Aberrations of Reality

by Aaron J. French

  I stopped to admire the apparitions, ghosts, spirits, whatever they were, magical with their yawning mouths and hollow eyes. I felt a storm of emotions rising within me, admonishing me to release whatever resistance I was harboring as to whether or not this was real—and to just accept it.

  I forged ahead through the bluish mist like some kind of hero from a fantasy novel, the spirits of the dead drifting around me, until at last I spotted the ominous cabin in the distance. I climbed the series of terraces leading to the grassy eminence and headed to the front porch.

  It wasn’t very large; about the size of any other cabin you might find in the woods. Except that it was only one-story, which seemed odd, especially since this person—The Amputator—was supposedly conducting full-scale scientific experiments in there.

  I drew my pistol. The weight of it, the cold of the steel, felt good, comforting. Each step had me sinking a little more into the soft mulchy loam. The porch boards creaked and crumbled beneath my feet, and I glanced behind me and noticed the mist had stayed back in the trees. I was grateful.

  I felt in my pocket for the key. Was I just going to walk in the front door? Perhaps a little audacious, so I did a quick beat around the perimeter, searching for other doors and openings but finding none, only more darkened windows, begrimed to the point of opaqueness. I returned to the front, withdrew the key, and approached. I unlocked the door and pushed it creaking inward, gripping the handle of my pistol as I entered.

  * * *

  I immediately cursed myself for not bringing a flashlight. The darkness was so thick that I could only see the faint outlines of objects and the dim wood surfaces of walls. The farther I went into the cabin, the greater my fear became. My breathing accelerated, my heart pounded like a hammer, and I began to sweat.

  I emerged from the hallway into a spacious room. My eyes adjusted to the dark and I could see hulking mounds all along the floor that I presumed were pieces of furniture: a mirror, reflecting back the silvery blackness; even gossamer webs clinging to the higher corners and ceiling.

  In the center stood another large shape, still as lake water on a windless day. I approached with my fingers raised and extended. I felt drawn to it, and when I got close enough I touched the surface, which was cold and hard, like touching the skin of a reptile. As I moved my fingers higher I felt harder surfaces most likely metal, as well as rubber tubing and looping chains—and higher still until I felt something like stringy human hair. Suddenly I knew this was the strange “machine man” before which Jeffrey Hogan had been found kneeling. As my fingers neared the top, I somehow sensed it was going to move. In a panic, I raised the pistol.

  It came jerking to life with a tremendous burst of motion that swept the darkness along with it. I dashed to my left, back around, behind me, out of sight, and screamed then whirled, flailing the pistol butt. The machine man was quicker. I noticed it resembled some kind of idol or tribal totem pole, as it danced around me like the Tasmanian Devil. A dark hunk arced out and down from the top of the pole, crashing onto my head with the weight of a tree branch. I screamed as it crushed me to the floor—then I was hit again, and my vision dimmed, and I felt myself hurled into a place of emptiness.

  Then the world winked out.

  * * *

  When I came to, dreamy, gauzy ribbons of blue and white, like the auras of planets, swam before my eyes. My body weighed a thousand pounds. I attempted to move my limbs but met with resistance. And something else… some foreign metallic element connected to me.

  I managed to re-illuminate the world through the faculty of sight. Darkness and blues and whites bled away. I saw that I was strapped in a corrupt wood chair, shackled with metal bands, like an antiquated electric chair. The room around me was crowded with huge pieces of buzzing, bulky scientific equipment, which my fuzzed-out mind could only begin to comprehend. Lights, circuit breakers, computer screens, keyboards, EKG readouts.

  “You’re not the boy,” said a voice. “But you will do.”

  It was not a nice voice.

  I blinked again and saw a grotesque figure standing over me, and I knew at once it was The Amputator. He was tall, lanky, and wiry like a weasel, with beady eyes, a scraggly beard, and wearing a stained white lab coat, with greasy spectacles clutching his face. Behind him was a storm of misty spirits, like those I had encountered in the Mintano Wilderness.

  “How do you feel?” he said.

  “I…” But I could not speak. I felt crazy, delusional; nothing made sense.

  “Speechless,” The Amputator murmured. He eyed me suspiciously. I did not like the feel of his gaze: it was as if a giant rat was considering whether I’d make a good meal.

  “The left side of his brain has been successfully quarantined,” he continued. He turned to his right, speaking to someone in the darkness. “Bring me the mediumistic rod.”

  The furious totem pole machine man came whirling into view. The shock of seeing it this close up and under the harsh yellow lights sent me into convulsions. My soul felt like it was going to burst out of my flesh.

  The Amputator accepted a long copper rod from the automaton, that terrible assembly of wire and tubing and metal with a flat head of long, dark, horse-like hair. As it spun away into the blackness, I thought of Robby the Robot, a fictional character from a movie I’d seen as a child called Forbidden Planet. The bulbous robotic humanoid machine in that movie scared the pants off me as a child; seeing this weird totem thing now called up that same childhood fear.

  The Amputator leaned over my right side. As I followed him down with my eyes I began to scream, and my hoarse cries echoed about the room. My body shook and sweat saturated my brow. I was convinced I was dying—would die—had died.

  “Calm yourself,” The Amputator said.

  But I couldn’t; where my arm used to be now extended a bloody metal appendage, looped with silvery wires and colorful blinking lights. It pulsed inwardly with a glowing orange fire as though it had a heartbeat. The fibrous metal materials of which it was composed stretched up to my right bicep, where the sleeve of my shirt had been cut away. The appendage itself was neatly squashed into the flesh of my arm.

  I thought I would never stop screaming.

  Very carefully, he placed the rod in my hand, and the fingers closed of their own accord, clutching it like a baton. The Amputator moved aside, allowing the misty wall of spirits to move forward.

  Without warning, the metal bands retracted with a snap and I was free, and yet suddenly I was yanked forward by the metallic arm which was flailing and jerking, swinging the copper rod like a conducting baton. My teeth clenched and sweat poured down in my eyes. I was nearly blind as my feet, led by the insane metal arm, drew me out of the chair.

  I began walking across the floor, while the swelling blue orb of spirits moved closer. The Amputator tracked my progress, a beady little creature at my right. Opposite him spun the madly whirling totem, which, I now realized, functioned as his assistant.

  “It’s working!” he cried. “They are responding to your signal! This will connect us both to the spiritual world—them to you, and you to me—and together we can harness a power that science has always striven for, but never attained. Embrace them, you fool! Embrace them!” He slapped me hard on the back, and I pitched forward, nearly falling on my face.

  Abruptly, the wall of spirits drew before me, flowing around me, enveloping me, pressing close. I could make out their hollow eyes and gaping mouths, as they darted about like guppies in a fish bowl. I sensed music from somewhere, a simple melody, but soon I was blind and lost, the laboratory obscured in the churning blue cloud.

  The Amputator’s voice rose above the madness. “Do not fight it! Open yourself up to the experience—for the good of science! The body enhancement I implanted in you will bind you to them, so long as you do not resist. Then I can use you like my antenna—as an organic instrument attuned to the spiritual world. Let go, let them receive you!”

  I almost laughed. I was well beyond
fighting, resisting, or anything else. I had collapsed inwardly into a state of true madness. I saw only the misty spirit storm and furious thrashings of my metallic arm, and I heard only the weird discordant music and the excited ravings of The Amputator.

  “Into the higher spiritual worlds!” he shouted. “Go! Let yourself dissolve into the ether!”

  I felt so sick I thought I would faint. But just at the last moment before I went down, I felt a flurry of spongy limbs, like tongues, gather me up, lift me. The sensation was something quite magical, an inner burning of faith, desire, devotion, longing—as though I were caught in a religious reverie.

  I evaporated into the ether.

  * * *

  I saw a flash of a world made of light, where I could make sense of nothing. A landscape of pure spirit, warbling and indistinct, which swarmed with storms of spirits, all of them looking at me, all of their inmost intentions burning into my mind. They turned like flocks of birds to converge upon my location, yet I was helpless against them. I felt them stream into me; worse, I felt them handing over their power, freely, as though it were a gift…

  This frightened me. But luckily some force took me away, and then I was lying under the trees behind the Hogan house, sprawled in the dirt, my arm bleeding.

  I opened my eyes and moaned, but was whisked away again, this time given a glimpse of myself lying face down on the sidewalk in the city, blood oozing out of my arm, a shocked group of civilians standing around me.

  Then sirens, visibar lights, boots stomping and someone giving orders; a gurney ride, an ambulance, then white walls, white coats, white doctors and nurses.

  The next memory I have is of Detective Browning standing hunched beside my hospital bed, questioning me about my experience in the Mintano Wilderness. I told him everything. And he looked at me like I was nutso, but said he would be the one handling my case, so not to worry. He would check things out. Meanwhile, take care of myself.

  As he turned and vanished through the doorway, replaced by a dutiful nurse, I let my eyes sink closed, let my heart follow, and then descended into a deep, deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  About a month or so after things died down, I was able to leave the hospital and return to my job and my office. Maria Hogan stopped by to see me. She apologized for getting me involved in this mess, and said she hoped I wouldn’t wind up like her son.

  I assured her I wouldn’t.

  She seemed very happy that I too had experienced whatever it was that lurked behind her house; said it made her feel less crazy. Nonetheless, she said she and her husband were planning on moving soon. I told her that was a good idea.

  She offered to pay me more money, even though I hadn’t necessarily satisfied her or conclusively solved her son’s case. I had satisfied some things. My missing arm was testament to that.

  I accepted the money without hesitation.

  * * *

  The police, led by Detective Browning and backed by Chief Deputy District Attorney Howels Wates, combed the Mintano Wilderness repeatedly, exhausting a ton of resources, but they never found the hidden cabin. They never found The Amputator, either. Because of this, my credibility as a professional—hell, as a sane human being—went down the tubes. People gradually stopped talking to me, stopped seeking me out. I lost my law enforcement contacts.

  That wasn’t the only reason I resigned from P.I. work, but it added to the load. There were, of course, other pressures… spirit pressures.

  I closed down my office, packed my things, and retreated to my apartment. Several months later I came on at the Department of Motor Vehicles and have been there ever since.

  At the start of this I spoke of needing safety after my experiences. Well, there’s more to it than that. My dreams have become increasingly nightmarish since waking up in the hospital, and recently The Amputator himself has been showing up. He looms in a whirlwind of spirits, and he tells me how proud he is of me and our experiment; how it was a total success, a total victory for modern science. That’s why I didn’t end up crazy like the kid. The spirits will soon enter into my reality, he says, and begin transferring their power into the physical world, at which point he will come and find me to collect his due. I always wake from these dreams in a cold panic, covered in sweat.

  And they are getting worse. I can barely sleep some nights. I can’t go on this way. I hate to imagine encountering The Amputator again, but it may be my only hope. Perhaps if I save up the money to acquire that prosthetic limb, the reconfiguration of my body will serve as a means of severing our connection. Although I fear I may need to trek back out to that wilderness again, find the cabin myself, and burn it to the ground.

  Something must be done. I must find a way to end these nightmares. Because until I do, the name of that terrible unknowable entity will remain etched on the fabric of my unconscious dream world, as it was once etched fleetingly, supernaturally, and indescribably on the inside of my bedroom wall…

  The Amputator

  THE GRAFFITI GHOSTS

  Saturday the 11th was a haunted morning. Malique knew it was haunted because it marked the one-year anniversary of Toby Wilson’s disappearance. Before he went missing, Toby Wilson (a year older than Malique) had attended Canarsie High School. Now Toby was one of the Graffiti Ghosts, and the only class he attended was Spook 101.

  The morning was exceptionally cold, and Malique shivered. His Rocawear jacket and matching beanie offered little protection against the freezing air. He was on the stoop of Building H, gazing over the grass through a sheen of mist toward the harbor. He could hear seagulls over there, but he couldn’t see the ocean because the haze was too thick.

  It seemed like every other month there was one of these anniversaries. Kids went missing all the time in Brooklyn, and no one paid much attention, unless of course it was the kid’s family. The missing ones faded into the tide of milk carton ads and telephone pole fliers; there for a week or two, then gone. Once and a while the family papered the streets with the kid’s face but it never amounted to much: just more crumpled trash along the roadways.

  But Malique remembered.

  … Sandy Mayer on June 28th; Russell Bradley on Oct. 10th; Harriot Swanson on November 14th; Leroy Browning on May 3rd; Glinesha Meadows on August 8th; Teddy Smith on April 19th; Terrell Willow on May 2nd; Jamal James on November 22nd… and Toby Wilson on December 11th.

  The names went through his head as he lay awake at night, but each time a date passed he acknowledged it, and he’d been doing it since he was seven years old. Today was the 11th, which meant Toby would be making his way to the surface soon.

  Suddenly he wondered if his mama was awake. She had slept with one of her boyfriends last night. Darruis was this one’s name. Whenever she had a man over she usually didn’t get out of bed until noon. It was probably just as well that Malique had left the house when he did. His presence wasn’t appreciated.

  He sighed and got to his feet as sunrays started to pierce the lingering mist. They stained the redbrick buildings of Bayside Projects the color of polished gold.

  He caught a glimpse of the boy in his periphery.

  Naked. Sleek. Shadow-like.

  Malique followed him.

  He made his way around Building J to where a large grass square had been enclosed within a wrought-iron fence. A tall maple tree sprouted up from the center. Toby was doing circles around the trunk.

  Malique watched for a while. For some reason, the ghosts never had clothes on. This used to make him uncomfortable, but over time he’d gotten used to it. It actually made sense. Clothes didn’t die when people did.

  With one hand touching the trunk, Toby dragged his fingers around as he went. He was bald with little brown eyes and white teeth. Apart from his nakedness, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. He could’ve passed for any neighborhood boy.

  Malique approached the wrought iron fence and stood with his hands on the bars. “Psst, Toby!” he whispered.

  The boy loo
ked at him. A car went by on Flatbush Avenue, blaring its horn. The ghost waved and signaled Malique to follow. He glided over the grass, through the bars, then vanished around another building.

  They reached the westernmost edge of the projects. The oldest building of all, Building L, was located here. L was condemned, uninhabitable, and an ugly reminder of Bayside’s squalid past. No one had lived in L for years.

  Except ghosts.

  Malique hung behind and allowed Toby to enter through the secret space in the boarded-up doorway.

  Building L was all ruin and rain rot, windows nailed shut, walls crumbling. The kids were told to keep away because once a brick had fallen from the roof and brained an old woman. That roof was a saw-toothed nightmare with crumpled chain-link fence spanning its edges.

  The facade of Building L was covered in graffiti almost all the way up. A storm of multicolored paint that looked dazzling in the emerging sunlight, like a ghetto work of art.

  Malique sprinted across the grass, pausing before the barricaded doors. He was about to enter when a hand grasped his shoulder.

  “Look-y what we got here.”

  His heart raced. He shot a glance around. Tike and Tio, the twin brothers who lived in Building D and who were a few grades ahead of Malique, stood there, faces fixed into self-satisfied sneers. Gold jewelry and black baseball caps dangled off of them, their thin bodies lost in the sea of loose clothing.

  They were notorious troublemakers. Their father had died during an attempted robbery when they were five or six, and they’d been living with their mother in the same place ever since. She was a crack addict who could occasionally be seen stumbling up and down the street at three in the morning, barefoot, and smoking a cigarette. Not much hope was held for her sons. Their wild behavior came as no surprise to the residents of Bayside Projects.

  Gold teeth shone from Tike’s mouth as he said, “What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know little babies ain’t supposed to play around Building L?”