A Matter of Time

by Brian Harmon

I’ve never felt that kind of pain before. Not even when I broke my arm falling out of the tree in the back yard. This was a new kind of agony. It was like a blizzard of pain, whiting out everything else, overwhelming my senses, blinding me, until nothing but the pain remained.

  I screamed. I screamed as hard and as loud as I could. It didn’t help. It didn’t make it hurt any less. It certainly didn’t make him stop. But it was the only thing I knew to do.

  Every heartbeat was blinding agony. Every breath I took felt like I was inhaling broken glass.

  It seemed to go on for hours.

  Then, suddenly, the pain just stopped.

  I dropped to my knees and gasped for air. The world in front of me swirled slowly back into focus as stars danced before my eyes.

  Somewhere overhead, I heard something strike the shed’s roof. Even reeling from that terrible pain, I managed to understand that it was another bird falling from the sky.

  “Last chance, son. Tell me where the book is.”

  I was still trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t find my voice. I could feel my lips moving, but no words were coming out.

  “What was that?” he asked me.

  I swallowed and then gasped again.

  “We don’t need your help to find it,” he informed me. “Just so you know. We found it once, we can do it again. But if you tell me where you hid it, it’ll save us some time. And it’ll save you a whole lot of hurting. So don’t be stupid.”

  Was that true? Was this all for nothing?

  No.

  It was lies.

  Lying was what men like him did. The men in the gray suits were evil.

  I couldn’t let them have it.

  “Besides,” he added, “you didn’t really think taking the book would keep those kids from completing the ritual tonight, did you? They don’t even need that book. I just gave it to that Zachery idiot to inspire him and his friends. It’s a lot easier to believe you can resurrect an ancient god when you’re looking at an ancient, magic tome.”

  Resurrect a god? What did that mean?

  “It’s already done. They’re meeting tonight at the high school. At midnight. They know the prayer. They know the dance. The price will be paid. You can’t stop it. You were never going to stop it. You’ve just been in all the wrong places at all the wrong times. So just tell me where the book is and I’ll let you go. There’s no reason for you to suffer for this.”

  I tried to say something, but I coughed. My throat was burning. I still hadn’t caught my breath.

  “Come again?”

  This time I managed to get the words out. They weren’t nice words. I won’t repeat them here. Essentially, I made a couple of suggestions of things he could do and commented on the size of his posterior.

  He kind of sighed. “A simple ‘no’ would’ve sufficed,” he told me.

  I know it was stupid. But I couldn’t let him have the book. I just couldn’t. It was mine. It was always mine. He had no right to take it from me.

  The pain came again. It started behind my eyeballs and spread from there, filling me up inside.

  The world vanished behind a sheet of pure agony.

  I began to scream again.

  Every thought was driven from my head except one: I was going to die here. It might take hours, and he might even stop once or twice more to see if I’d reconsidered telling him what he wanted to know, but this man was going to kill me. I was going to die in this empty shed.

  Then, unexpectedly, something else entered my mind.

  For some reason, I recalled a line from the book. I saw it clearly, in spite of the pain, in spite of the fact that everything else in the world was blinding torture. It was in that bizarre, unknown language, and yet, somehow, I knew how to read it.

  I spoke the line. At least…I think I did. It didn’t sound like words, exactly. It sounded…well… It kind of sounded like rock salt being pushed around on a dinner plate, if that makes any sense, which it probably doesn’t. A sort of raspy, creaky hiss.

  Immediately, the pain began to fade. My vision cleared. My lungs filled with soothing air instead of broken glass. And before my eyes, the smug, evil look on the fat man’s face melted away. He looked bewildered. Then I saw the pain. His face clenched. His eyes grew wider. He tried to speak, tried to ask me what I was doing, but his words were lost in his throat and all that escaped him was a strangled gasp.

  I didn’t look away. I didn’t close my eyes. I couldn’t. Somehow I knew that if I did, the spell would be broken. And if I let him free, he’d kill me. He wouldn’t waste any time making me understand him. He’d shoot me or strangle me or beat me to death or something. He’d kill me before I could turn the tables on him again.

  Whatever that line from the book was, it had reversed his strange power. It turned it back on him somehow. It put me in control and him at the mercy of it. But it would only work as long as I maintained eye contact.

  So I stared him in the eye and watched as stark terror overtook his features.

  I didn’t know I had the stomach for it. I thought I’d falter and look away, that I’d lose my grip on him and my only chance to beat him. But I thought of that poor woman. I thought of all the hours she must’ve spent suffering under this fat bastard’s evil gaze. He was getting off too easy. Death was too good for him. If I had it my way, I’d chain him in a basement and make him suffer this agony every day for as long as he could possibly live like that. But that wasn’t an option. I’d have to be satisfied that I was making his end as torturous as possible in the little time I had.

  He dropped to his knees. At some point, I rose to my feet. I don’t remember when. Suddenly, I was looking down at him. I leaned closer. I felt so angry. I actually enjoyed it.

  He uttered a strangled scream. I felt no sympathy at all. If anything, it intensified my anger. The woman had screamed, too. She’d begged for him to stop. She howled in agony. I was going to show him the same mercy he showed her in the last moments of her life.

  Another bird struck the roof of the shed overhead.

  As I glared down at him, I must’ve turned it up, because his eyes began to bulge. He began to tremble. He went rigid. His next scream wasn’t strangled at all. It was loud and long.

  I saw the vessels burst in his eyeballs, like tiny, red flowers blossoming, swelling, swallowing the white.

  He began shouting the word “stop” at me then. A bellowing, guttural shriek, over and over again.

  I still didn’t pity him. In fact, I smiled.

  It felt good, watching him suffer like that. It was satisfying.

  Blood dripped from his pudgy nose in fat drops. I’m not sure how I knew it, but I was certain that his insides were rupturing. Things were bursting and tearing and twisting deep within his fat gut. I could almost hear it happening.

  He begged me to stop.

  He pleaded.

  And as he collapsed onto the floor, writhing in agony, his eyeballs filled with blood, I actually laughed at him.

  I’ve never felt so powerful.

  I’ve never felt more alive.

  The fat man in the gray suit screamed until his voice gave way to the gurgling sound of him drowning in his own blood.

  Even then, it was a few minutes before he finally died.

  I knew the moment his life ended. That strange connection instantly vanished and that intoxicating feeling of power rapidly melted away. Suddenly I was exhausted. I swayed on my feet for a moment. Then I dropped to my knees.

  I stared at the body in front of me, realizing what I’d done. I’d just killed a man. Tortured him to death.

  And I enjoyed it!

  I heaved. Again, I was thankful I’d skipped breakfast. The fact that there was nothing in my belly was the only thing that prevented me from throwing up.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  I scooted backward, away from the body, and leaned against the wall.

  I was so tired.

  I just needed a little rest.

 
; Then I was asleep.

  I dreamed about you. I saw you in the future. I saw you reading my letters, the ones I dropped out the window. I don’t understand how you found them and I don’t really care. It hurts my head to even think about it.

  I also saw you reading this letter. I didn’t see where you found it, but I saw that you were here at this house, so I must’ve left it somewhere around here. Wherever I choose to put it, I know you’ll find it because you have it.

  I woke up and I started writing.

  One of the men in gray is dead, but the other is still out there. And if this one was telling the truth, then I can’t hide from the tall one. The next time we cross paths, I’ll have to kill him.

  But I know he won’t show up before I leave here. If you’re really reading this, as my dream showed me, then I have to have time to write it and hide it for you.

  Zachery and the others are going to be at the high school tonight.

  I’m running out of time before the city burns.

  But I have the book.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Eric sat there for a moment, staring at the last page.

  Hector beat the fat agent. Against all odds, he survived his horrible ordeal in the tool shed and escaped the gray agents. For at least a little longer, he was still out there, still fighting. It was actually beginning to seem possible that he could save the city, that he could really be the reason there were no disasters on record in 1962.

  But something was dreadfully wrong. Hector was changing. There was a darkness within him that wasn’t there in those first letters. Something sinister was lurking between the lines now, something rapidly burning away his innocence.

  It was partly the experiences. The poor boy had witnessed horrible things during the days he was writing about. It was impossible to see things like that and walk away the same, especially at such a young age. Things like that simply changed a person. But there was more to it than that.

  There was the book.

  It didn’t even make sense. The fat agent said Zachery didn’t need it to complete the spell. He said he only gave it to him for inspiration. Why would they do that? If the book really was important, if it really was some great tome of evil, ancient beyond words, then why would the gray agents trust it to a bunch of teenagers?

  Was he lying to Hector?

  Something wasn’t right.

  HE SAID THEY WERE TRYING TO RESURRECT AN ANCIENT GOD, Isabelle reminded him.

  Eric nodded. “The Jinn. We’ve pretty much figured that much out already.”

  BUT THERE WAS ALREADY A JINN IN CREEK BEND IN 1962. IT WAS INSIDE THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE

  “But it was unseen. Nobody knew it was there.”

  ARE WE SURE ABOUT THAT?

  Eric had to pause and think about it.

  WHAT IF THE GRAY AGENTS WEREN’T TRYING TO SUMMON A SECOND ONE? WHAT IF THEY WERE TRYING TO RESURRECT THE ONE THAT WAS ALREADY THERE?

  That was definitely a possibility. But that would mean that Hector was going to the wrong high school. He had no chance of stopping the summoning if he couldn’t find them.

  THAT DOESN’T MATTER, said Isabelle. HE’S IN HIS TIME AND WE’RE IN OURS. THERE ARE REALLY ONLY TWO OUTCOMES. EITHER HE PUTS A STOP TO WHAT THE GRAY AGENTS WERE PLANNING OR HE DOESN’T. EITHER WAY, IT’S ALREADY HAPPENED

  True. Grim as hell, but true.

  YOU NEED TO FOCUS ON WHAT’S GOING ON RIGHT NOW

  He nodded again. “You’re right. I need to find where Mistress Janet is planning to recreate the original summoning and put a stop to it.”

  EVERYTHING KEEPS POINTING BACK TO THE HIGH SCHOOL. HOLLY’S VISION, THAT WENDIGO IN THE GYMNASIUM, EVEN JAY’S NOTES MENTIONED THE HIGH SCHOOL. BUT WE’VE BEEN FOCUSING ON THE NEW ONE

  “Because nobody can get inside the old one,” he reminded her.

  STEAMPUNK MONK CAN

  Eric sat up. That was true. Steampunk Monk had a shard of Howard’s looking glass. And he’d even mentioned Pink Shirt’s charred corpse. He’d been inside it.

  THAT’S WHERE YOU’LL FIND MISTRESS JANET TONIGHT. I’D BET ON IT

  He sat there for a moment, staring off into the woods. That certainly made sense. But that was going to be a problem. He couldn’t get inside the old high school without a looking glass shard.

  YOU NEED STEAMPUNK MONK’S GLASSES

  Eric sighed. “Right. That should be easy.” He stood up and carefully slipped the rolled-up letter into the front pocket of his khakis. “Piece of cake.”

  I DIDN’T SAY IT WAS AN IDEAL PLAN. IT’S THE ONLY OPTION YOU HAVE

  “I know.”

  He returned the phone to his pocket and walked over to where Jay’s body was lying in the grass. He was clearly dead. The grass beneath him was soaked with his blood. His eyes were open and glazed. His flesh was pale. There was a gruesome gash in the side of his neck.

  Eric nudged him with his foot.

  He was still dead.

  Eric looked around. He wasn’t sure what to do. How long did this thing take? He checked his watch and saw that it was already after eight. It was going to be getting dark soon, and he didn’t care to linger here after sunset. But he also couldn’t just leave Jay here. What if an agent found him? If they learned that he couldn’t die, there was no telling what they might do to him.

  He didn’t have much choice. He took hold of both of the young man’s feet and dragged him through the grass, around the side of the house and into the front yard.

  He stopped short of the driveway to rest and glanced back at the bungalow again. He kept expecting something else to burst through the door and attack him, but so far it remained quiet.

  He turned to look up the driveway and found himself staring into a pair of bloody eyes.

  Startled, he cursed and stumbled backward, clutching at his chest. “Oh my god!” he gasped.

  The woman stared back at him, still looking confused, as if it was odd that a naked ghost woman with blood-red eyes appearing out of thin air right in front of his face should frighten him.

  Eric bent forward and rested his hands on his knees as he waited for his heart to slow. He wasn’t sure how many more scares he could take. His whole life seemed to be one long, endless spook house.

  He took a deep breath and stood up straight again. “Sorry,” he told her.

  She said nothing. She only stared at him for another moment, her head tilted to one side, as if curious. Then she lowered her gaze to the body at her feet.

  Eric pointed at him. “I didn’t do that,” he told her.

  She didn’t seem to be listening. She knelt over him, looking him over, interested. After a moment, she stood up and looked at Eric again. She pointed down at him, a question painted across her face.

  Strangely, he found that he understood her perfectly. “I know,” he said. “Weird, right?”

  Apparently, ghosts were good at recognizing a dead body that wasn’t going to stay dead.

  That might be good information to have. Probably not. But you just never knew.

  Having caught his breath again, he bent over the body and took another look at him. He didn’t look any less dead. “How long does this thing take?” he wondered.

  The dead woman didn’t seem to know.

  Eric sighed and resigned himself to the unpleasant task before him. He lifted Jay’s body off the ground and over his shoulder. Dead or not, he couldn’t very well drag him through the gravel all the way back to the highway. He didn’t know if the temporarily dead deserved more respect than the permanently dead, but he was sure they deserved no less.

  He set off back up the driveway. After a few steps, he paused and looked back.

  The woman was still standing there, still looking after them.

  “Are you staying here?” he asked her.

  She turned and looked at the bungalow.

  “Because that really seems like an awful place to spend an afterlife. You should really move on. There’s probably someone waiting for you on the other side. Whate
ver the other side is.”

  She looked back at him again. She shook her head.

  “No moving on for you?”

  She shook her head again.

  Eric nodded. “Well, that’s your choice, I guess. But do you really plan to stay in that house?”

  She smiled at him then. Again, she shook her head.

  He smiled back at her. That was good. Wherever she went, it was bound to be a better place than here.

  As he watched, she turned around, as if to walk away, and disappeared.

  “Good luck,” he called after her. Then he turned and headed up the driveway with his still-dead friend over his shoulder.

  As he walked, he contemplated his next move. Although it was the last place he wanted to go, he needed to find a way back into the old high school, which meant that he needed to find the Steampunk Monk.

  But where did he even begin looking?

  His back aching from the dead weight, he had to stop and adjust his grip on Jay’s body. “Wake up already, freeloader…Jesus…”

  He rounded the curve and caught sight of the gate and the PT Cruiser on the other side of it.

  He was almost there. Another fifty yards or so.

  He picked up the pace.

  Then a police car appeared.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Eric froze. He’d been in a lot of frightening situations today. He’d found himself at gunpoint twice. He had his mind invaded by the twisted contents of the steampunk monk’s squirt bottle. He’d been attacked by wendigoes and run a gauntlet of ferocious, alien monsters. But this was a different kind of terror.

  It was a Creek Bend patrol car.

  Its lights weren’t on. It didn’t stop. But it was driving much slower than it should’ve been, given the speed limit out here. He could even see the driver’s face peering out the window, taking a good look at the parked PT Cruiser.

  And here he stood, in the middle of the driveway, in plain sight from the right angle, with a dead body slung over one shoulder.

  In another second or two, the patrol car was gone again, having moved on.

  Were those brake lights he saw through the brush?

  Cursing, he turned and carried Jay’s body off the driveway and into the dense foliage of the surrounding forest.