Preta's Realm

by J. Thorn

  Drew’s desk extension rang, the caller ID showing one of several clients that he had shafted during his latest funk.

  “Gotta take this. Chiapas for lunch?’

  “Served by my sweet mamasita! I’m in.”

  Drew shrugged and tossed the receiver to his ear. He cocked his head sideways and tucked his chin down in order to free both hands. He took the call and passed through the rest of his morning with the efficiency of a top-level manager, delegating tasks and wading through the ocean of emails sitting in his inbox. One day, or even one afternoon, away from the program could result in a backlog of messages stretching far into the digital horizon. Lunchtime appeared in an instant. Brian ordered a margarita with his fajitas, which fostered even more flirting with the young Latina girl who always worked the lunch crowd. Drew watched as Brian winked at the young woman who knew little English besides “Coke” and “check please.” He found himself back at his desk with five o’clock creeping ever closer.

  Drew managed to slay hundreds of emails while reestablishing contact with several clients that had drifted from his attention. Brian slapped him on the back on his way out, mumbling something about Happy Hour at Chiapas followed by a night of dancing. Drew shrugged off the comment, knowing full well it would not take Brian long to bed his mamasita, if he had not done so already.

  He fumbled through his internet browser, taking a last look at several social networking sites before finishing up for the day. Although the company did not filter their access, Drew knew the ways of IT and disciplined himself to dabble socially only near the quitting hour, a time often left unchecked by Big Brother. He clicked low on the screen to bring up his email client one last time for the day.

  The “sender” column sat with its usual list of abbreviated last names and squiggly symbols. All except for one. Drew’s heart lurched in his throat and his mouth became dry. The single white space of the column stuck out like a missing tooth with colors inverted to reveal a white gap against black text. He glanced at the subject line of the anonymous message.

  “won’t be ignored”

  Drew’s hand shook and he looked over his shoulder, convinced that someone in the office would think he was surfing porn on the company dime. He began mumbling to himself and the hot salsa he had with lunch whispered at the top of his throat.

  “Sticking around?”

  Drew jumped and minimized the email client. He turned to look at the source of the question, his pupils dilated and his lip curled into a menacing snarl.

  “Don’t think it’s any of your business,” he muttered.

  The woman shrugged and rolled her eyes before pulling the glass door of the main lobby and heading toward the elevator. Drew did not recognize the woman because they all looked the same. The gaggle of newly turned thirty-somethings with highlighted hair and foundation-filled crow’s feet on their faces never ceased to annoy the shit out of him. He despised their sexual freedom and lack of true responsibility. They could go out on a Tuesday night, get drunk, fuck, and call off work in the morning. They could spend Saturday mornings watching cartoons and eating double chocolate chip ice cream for breakfast. They could “weekend in Vegas.”

  Fucking slut.

  He waited for the door to swing shut and looked around the office. One man at the far end of the floor stood and grabbed his coat from the rack. At the other end, another waning vixen touched up her mascara in the blackness of a powered-down computer monitor.

  Drew turned back to his screen and restored his email client. His eyes drifted towards the middle of the page, in the vicinity of the anonymous email with a cryptic subject. When he clicked on the message, the body started to load an image. Like the last one from the anonymous sender, the lines filled the screen one at a time, from the top down. There were no greetings in the body, no words, no generic signature tacked on mindlessly by the sender’s program. The entire body of the email was a message that loaded like flowing honey.

  The blinking cursor stopped underneath the picture. It teased him with its constant motion. Drew felt the punch of the image before he even saw it. The screen stole his breath and singed his sinus cavities like campfire smoke. He coughed and choked, reaching for a bottle of water on his desk. Drew started shaking his head as he tried to will the image out of existence.

  The picture had the grainy detail of one taken from a distance with a zoom lens. The greens looked fuzzy and the blue washed out the rest of the color. Drew would have recognized the park in his neighborhood in the dark. He could feel the wood chips under his feet while sitting at his desk.

  Drew put a hand over his face. He saw the swing set, the stainless steel slide, and the wooden jungle gym. Children sat in the eternal stillness of the photo in various poses of innocence. Drew’s mind skimmed past the ponytails and white athletic shoes until they fixated on a certain ponytail and a certain athletic shoe. Molly’s face anchored the photograph, her mouth open in a wide smile with the neighbor’s wife standing next to her. The photographer captured the three most important things in Drew’s life with one shot. He thought it must be the type of photographs pedophiles use when they cannot find a victim, the kind of photograph that would end up covered in semen on the floor of a bathroom in a filthy hotel.

  Drew printed the message and grabbed his car keys. He knew the email was a warning, a shot across the bow, but he did not want to take that chance. Drew left the office with a trail of papers following his sprinting form.

  ***

  Mashoka squinted and waved a hand at Ravna as if the device had summoned a cloud of gnats that threatened to infiltrate his nostrils.

  “The web has been around for decades. Quit pretending you don’t know what it is.”

  Mashoka grumbled.

  “Unless you have a better way of tracking Gaki’s appearances in the last few decades? Maybe you can call all the Hunters in North America?”

  Mashoka grumbled again.

  “That’s what I thought. Should we start looking at this content or bring the search down to the region?”

  The old man sat still, staring at Ravna and his wicked tool.

  “Let’s start with the region.”

  Ravna’s hands glided across the keyboard and his eyes shifted back and forth between them and the screen. His tongue curled out of the corner of his mouth and retreated like a lizard prowling for an insect. Mashoka sat still.

  “Uh-huh,” Ravna said. “Yep.”

  Mashoka pushed his frail frame into a standing position. He grabbed the edge of the plastic lid on the laptop and closed it. Ravna turned with both hands in the air, searching for a word strong enough to repel Mashoka but not offend the old man.

  “Shit!”

  “Tongue of Satan,” replied Mashoka.

  A few of the patrons in the café turned to look at the minor altercation but not long enough to remove their ear buds or to lower their book.

  “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

  “There is only one way and it belongs to no one.”

  Ravna rolled his eyes and followed Mashoka to a table in the corner, farthest from the counter and the bustle of the busy coffee shop.

  “You know nothing of Gaki.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m online looking it up.”

  Mashoka closed his eyes. He folded his arms over his chest and drew long breaths followed by steady exhalations. Ravna pulled his phone from his pocket and touched the screen until the time showed on the digital version of a classic clock face.

  “Put that away,” Mashoka said without opening his eyes.

  Ravna leaned in and waved a hand back and forth in front of Mashoka’s face.

  “You rely too much on your physical senses, young man. It is why you depend so heavily on the plastic trappings of culture. Quiet your soul.”

  In a final display of slight inconvenience, Ravna turned his phone off. He shoved the laptop into his messenger bag and closed the flap over it. He looked at Mashoka like a man with fifteen items in the ten-items-or
-less lane.

  “You may keep your eyes open, but I will not. I need to reach back to recount the story and I cannot do it with the hundreds of distractions in the room.”

  “Count on it. If you have your eyes closed they might think you’re dead. If we both do, they’d call the cops.”

  Mashoka ignored the bawdy comment and drew a deep breath before continuing.

  “I was only a boy, but you don’t forget the vile memories of war.”

  “Really? The hyperbole.”

  Mashoka grunted and then stopped.

  “Okay. Sorry. I’ll shut up and let you tell it.”

  The old man paused and, once sure he would not be interrupted again, continued the story.

  “Most of the villages hailed the American GIs as heroes. The Emperor had committed us all to death and we would keep our honor. But when the Marines started landing on the islands, we secretly welcomed the chance to be released from the oath our leader made on our behalf.

  “My mother chased me into the jungle when we heard the planes. They sounded like the dragons of the ancients. Most of the elders in the village pulled their hair and wailed into the nighttime fires. I would wait until nightfall or until the sound of machine guns ceased. The Americans feared the jungle, especially the snakes, and would not march through it after sunset. Most nights I came back along a trail that led through the valley and to the next village. Sometimes I crawled through the heavy brush towards the light of the fire, challenging myself with a game of youth. Had I stayed on the trail that night, I never would have met Gaki.

  “The cave stood on the ridge and most children in the village explored until the daylight was swallowed by it. Parents warned the children of the evil gods living under the mountain, that they would rise during the day to feast on the flesh of youth before receding at night. It was damp, dark, and dangerous. Sinkholes dropped people without warning. An elder sister of my friend became lost to us a few weeks prior and I had no desire to become the next. But the noises coming from the cave that night drew me in like a moth to the flame.”

  “Can I have the version without clichés?” Ravna asked.

  Mashoka ignored the interruption. “It sounded like children whispering. I heard voices but could not decipher the conversation. My feet pulled me closer to the gaping maw until I stood on the threshold. It was then that I realized I could not turn back. I caught a word or two of English, not enough to translate them. The timbre of the voices led me to believe it was an argument. No, a disagreement. I saw a flicker of light on the wall and realized a torch was lit wherever the conversation was taking place. I told myself I could go that far, thinking the two engaged in a tussle would have been captured by the mountain gods already and that I did not have that to fear.

  “I used my hand to guide my way towards the voices as the light from that torch had not cascaded out very far. The tunnel of the cavern twisted and turned, bringing the voices closer with each step. The tunnel spun and there I stood in a chamber-like room, deep in the cavern spurned by our elders. The darkness inside rivaled that of the jungle, and American Marines with machine guns routinely camped in the caves to escape the night. I was scared to step into the cavern and yet more frightened to try and get home when there were clearly Americans nearby.

  “I hid behind a rock that helped to shield me but got me close enough to hear a more nuanced version of the disagreement. The voices went from quick, staccato bursts to long, drawn-out soliloquies that I still could not understand. I misjudged the tone of the conversation as adversarial. It felt more like two old friends enraptured by a debate that would not be solved in their lifetime.

  “I began to lose interest in the adult conversation, taking place in a tongue of which I knew but a handful of words.”

  “Refill?”

  The young man stood next to Ravna, speaking the word at him but staring at Mashoka. The boy strained his neck to see if the old man was still breathing.

  “We’re fine.”

  The boy stood for another moment until the bell on the door rang and he was forced to get back behind the counter and sling another caffè latte.

  Before Ravna could tell Mashoka that the boy was gone, he picked up right where he left off.

  “It was then that I heard the noises. They sounded like dogs tearing at rancid flesh thrown into the dirt, but more methodic and patient. As I was trying to determine why dogs might be part of this conversation deep in the cursed cave, at night, the odor drenched me. I gagged and covered my mouth, fearful of revealing my position. The smell crawled into my mouth. I could taste the bitter darkness through my nose. The air felt desecrated and I struggled to keep it from entering my lungs. My stomach could not control things any longer and I lunged back towards the tunnel to vomit. The hot liquid ran down the wall silently, which I hoped would prevent my discovery. The odor felt slimy, as if it would penetrate me and cover me in the filth.

  “I stepped back to the rock and took another step to the right. I had to identify the mysterious noises and put an eye on the source of the horrid smell.”

  “They’re closing in fifteen minutes, Mashoka. I’m not trying to rush you, but we’re already getting looks from the crew of teenagers behind the counter that have texted the night’s plans to their buddies outside.”

  The old man nodded and opened his eyes. He shook the vision from his shirt along with the crumbs of the biscotti they enjoyed when they first entered the café.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Ravna dropped a napkin to the table and shook his head. His mouth drew tight and sharpened on one side. “Are you serious?”

  “I no more want to be trapped in this place all night than you do. We should leave and let them close up.”

  “The story?” Ravna asked, the second word ending on a quick uptick.

  “Well, we cannot be in here after closing, can we? That is why you broke my concentration and thread to the past, isn’t it?”

  Ravna sat back in his chair and sighed. “I like the fortune cookie wisdom way more than your sarcasm.”

  The old man winked at Ravna and stood. He waved at the boy behind the corner, arms folded with a wet towel slung over his shoulder.

  “The table wiping. It belongs to you now.”

  The teenager huffed and thumbed at the old man while saying something to his coworker. Ravna saw the whispering words but could not hear what had been said.

  “The ‘fucking old dude’ is not ‘fixin’ to be kicked down the stairs.’ I’d ask for a more honorable exit than that.”

  The girl standing next to the boy behind the counter nudged his arm and shook her head back and forth. She looked at Mashoka with a hint of empathy.

  “It is fine. I end up at the bottom of the stairs every morning, from the kick of Jack Daniels.”

  Ravna groaned and led Mashoka from the café as the young baristas snickered.

  Chapter 11

  “Calm down, honey. We’re fine.”

  Drew pulled Molly and the kids into his embrace. They stood in the middle of the kitchen amidst a sea of red-penned homework, unopened bills, and the delightful aroma of Molly’s chicken spaghetti.

  Drew took a deep breath. He put his bag down and proceeded to check every door. He turned the lock and yanked on each knob, testing its strength. Molly stood and watched him as the oven timer beeped. She released a wave of delicious dry heat before reaching in and grabbing the baking dish.

  “When were you at Denison Park last?”

  Molly waved the hot steam away with one hand before digging a stainless steel spoon into the dish and turning it over. She looked at the ceiling, her mouth moving without producing words.

  “The seventh? I don’t know, hon.”

  “Can you think harder, please?”

  Molly stopped stirring dinner and looked at Drew. His red eyes bulged in the sockets and his face flushed. She thought he looked drunk.

  “Yeah, the seventh. We were there with Sally and her kids.”

  “Do
you remember seeing anyone suspicious or threatening?”

  Molly gave up on moving the pasta noodles from one side of the dish to the other. She replaced the tin foil, folding the edges down over the outside of the glass.

  “What is going on?”

  Drew stepped through the kitchen and into the living room, where the cartoon du jour prattled through the airwaves and into the brains of Sara and Billy. Drew pushed the “off” button on the television which, immediately darkened the screen and produced a two-person choir of disappointment.

  “Go downstairs and play something. Mom and I need to talk and we can’t hear each other over that thing.”

  Sara crossed her arms and furrowed her brow.

  “I’m not asking you again. Get down there or else.”

  Sara stomped through the living room and slammed the door on her brother. Billy dragged his feet across the floor as if he was pulling a sled of granite. When Billy made the turn on the landing and started down the rest of the steps, Drew shut the door and turned to Molly.

  “Did you see anything weird?” he asked again, more out of desperation than anger.

  “You know how that place is, Drew,” she replied. “It’s a zoo without the bars. And less manners. I swear if I see another parent texting while the kids are—”

  Drew interrupted her rant on negligent parents. “What about on the benches near the street?”

  Molly shook her head. She looked at Drew, extending her gaze around the kitchen bursting with dirty plates and soaking pots.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. It had been folded in half twice and attracted a host of pocket lint during its stay. Drew’s hands shook as he held it out for Molly to take.

  She turned her head sideways and opened her mouth. She grabbed the edge of the paper and held it up. Drew could see the blood drain from her face.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a photograph of you and the kids at Denison. Probably taken with a telephoto lens. I’m guessing it’s from the seventh.”