He raised his voice. "It wasn't her time. She was twelve. Children aren't supposed to die that way. Not by suicide. If it weren't for me, she'd still be here!"
"Is that so? How can you be so sure?"
"Mom, I basically put that noose around her neck and pushed her off the chair. She died because of my idiotic choice of words."
"Do you think that matters to her now? Now that she's in heaven? Do you think she has an ounce of resentment toward you today? Son, there are no negative emotions here."
"Suicides don't go to heaven."
"You're wrong about that. You are right about one thing, though. She isn't up here. She's down there still."
John began crying silently, thinking she's lost in Limbo or hell all because of me telling her she was special...
A freak...
Freak...
Those words were scarred into Rollings' brain. He could not see or hear that single word without feeling extreme regret.
"Don't do that to yourself, John. It's not healthy."
"If she isn't up here, then where is she?"
"Earth. Somewhere. I don't know. She will come up here. In time."
"You mean I made a little girl kill herself, and she didn't come straight to heaven? What kind of God would punish a twelve-year-old for my sin?"
She shook her head. "It's not like that, and you know it."
"Then tell me!"
"In time. Your questions will be answered soon. I promise. But you got a mission to do. You've got to stop the entity in the Mayberry House from separating completely from its bind to the portal. It can cause much harm if it enters into the physical world. If it does, many realms will overlap, and not even I know what will happen if it does. It could be universally catastrophic."
John gazed into his mother's eyes long and hard. He did not want to say good-bye to her again. He could feel gravity wanting to pull him back down to earth.
"You must go, John. And don't worry so much. You try too hard. You always have. That's why it takes you so long to get to where you want to be." She smiled at him as her pulsating form floated, then soared into the heavens. A second later, she was gone.
His form grew dense fast. The cloud beneath his feet opened up and he fell, plummeting backward toward the earth like a weighted stone. Before he slammed into the ground, a dull roar struck his ears, echoed, and—
Warf!
It was the sound of Lucky's bark.
John opened his eyes. He was laying stomach-down on his bed, his arm dangling over the edge, his face being attacked by Lucky's steady barrage of kisses. Doggie drool oozed off his chin.
"Lucky!"
The dog stepped back and barked again.
"What do you want? Outside?"
Lucky barked twice, his tail swinging from side to side.
John slowly and lazily climbed out of bed. His hair looked as if someone had taken a weed wacker to it. Bright sunshine beamed through the window, blinding his sensitive eyes. He could not open his lids more than halfway. Lucky, on the other hand, was full of energy and ready to start the day anew.
Warf! Warf! Warf! Warf! The mutt barked, hurting John's ears.
"You better be quiet. Neighbors hear you and tell the landlord, and then you're right back out on the street."
Lucky sat down and whimpered. His owner leaned down and patted him on the head. "That's a good boy. Yeah."
The dog absentmindedly glanced over his shoulder. In its shiny eyes, John saw the reflection of the dream catcher dangling in the window. However, this morning, there was something different about it.
John stood, turned, and stumbled over to it on wobbly legs. The threaded webs inside the capsule looked thicker than yesterday, and darker. Some were broken. A part of the surrounding cylinder appeared cracked. When he stepped right up to it to get a closer inspection, he was shocked to see what had actually happened. The dream catcher had caught a bad dream—probably the reoccurring night terror of the Mayberry House, the entity, and the deterring brick wall. The webbed strings were covered in a thick, gooey mire, which felt like tar and smelt like feces and burnt flesh. Tiny white crystals were scattered sporadically inside the gunk, obviously some sort of organic compound needing further investigation. On the innermost edges of the wooden ring were small marks or scratches, as if something had tried to force its way through.
But it was the heaviness of the dream catcher that really caught John's attention as he lifted it off the top of the window frame. Whereas it weighed a mere three ounces yesterday, it now weighed at least three pounds today. He was holding another world in his hand, a three-pound physical specimen of a horrible nightmare.
Chapter 7
John took Lucky for a walk moments later. Upon return, he ate, pissed, showered, and got ready to head out. He stared at his face in the mirror for a while, trying to remember what his mom looked like, what she'd told him, and why he was so cursed as to have hanged a twelve-year-old girl—
Or tell her how to hang herself.
He still saw her in his mind; her tongue hanging out from between her lips, her neck bleeding, her eyes rolled back, her body motionless.
Tears filled his eyes, but he forced them away. He couldn't force away the guilt, no matter how hard he tried. He had robbed a child of life's simple pleasures: innocence, life, hope...a future.
But he could not go back to save her. Not even the best psychic in the world had that ability. So all he could do was blame himself. He knew that if he didn't, he would be forever dammed.
***
During the drive to the Mayberry House, John felt increasingly fatigued and nervous. It was rather uncommon for him to feel this way about a job, despite the significant dangers the house presented, and had presented before. His heart was not in the right place; his mind was blank, but unclear. He didn't know why his feelings were so out of whack, but he contributed them to the notion that something bad was going to go down today.
Moments later, he braked at the bottom of Robin's Pike, roughly two miles from where he was supposed to be.
The entire Pike, apparently, was blocked off by the military. Almost no one in, no one out.
A guard didn't only request John's name; he requested to see his I.D., which John showed him.
"Okay, go on through."
Four other soldiers equipped with M-16s moved a barricade aside just far enough for his Town car to pass through. John did. He drove up the windy curves of the Pike, passing by army truck after army truck, military officers surveying the land, and country homes which all seemed vacant, their driveways void of any parked vehicles. The good ol' United States Government was here at work, overpowering a peaceful neighborhood hillside with authority and control...and they probably didn't give a real shit about anyone's well-being either, John figured.
Soon he approached the green metal sign that read: Mayberry Road. It was weathered, barely hanging onto the bent and beaten pole, a symbol now of great mystery and remembrance. His equally weathered car drove down the rough, gravely terrain, toward many other parked military jeeps and trucks, and one vehicle John knew well—Steera's SUV. John parked behind some unmarked crates stacked upon each other near the entrance to Runner's Stream.
Before he got out, he took a moment to gather himself, to put a leash on his tense nerves. His hands were visibly shaking on the wheel. His foot was trembling over the peddle. His breaths were fast and erratic. He felt as if he hadn't meditated for ten years.
Negative thoughts want
ed to form in his mind, but then he remembered his mom from the dream and how beautiful she looked. How peaceful she was in heaven with God. How much hope she had.
Slowly, the anxiety cleared, withering away in the cool winter wind.
He was okay.
He got out of the car and headed into the woods, toward the others. The voices of Steera, one of the men in black, and others, invaded his ears almost instantly. Through some leaves and branches he could see the group of men standing around in the clearing, talking. Steera continuously glanced toward the path, waiting for his counterpart to arrive. John appeared a moment later.
"He's here," Steera told one of the MIB. The man turned and looked at him as he approached. Everyone else in the clearing glanced back, also.
"You're late!" The lead MIB peered through the psychic, his features stiff and unattractive. The man pointed to his own sophisticated watch. It read: 6:07.
"I'm sorry I'm late." John reluctantly joined the crowd. The three men in black barely moved a muscle. Still, he could sense their extreme dissatisfaction.
"We trusted you, Mr. Rollings. If you want to help us, you must follow protocol. That means if we say six o' clock sharp that means six o' clock sharp. Not six o' one or six o' seven. Do I make myself clear?"
John didn't really want to respond, just to spite his arrogance. Eventually, he nodded.
"Good. Now here's how it's going to be. We're sending a group of you men in there with some high-tech machinery to figure out exactly what we're dealing with, down to the most minute detail. The equipment will read such things as sounds undetectable by human ears, thermal radiation, hot or cold spots, unusual electronic signals, and foreign frequencies. In addition to these, you will be equipped with micro cameras, so that everything you see, we will see out here."
John glanced around at all the soldiers. They looked like scared little children afraid to move. Some were trembling. Others kept looking around, paranoid. None of them wanted to go inside, not even John. The calmest-looking one was Steera.
"What about guns?" a soldier finally spoke up. "I ain't going in there without a weapon."
"Yes, in case of danger, you all will go inside with a firearm."
"No," John disagreed. It came without warning. "No weapons whatsoever. Whatever lives in that place can see us. It can hear me talking now. If it can do that, it will know we're a threat when we walk in there with something possibly capable of destroying it. Guns may or may not work on that—thing. But if it sees beforehand what we're going to do, I believe it'll attack us fast, and probably kill us as quick as it did your man yesterday."
The soldiers looked more tense. Vaul carefully thought over John's advice. Sure, Rollings was a so-called psychic who had gone in more than once and had come out without a scratch on him. Sure, he knew more because he had been here longer...but to enter this house without a weapon was like going into the jungle naked. More men could die. More blood could be spilled. More heads could crash through the upper window. This was a risky decision.
Vaul looked into the psychic's eyes. John stared back. He knew the strange-looking government official was considering his suggestion, weighing it on his shoulders. Finally, he spoke.
"Okay, no guns. No weapons of any sort. Four of my guys and you, Rollings."
"Three guys and me," John said.
The first signs of life appeared on Vaul's face—disgust and contempt. "Excuse me? I know you're trying to help, but are you giving me an order?"
John looked at the Sheriff, who shook his head, as if saying; don't go there with this guy.
"I'm not giving you an order, sir. But if five guys go in—I don't think it’s wise to send an odd number. I think we should group up in two's. Six may be pushing it. I don't want to be responsible for more possible deaths than need be. If four of us go in, we can split up in two's. I think we'll be safer that way."
Vaul put his fist up to his chin and paced, thinking about John's new request. One soldier, a seven-foot-tall black behemoth with chipped front teeth, repeatedly coughed into his fist. He was taller and bulkier than the rest of his comrades, and appeared the most afraid.
"Okay." Vaul nodded. "Four men. But I pick who goes. Do not give me any more suggestions, John."
Vaul eye-balled the group of G.I. Joes one at a time, trying to decide on who was most apt to perform the job. Some men stood up straight, chests out, stomach in, head back, eyes front, like rookies in boot camp. They were all sweating. And it was not the least bit warm outside today.
"You." He pointed to one of the stiff-standing gentlemen: a short, bald, older man whose eyes widened when his name was called. This man wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and stepped over next to John and Charlie.
Vaul continued examining his choices. One had horrible breath, one a lazy eye, another too many tattoos. He didn't feel like any of them had the right temperament for what they were getting into, so he had to do the best with who he had.
"You." He nodded to a tall, lean man with piercing green eyes and a strong jaw line. "And you." He nodded at the short, muscular Hispanic fellow who looked a little crazy.
Vaul stopped pacing, unsure of whom to pick last. He looked at John, then Steera, then at his twin MIBs, who were standing quietly by the tall pine tree.
"And...you." He lastly motioned to the gigantic Negro, who was in mid-cough. Before he could finish coughing, vomit shot from his mouth and drenched his right hand with orange fluid and mushed cereal. Every one of the nearby soldiers jumped back, revolted. The shortest one among them all covered his own mouth, holding back his own stomach juices.
"Sorry." The colored man belched. The others backed farther away from him. "Just nerves. I throwed up every time in battle."
"All right, men." Vaul did not sound enthusiastic. "You three, and you, John. Take ten minutes to gather yourselves and get geared up. Report back here at six thirty..." He looked directly at John. "Sharp."
***
The twelve lucky soldiers turned and walked back toward a group of crates, where they prepared the electronic gadgets for field use. The unfortunate guinea pigs shook hands and exchanged names.
The black man approached John. "You said you been in there twice?"
"Yes. Name's John." He offered a hand.
"I'm Bud. Bud Carson. At least that's what it's gonna say in the obituary next week." His voice was sharply southern, and his handshake brutal. His breath reeked of bile. “Hopefully you'll be our battering ram, so to speak, into this hellhole.” He laughed. John didn't.
Another man stepped forward. "Hi, I'm George Jesus." This fit Hispanic man shook John's hand quickly and lightly. His palm felt like a wet sponge. "Do you think we stand a chance in there? I mean—"
"I can't give you any guarantees, George, sorry. I wish I could. This is as unpredictable as it gets."
"My name's Bill Johnson," the next gentleman said, nodding to John instead of shaking his hand. He hadn't so much as a single hair anywhere on his head, and was not even five feet tall. There seemed to be no tension in his voice at all. "War is unpredictable, sir. But Lord God is on my side, so I will do my best."
"You don't have to call me sir. I'm not your general. And I hope we do have God on our side today. But sometimes he's busy. For the most part, this relies mainly on just us, and a lot of dumb luck."
Minutes rolled by slowly, maybe too quickly for all the men. Bill spent his time praying, George spent his exercising, and Bud spent his making sure nobody saw him slip a small revolver in his boot. John was the only one of the four who didn't leave the clearing; he sat beside Steera on a crate, watching the house. It seemed to actually shift so subtly it was hardly noticeable.
"You all right, John?" Steera plunged his teeth into a Hershey bar, his breakfast. Not a very nutritious meal, but it sure tasted damn good.
"Going in there sucks everything out of me. My legs don't want to support my body, my mind does flips around my cranium, and I can feel my blood flowing through
my body like the damn Niagara. And yet, I have to check it out. It's like going to a good sideshow. You want to look, but you are afraid to."
"You will be all right."
John glanced up at the sky. "How can you be so sure?"
Charlie swallowed some chocolate. "I just know. Let's call it my own sixth sense. I guarantee you'll come out fine. That's how it works, isn't it? Your powers?"
John looked at him, confused.
"Okay, the fact is, I had a dream last night that everything was going to be okay." The Sheriff looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Nobody was. "I can't say the same for all of you. I don't know what happened to them. It was like they disappeared. I don't know who, either. Maybe one of them, or all three of them. My dreams are distorted."
"We've got to call this whole thing off. If these men are in danger of—"
Steera interrupted him. "It was just a dream, John. Doesn't mean it was psychic, and if it was, you're still all in danger. That's all this house is, is dangerous. You said minutes ago that there are no guarantees. If you save them, then there will be others who go in and die. What's the difference? Someone has to die. I'm a cop. I could work for two-hundred years without some drug dealer blowing my top off. Yet, there are rookies who get shot on their first day. But you will come out of there in one piece, I assure you."
John managed a grin.
For the next five minutes, John and his acquaintances were fitted with enough electrical and mechanical equipment to build a small power-station. Soldiers with large moist hands and bad breath crowded around the four investigators, sticking and planting various futuristic-looking devices in a plethora of different places. Afterward, the four joined in the middle of the clearing, now fully equipped with head mics, cameras, meters, detectors, and temperature-reading gauges. None of them looked ready.
"Whatever you see," Vaul looked from man to man, "you say on your mic. Don't try to be heroes, just do your research. We need to know what we're dealing with, not whether or not you can kill a ghost. This is do or die time, gentlemen. If you see anything funny, or are attacked, regroup immediately. God be with all of you."