Still Rick refused to laugh. Jake tried harder.
“Creepy, though. You and your imagination, you got us seeing things. Nearly peed my pants when that thing’s hand grabbed me.”
“It wasn’t its hand,” Rick suddenly blurted. Tears were in his eyes.
“What do you mean it wasn’t?” Jake asked. “I saw it.”
“I saw it too,” Rick said. “That wasn’t its hand. That was its tongue.”
“Tongue?”
Jake stared at his younger brother, and as he did he felt the wheels in his head turn.
“Rick,” Jake said, slowly, calmly, “what is it you saw?”
Rick shook his head.
“You don’t want to,” he said, his voice nearly a sob. “You don’t want to know.”
* * *
Kelly watched them go, laughing harder than she had in years. From behind a tree she’d watched, hoping the boys would panic.
“Boy did you two ever!” she said as she approached the cellar doors, which the Bradleys had left wide open. She sat atop the bottom step.
“Here kitty,” she called. A gray tabby ran from the corner of the cellar, meowing as he leapt onto her lap.
“Did you scare them?” she asked as she picked a shred of blue fabric from the cat's mouth. “Did you scare them good?”
In response the cat rubbed his head against her stomach. Kelly scratched his forehead. The tabby’s purring signaled his approval.
“Them boys just have too much imagination.”
David Dalglish currently lives in rural Missouri with his wife Samantha, daughter Morgan, and his bearded dragon. He graduated from Missouri Southern State University in 2006 with a degree in Mathematics and is the bestselling author of the Half-Orc series and the Shadowdance Trilogy. He spends his free time watching PBS and Spongebob Squarepants with his daughter. You can visit his site at http://ddalglish.com.
PERFECT BLUE BUILDINGS
THE WORST PART FOR RHONDA FROST is not the knowledge that she is going to die but the pain. It sears through her every fiber, from her legs to her pelvis, from her stomach to her heart, from her lungs to the tips of her fingers. This pain conspires to make each day worse than the last, draining her will like a leech, until finally, when it is time for bed, she often wonders if it is worth it to wake up in the morning.
This pain is also the reason she swears under her breath and pants as Jacob leads her down Sycamore Street in the middle of the night. He has offered no explanation for this; he simply shook her from a morphine-induced sleep, squeezed a bundle of sweaters over her foggy head, and yanked her out the front door. Never once did he say, “come, darling, we must go,” nor did he guide her into the passenger seat of the old Cadillac in their garage. No, all Jacob had done was throw open the front door and pull her out into the cold night while his eyes gazed at the sliver of moon haunting the inky-black sky.
Rhonda twists her ankle and almost falls, but Jacob seems not to notice. He is moving at a much faster pace now. He is speed walking like a man possessed.
“Jacob,” she says, “please stop.”
He breathes deep from his nose and offers her a glance. His eyes are wide and fretful. The deep-set wrinkles around those eyes, made all the more pronounced by fifty years working outdoors in the hot Nevada sun, crease like tufts of sandpaper.
“We cannot,” he says in a hasty voice. “There isn’t much time.” He begins to drag her along once more.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“The Gateway,” he replies.
“Why? Couldn’t we have taken the car?”
To this, he does not respond.
Still they walk. Rhonda gasps for air as her sore legs and feet shake with each step. She curses her husband and his silence, but does not hate him for it. He has always been this way, ever since the day they were married forty-seven years ago; internalizing his fear, his anguish, his anger, and presenting her with a face of stone-cold stoicism. This she appreciates, for Rhonda is a woman ill at ease with the era she has been forced to exist in. Her own strength she cannot recognize and never has. If she had taken the time to think about this over the years, she might have come to the conclusion that her own stern father and waifish mother had blighted her to this life of quiet servitude; however Rhonda, not being a very deep thinker, has not considered this. To her, these are contemplations that have no practical use in a practical world.
Around the next corner they turn onto the junction of Main and Brighton and pause. The destination Jacob proclaimed hunkers in the distance like a withering giant. It is the old Gateway Cinema, built in the 1920’s and out of commission since 1965. It has stood idle, its marquee an empty white void, for more than forty years. None have offered to buy it over that time, and none suggested tearing it down. Instead it has loomed there on its hill, in a mote of cracked concrete, while an invasive army of vegetation scaled its walls.
Most townsfolk consider it a local treasure, hence the apprehension toward its demolition; Rhonda, on the other hand, finds it abominable.
“Why are we here?” she asks Jacob. He looks to her and offers a small and affable half-smile. Then he grabs her hand once more and they cross the street.
Scaling the fractured steps that lead to the entrance, Rhonda notices that, unlike the rest of the structure, there seems to be no detritus here. The cobwebs have been cleared away and a fresh coat of lacquer covers the stoop. Even the stained-glass windows that border the front door, strangely lit from inside the edifice, have been polished. She wonders who would go through so much trouble to make this place presentable, but this question is answered when she notices the look of pride on Jacob’s old and weathered face.
He grasps the brass door handle, and she places her hand over his. She looks at him gravely. “Darling, what are you getting at here?” she asks. When he doesn’t reply, she says, “We should get back now. I have Chemo in the morning, radiation in the afternoon. My body aches. I need sleep. Please take me home.”
His tongue licks his bottom lip. “You have to trust me, Ro,” is all he says before he presses down on the latch and swings open the front door. A rush of warm air greets them.
Jacob again falls into silence as he leads her through the lobby. Gas-powered lanterns are ablaze in their wall fixtures, brightening the space. Furniture from a different time is still there, resting beneath their dusty covers. Rhonda thinks they resemble carcasses in a morgue. The concession stands, compete with large glass pretzel vestibules, appear to her right. Unlike the waiting area, this spot has been meticulously scrubbed and shined. The marble countertops sparkle. The placards behind them have been given new life. Jacob squeezes her fingers gently, and she understands. Four times a week for the last two years, since the day she was told that her cancer had returned, he disappeared during the evenings. He would tell her he was heading for the gym, saying he couldn’t sleep at night and that he had to keep himself fit and trim if he was to assist her in the fight of her life. How much of this was true she couldn’t know, but at least part of it isn’t.
“You did all this,” she whispers.
The hallway leads to the main theater. Jacob pauses, takes a deep breath – the air whistles in his ancient lungs – and then pushes open the doors. He guides her through. Rhonda’s head is swimming. She is in no state of mind to object.
The straight-backed chairs that populate the theater are from a different era, as well. They are heavily cushioned and covered with red felt. They are assembled in a steadily ascending half circle in front of a stage. The curtains are drawn, and at the rear of this stage is a large screen. Rhonda has never stepped inside a theater such as this – she grew up poor in Kentucky and never saw a moving picture until her mother took her to see An Affair to Remember on her sixteenth birthday – and she is taken aback by the regality of it. She feels as if she has been transported to another time and place. All her apprehension melts away and her breath falters. The pain in her chest subsides. She feels excitement for the f
irst time in years.
Jacob brings her to a seat in the middle of the theater. He sits beside her and rubs her hand. She turns to say something to him, but he puts a finger to her lips and kisses her on the forehead. The light dims all around them. He points to the screen. From behind them a clicking sound emerges. A bluish flash of light erupts over their heads. The screen before them jumps to life.
Rhonda cannot believe her eyes. The most wonderful images she has ever seen flash across her vision. The sun beats down on a field of red roses and yellow daisies. Tall grasses sway with the breeze. Behind a hill there is a lake of sparkling blue water. In this water there are children at play, splashing each other and embracing the embrace of lovers. The camera angle cuts in and she sees their faces. There is one boy and one girl, and their features are tenderly familiar. These are not children at all, she realizes. These are they, Jacob and Rhonda, young again and free.
The lovers on screen pull closer and Rhonda gasps. It is as if she can feel the passion that flows between them as their lips touch, can sense the clenching of her pelvis when their lower bodies brush against each other. She joins them, floating in this liquid world of innocent love and animal ardor. Tears fill her eyes. The camera angle rises, moving away from the young couple, and aims skyward. The blazing yellow sun fills the screen. It grows larger and larger, filling her with all its light and heat. She is torn, balancing between the longing for the young lovers and the desire to see what is beyond that sun, beyond that sky, beyond this life she has called her own.
She is crying now, bawling with such force that her lungs seize. Tears stream down the cavernous wrinkles that create the topography of her cheeks. The bright light of the sun now fills the entire screen. It feels as if she is boiling from the inside, yet this is not something she fears. She tells herself that if she were to perish right then and there, that this one glimpse into perfection, into bliss, is worth it.
The screen suddenly goes black.
Jacob’s hand is on her head. He is gently stroking her thinning hair. Rhonda leans into him and sobs. He kisses her wet cheeks. The intensity that burned at her insides peters out like a dying engine.
Before long, there is no sound but their strained breathing.
Rhonda lifts her head. Jacob is biting his lip. He looks nervous, agitated. “What is it?” she asks. He frowns. When he opens his mouth to speak, a noise cuts him off. His eyes widen with what could only be anticipation.
Through the darkened theater the sound of clicking heels can be heard. They approach from the front, beneath the screen. Rhonda squints through the blackness, but can see nothing. Yet still, the clicking heels draw nearer. She has a moment of panic. Jacob again squeezes her hand, letting her know that all is well. She tries to acquiesce, but finds it hard to find her mental footing.
The clicking heels cease when it seems like whatever is causing it is directly upon them. A match is struck. The match head moves to the left and fires the wick of a candle.
The candle and match are held by a man. He is standing at the end of the row Rhonda and Jacob are sitting in. He is tall and gaunt, with pale skin that seems to have a bluish hue. His arms are a bit too long and his head a bit too narrow. His eyes are like opal. They stare across the distance between them and seem to shrink it. Rhonda, for her part, shrinks into her husband.
“Very nice to see you, Mr. Frost,” the man says. His voice sounds like it comes from the ocean depths.
Jacob smiles at the man and stands up. He steps around Rhonda and offers the man his hand. They shake, and there is a short conversation that Rhonda cannot hear. Then both faces turn to her. Jacob ushers her forward. Despite her fear, she can’t help but trust his judgment. She rises on her sore legs and approaches them.
The strange man guides them from the seats to the front of the theater. He descends into the opera pit, yet another aspect of old-time cinema that became extinct through the passing years. Rhonda and Jacob follow him down. At the bottom of the steps he turns to them. His right hand is resting on a doorknob and he is staring at them inquisitively. Jacob whispers, “Yes.” The strange man turns the knob. The door opens.
The light on the other side is blinding. It takes a few moments for Rhonda’s eyes to adjust. She walks through the door and shields them. Jacob holds her tight. She sees they are standing on a concrete ledge. Beyond this ledge, below and above them, is a city. The landscape is bathed in blue, as if she is looking through a filter. The buildings, tall skyscrapers of architecture she has never seen, seem to meld with the sky as they rise. They appear cold and impersonal with their cobalt tinge and the spires and columns that dissipate into clouds the higher they reach, and yet there is a mystery here, an excitement, that makes her feel the same gentle heat rise within her that the vision of flying into the sun had wrung.
She sees it all, and in it finds perfection.
The strange man steps in front of them, where a long staircase descends into the blue depths. She cannot see the end of it, but that doesn’t seem to matter.
“This is Galway,” the man says. His cheeks are even more pallid, almost ghostly, in the blue light, and yet there is a sheen there that does not appear sickly in any way; rather, it enhances his enlarged features, makes them shine. He levels his eyes, no longer black but now glimmering like twin sapphires, at Jacob. “Your remuneration, my friend, for upkeep of the Temple.”
Jacob nods.
Rhonda steps forward. It amazes her how she seems to be able to walk freely now. There is no pain at all any longer, as if her muscles had become one with the liquid gleam in the air. “What is this place?” she asks.
His eyes turn in her direction and seem to peer right through her. “Here is where all things halt. The order of the in-between. There is no time here, no advancement, no torment, no pain. All simply is. Here we live in harmony with the nothing and the everything. Here we are static. Here we are at peace.”
“I see.”
Jacob whispers into her ear. “You won’t be sick here, Ro. You won’t die. We won’t age…hell, we won’t have an age any more. We will always be together, and we will always be happy.”
As if to accentuate this point, the tall man spreads out his hands.
Jacob twists his arm into Rhonda’s and begins to stroll towards the staircase. At this, the strange man, their guide, reaches out an oversized palm and stops them.
“What is you intention?” he asks.
Jacob clears his throat and says, “We wish to stay.”
“How long?”
“Forever.”
“Forever?”
“Yes.”
The stranger rubs his fingers together close to his sunken temples in what appears to be deep concentration. “This is acceptable,” he says, “as long as you understand the price.”
“What price?” asks Rhonda.
“Space and time are inert here, but outside these walls are not. We are the undertakers of Galway, and nothing more. Though we understand much, we do not understand all. What we have here is beautiful, but it is also but a fraction of the other realms. Should you remain here, this will be where you shall stay. Forever. Whatever mysteries await you beyond your physical life will be lost. You shall never see your children again, nor your friends or any other loved ones. You will be as you are and as you were, but never as you might be. This is what you stand to lose. Should you wish for a different type of eternity, one that is not guaranteed such as here, however limited in its scope it may be, this is not the place for you.”
Rhonda bites her lip and gazes lovingly at her husband. The thought of never seeing her children again, even in death, scares her. But this is a decision she knows she could never make. It is all up to him.
Jacob winks at her. “I like our odds,” he whispers, and together they walk down, step by step, into the perfect blue nothingness.
Empty Spaces
1
MAJOR THOMAS STANBLOOM STOOD on the observation desk of the Icarus Global Space Station. He stare
d through the viewing window as Earth came into view, trying to avoid the corpse of his friend and colleague, Jean Pierre Presage, slumped in the chair behind him.
The act of watching the planet come and go from the rotating platform used to be a relieving act. It reminded him of the home he left behind, caused him to wonder what it would be like when he set foot on solid ground again. But it was a relief no longer. A thick layer of clouds had rolled over the planet’s surface over a month ago, transforming what had once been a brilliant cerulean landscape into a swirling sea of gas. For all he knew, his house in Wales no longer existed.
A month since he’d seen the surface, a month since mission control fell silent, a month since the hope of finally getting off this orbiting tin can began shrinking exponentially with every passing day.
And now this.
A power surge had prompted him to check on the scene, and when he did, he found the Frenchman charbroiled in his seat, permanently gazing out the observation window. His empty eye sockets reflected the universe; void of life, hollow, unforgiving.
An object caught his peripheral and he quickly turned away. In the seven minutes since he’d arrived on deck, he came to dub it The Unknown Artifact. It was the first thing he noticed, the last thing he wanted to think about; an eight-inch tall black pyramid, six inches wide at the base. It seemed familiar somehow, as if he’d seen something like it before. In truth, that sense of familiarity became duped by its oddity. The surface was smooth and hard, though it felt pliable to the touch, like rubber stretched over steel. Strange hieroglyphs adorned its side. A high-pitched, virtually inaudible vibration emanated from it that shook his nerves when he drew near.
The worst thing about it, however, remained the fact he simply couldn’t place where he’d seen it before. His mind searched for an explanation, but all he could come up with were paranoid ravings. It’s an obelisk! An alien vessel holding a deadly pathogen! A sign of Armageddon!
The Gate: 13 Dark & Odd Tales Page 10