Black Water

by S. D. Rudd

  “You don’t have any infectious diseases, do you?”

  “About as many as the number of degrees you have in medical science.”

  Camille blushed, then she dabbed around the wounds, applying pressure wherever necessary, until most of the blood had been wiped clean. After one wrist was treated she moved on to the next.

  “You are taken by me,” she said as she continued to care for him without missing a step. “I sense your profound interest.”

  Alan gave no reply because he knew she was right but he didn’t know why.

  “Yet, your heart is reserved for the other woman. Why is it so deep?”

  He remembered his vow to never speak of other women until he found a way out of there. So he avoided the topic. Camille had finished wiping the excess blood while letting the question linger. She then retrieved one of the folded up cloths and reached for a wrist.

  “You’ve mentioned her name again…Monica, as I recall, when you overcame the Leviathan, which I have never seen anyone do before.”

  “You’ve never seen anyone before,” he said, hoping to change the subject.

  She paused and gave him a look.

  “No one else has been here before, you said earlier.”

  “Did I?”

  She lifted the cuff and slid the cloth overtop the wound, careful to not ruffle the homemade bandages. It stung on contact but Alan soon separated his mind from the pain. The piece of cloth fit right into place.

  “Don’t move too much until morning or it’ll leave a nasty scar.” Absentmindedly, she grabbed the other folded cloth. “Do you really think you are the first soul to visit this place? Could it be that others have come before you, hmm?” She reached for his other wrist but she didn’t work on it yet. “Let me ask you this: how do you think I knew your name?”

  His stunned silence brought her satisfaction. She slid the other folded cloth under the cuff and dropped her hands onto her lap.

  “If it flatters you, I am taken by you too. Your eyes.” She touched the side of his face. “They are unique. How did you get them?”

  Alan thought about the thermal heat sensory, the night vision, and how he knew he had the ability or even how to use it…and then, how he’d gotten them in the first place. The thought never crossed his mind until now. He shook his head, “I don’t know.”

  Camille studied his face for a few seconds; Alan couldn’t place what thoughts she pondered over. “Your hands, your toned physique…what moves me most, however, is not your image but it’s who you are and where you’ve come from. A background of which right now this place has robbed you of its memory. For the most part.”

  “I’m Alan Charms. My house is in Charles Town, West Virginia, a three quarters of a million dollar single family home resting on five acres of green land, surrounded by mountains on every side.”

  “Open skies,” she said, cutting in, “plenty of space between property lines, fresh air despite the fact that a herd of cow graze in your backyard…a cargo train running a mile and a half in front of your house. It makes its passages early in the day and late in the evening before sundown in summertime, night in winter.”

  Needless to say, he was stunned. And impressed.

  “You live alone,” she continued, “Two horses, one of them for your companion to whom you have never professed your love. When the means allows it, you like exotic automobiles; you own six, two of them are sports cars, two of them are SUV’s, a silver Mercedes and a restored classic. A yacht. And a private jet.

  “Most of your family lives in the south. Rocky Mount. Fayetteville. Raleigh. Any of this ring a bell?” She did not wait for response. “Sometimes you feel alone…but that’s just because of your profession for you are gregarious and have many associates you sometimes mistake for friends. Until they remind you with their error. Although you love your original hometown in central Maryland, you’ve adapted to the mountain life. It is there that you will stay for a while.” She studied him a while. “Your heart aches. You are not rich, although comfortable, yet you want to die.”

  An involuntary tremor invaded his bottom lip. He stilled it, strengthening himself before the emotion grew, and waited to see what this strange woman had to say about his life next. It was a surprise to Alan that she had been accurate. No. Dead on. Every syllable.

  “But your origin is not in question,” she said. “This world cares nothing about your origin. It only cares about relevant information.”

  “Like?” he prodded, trying not to sound like he was on the verge of tears.

  She got up and walked over to the bed, turned and sat down. “Why you exist. What keeps your passion churning…your purpose.”

  He swallowed a thick lump. “And why would it care about that? Why not who I know or what I know? That would make more sense.”

  “Because it only wants to slow your process, not destroy it,” she said. Then she added, “so it can redirect you into a direction that has been overlooked for some time.”

  Something didn’t add up. “Camille,” he said. “How did I get here and how do you know so much?”

  “I’m not sure if you can bear the weight of that answer.”

  “Try me.”

  A hard sigh. “Your mind captured you.”

  She was right; he didn’t believe it but he humored her anyway. “And brought me here.”

  “This is where you go when your mind is captured.”

  No response.

  “See? I told you, too much for you to bear.”

  “Ok, hold up, slowing down a bit. Let’s say I believe this and it’s true.”

  “It’s true whether you believe it or not.”

  “Ok, it’s true. How did my mind capture me? I’ve lived a normal life, done normal things, and last I checked I wasn’t on medication nor was I drowning my sorrows with Hennessy in the back of a nudy bar.”

  “A normal life?” she said, seeming puzzled. “Your memory is clouded. You’ve been here too long,” she said with a wry expression, getting up from the bed and walking over toward the desk in the corner.

  “Well, how long have I been here?”

  “Three days.”

  “That’s not enough time for me to forget who I am.”

  “In this world it is.”

  Something about that phrase startled him. It sounded like earlier when she had rambled on about this place and the Leviathan as if enamored with the revelation. Then, he had thought Camille was a loon. Now...

  “We’re still on earth, right?” made Alan feel crazy for even asking.

  She stared at him.

  “Earth,” he said. “Mother nature, God created along with heaven, the only known planet that gives us air to breath.”

  “Daylight is coming,” she said, glancing toward the boarded up window. Alan turned and saw the darkness beginning to fade. “We have to hurry.”

  “Why—”

  “Too much is at stake!” she said.

  Alan shuddered at her tone.

  “Too much is at stake,” she repeated softer this time. “We don’t have much time.”

  He didn’t bother to ask. Instead, “then tell me why I wanted to die. Tell me what about my great life, as you have just described, has caused me want to end it all.”

  Pain filled her eyes yet Alan sensed it being for him, not herself. “How many people have you killed, Alan?” was all she said. It wasn’t out of judgment. Yet Alan could say nothing. Nothing at all.

  He started to remember. Images. Of people. People he had murdered. Faces. Faces of death. Faces of people he neither knew nor anticipated ever running into during life. Ordinary people, dignitaries. He’d killed them all but he couldn’t remember why. He did know one thing: none of the murders were to save his life. Save one but he was too young...tears began to fall again. The knot in his stomach returned. His impenetrable wall of protection. Breached.

  Alan broke down and cried, realizing that regaining what ounce of upper hand he may have had would be near impossible to win ba
ck. Just when he was sure of a celebratory stance over his crumpled frame, Camille had come over to him and knelt down in front. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he wept and pulled him in to her breasts. No resistance from Alan; no reservations.

  He let everything go, collapsing inside her arms.

  Camille’s hold tightened and his tears weakened, arms still held back by the chains. Then he heard something. A sniffle? Was she crying too? Alan heard the quaver in her voice when she said, “it wasn’t your fault.” Another sniffle. “They used you.”

  His heart strengthened the same time his interest roused.

  “You are still mighty, Alan,” she said. “And you are no longer bound.”

  He believed it.

  “Do you believe it?”

  Alan lifted his head, looked her in the eye, when he noticed streaks of blue peeking through the boarded up window. Light.

  “Alan?” she prodded.

  Without looking away from the window, “yes,” he said. Instantly, the cuffs detached and his chains jangled to the floor. Stunned, he brought his hands to his face and turned them. Not only were the chains gone.

  But so were the wounds the shackles had left.

  THIRTEEN

  SUDDENLY THE SHACKLES that had once held Alan captive had fallen off. Without warning. Without explanation. Something about that should have disturbed him. But it didn’t. Instead he was glad to be free. And this woman. This woman named Camille somehow rescued him.

  Or he rescued himself.

  Didn’t really matter to him.

  He was free; now he would break free from this “Transylvania” and find the ones responsible for the kidnapping. He looked up at Camille, eyes full of unlimited questions. Questions he was not yet prepared to ask. Camille gave him a reassuring smile and took him by the hand.

  “Come on,” she said. “I have to show you something.”

  Alan stood up for the first time. His legs felt weak from poor blood circulation but he was otherwise okay.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You wouldn’t understand it if I told you.”

  She tugged at his arm but Alan stiffened his body. Camille glanced at him.

  “It’s daylight. The creature only comes out at night.”

  His muscles relaxed.

  “Come on,” she said.

  As she led him down the hall, Alan observed the bare wooden walls. Rotting wood. Something out of a haunted house. Tranquil chandeliers. Vanity crown moldings. No pictures, though. No paintings, no furniture, no rugs…no nothing.

  Except rooms. Each door was shut tight. Light crept out from underneath some of the cracks and Alan had to wonder if there was an opened window to aide him in escape. But he would play Camille’s childish game of guess-what-surprise-I-have-to-show-you for the moment. Mostly out of curiosity.

  Curiosity.

  That’s what plagued him now.

  Curiosity.

  He lifted up his left hand, as Camille latched on to his other in leadership, and studied his wrist, turning it from side to side in the air with the same unanswered questions. Nothing he had ever experienced has ever compared to what just happened minutes ago. If someone had told him of such a tale he would have suspected the storyteller as wildly hallucinating, made possible by having one too many drinks.

  Our four.

  It was something out of a movie with make-believe characters. Some writer’s careful creation. Unreal. Now, this was the movie and he was the make-believe character. Almost exciting. Close to disturbing. Mostly alarming. What kind of world existed where the thoughts of a man superseded physical interaction? All the attempts made to yank those chains from its foundation had failed. Yet a thought—one simple thought—did what all his brute strength had no power to accomplish.

  Interesting. Scary? Alarming.

  He lowered his wrist just as he and Camille neared a massive opening. Alan made out a Victorian wooden banister that appeared to trace the contours of a loft. More rooms on the other side. More light. Lots of light. Too much light and…stairs!

  Alan’s heart leaped at the same time his vision became a white haze. Night vision. All light was magnified ten times with his night sensors on. He blinked twice, focusing on an imaginary ball in the back of his head, to the left, and his normal sight returned. Colors. Dark brown wood, almost black. In fact, everything he saw was that color. Walls, floors, fixtures. Everything. Except for Camille’s white blouse and blue hip-hugging jeans. He quickly surveyed her frame, this time in a dim light of dawn.

  Wow, he thought.

  Yes, he did know how to respond to a woman. Matter of fact he knew how to charm a woman. However, both of the two were the least of his concerns, although he couldn’t help feeling some kind of emotional connection with the woman. Not of lust. But of some manner Alan could not yet understand himself. As much as he hated to admit it, he was growing attached to her.

  Granted, the attachment was minimal, which was good. It was also growing, which was bad. When he realized that his connection with her seemed to be out of his control…it was alarming. This world was taking his mind, he decided. Just like Camille had stated earlier. Not only was Alan not sure how he got here, but he neither knew where “here” was nor how to get out. And where would he end up after he escaped here? What if Here was in a foreign land with no road signs, low population and limited means for transportation?

  Suddenly, Here became a nightmare; Here became a place that existed only in a Ted Dekker or a Frank Perretti novel.

  A nightmare and it wasn’t on Elm Street.

  It wasn’t on any street. Not that Alan knew of.

  They’d approached the stairs, passing by on the left. When he saw a large white door sitting a few dozen feet at the base of the steps Alan was tempted to tear away from Camille’s grasp and bolt for it. But, Camille, anticipating his thought patterns, had tightened her grip within just a couple of feet from the stairs and slightly pulled him closer. Her hold on his hand was so gentle, so comfortable. It made Alan trust her with everything in him, even though he didn’t want to.

  An objection was getting ready to roll off his tongue when he realized something. This house. Just about every piece of its construction was made of wood. Including the front door. All of the wood was rotted. Splintery. Brownish-black. Except the front door. It was crafted well. Someone put some thought into it. It was not old and rotted like the rest of the house. In fact, it was the only piece of the house that was painted white.

  No dirt. No cobwebs. No signs of wear.

  It didn’t take Alan long to figure it out. That front door was new. As he and Camille made it to the other side he stole one last glance, trying to photograph as much as he possibly could before he left the room and entered another long hall. Not much to see really. No furniture. But…on the floor, next to the wall he saw something. Flicker. Something golden. Tiny from his distance. But a noticeable flicker. He burned this image into his mind, along with a circular tarnished brass object screwed into the floor not far from the flicker.

  Then he was gone. He looked at Camille, who was leading him without speaking a word. Curiosity. It was the curiosity that told him to play along because it wasn’t her strength. She had to know that Alan could not be subdued by a woman’s touch. Yet…he was.

  Something came to his mind: Who was he? It was the first time he’d let the question linger. He could fake like he’d always known but no man could argue with the contents of his own mind. He didn’t know; he’d forgotten somehow and he wanted to figure it out. He needed to.

  “You are distant,” Camille said.

  He gave no reply. Felt no need to.

  “I know what you intend to do,” she said. “I would advise you against it but I know of your stubbornness.”

  She led him pass more rooms with closed doors, some with light creeping from underneath…some black as night.

  “There are no windows in most of these rooms,” Alan said. “Is that to ward off any escape attempts?
”

  Camille laughed. “You wouldn’t be able to escape through a window if you had the gift of gods.”

  “So, you’re saying there’s no way out.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “Then what’s the deal with the windows?”

  She made eye contact as they walked for the first time. “None of them will lead you out. Not outside, anyway. It’s just not how the system of this world operates.”

  There’s that phrase again.

  “Windows take you to other places…other dimensions. Dimensions you may not want to go.”

  “Dimensions? What kind of dimensions?”

  “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘the windows to your soul?”

  “You mean, metaphors.”

  “Yes. A metaphor, this one in particular being associated with the eyes. What you see; what your mind sees as a result of interpretation when things pass before your eyes.”

  “Windows,” he said, putting it all together.

  “Windows. You would hope there was nothing to obstruct your view of the world outside of you. But often times your windows are smudged so as to distort imagery before it reaches the frontal lobe for interpretation. Sometimes they’re boarded up.”

  “Blind.”

  She nodded. “Blind.”

  “We’re still talking about windows here, aren’t we?”

  “To understand the windows in this world you must understand the windows in yours.”

  That last phrase seemed to startle every fiber of his being. Even though Camille was using windows as an analogy, he sensed the windows in his world were his eyes. Alan nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Every window will take you to a different dimension of your soul. Except for one. This window leads to a world where night and day are intrinsic properties.” She stopped, touched him on the shoulder, and said “I beg of you, please, do not go in there. It is forbidden.”

  “Interesting.”

  A confused expression registered on her face. “No one has ever come back from that world, Alan. It would be comparable to dislocating all of your limbs before rolling your body into a sea of alligators.”