My light illuminated a small theater.
Ten rows of chairs were set up before a raised stage. The stage decorations were of a Germanic forest, captured in perfect miniature, with a dollhouse-sized gingerbread cottage. The cottage was a replica of the one we now stood in, and my boyhood trepidation flooded back as I recognized the setting for Hansel and Gretel. Except for the rows of wooden chairs and the stage, the rest of the theater was empty.
We approached a closed door to the right of the stage. The knob turned easily in my hand and the door pushed back to reveal a small hidden room. At the far end of the space, a single lantern sat perched in the window, illuminating rows of shelves lined with marionette puppets of various sizes and shapes. The puppets were folded over onto themselves in eerily lifeless positions, their operating strings piled in small messy bundles nearby. I recognized a few wooden puppets from fairytales; the rest were an assortment of boys and girls and woodland creatures with menacing faces.
At the edge of the room, a small stairwell led up to a space above the stage. Clayton and I climbed the stairs, our shoulders turned in the tight space. At the top appeared a small walkway that looked down onto the stage below. Here, hidden by a wooden screen of intricately carved foliage, the puppeteer could work the strings of his marionettes, causing the tiny humanoid forms to dance and move on the stage below.
Glowing in the light from my lantern, something postcard-sized lay in the far corner of the catwalk. An advertisement for a marionette theater performance of Hansel and Gretel. Across the face of the card was a stylized, art deco drawing of a boy and girl holding hands, looking together at a small wooden cottage. A single window was illuminated, the shadow of an old crone cast in dark silhouette across the glass.
I slipped the card inside my pocket, then Clayton and I headed back down the stairs. I was sure the cries for help had come from inside the cottage, but whoever she might have been had appeared to have vanished. Or never existed.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I noticed one of the marionette puppets lay on the floor beneath the bottom of the stairs. It was a little boy carved entirely from wood and dressed in Bavarian lederhosen, with small white socks pulled up at the knee and a black hat tufted with a single feather.
The German.
The word flooded in on me from somewhere, the moniker of someone I had known. But I couldn’t remember where. I picked the doll up, and its legs and arms flopped backward, its glassy eyes glinting in the light. Strings hung loosely down from the puppet’s hands and feet and piled on the floor.
“Let me see that,” Clayton took the puppet and inspected the little wooden body. “There’s something inside the mouth.”
He forced down the jaw and from inside pulled out a single brass key.
“It would seem that someone is playing a game with us,” Clayton said.
“Who?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“I don’t know. But this is enough to make a man doubt his sanity.”
I took the key from Clayton and slipped it into my pocket. To the south, two deep booms sounded in the distance. Gunfire, coming from our camp.
By the time we hit the camp, I was breathing heavily, my legs burning. As we reached the perimeter, Nasir came running to us, rifle in hand, face flushed. “I saw something.”
Clayton slowed to a walk and pushed past him toward the center of camp. “Where?”
Nasir pointed across Columbus Circle toward the edge of a coffee shop. The window of the shop had shattered. Jagged fragments of broken glass hung down from the frame.
“Saw what?” I said.
“I don’t know, sir,” Nasir said. “A shadow of something.”
Clayton looked at him sharply. “In the future, you must be sure. You can’t shoot at shadows.”
The rest of the team gathered around us, looking nervous. The campfire flickered shadows across everyone’s face.
And then we all heard the sound. A low jabbering bark, then a long howl. Like a wolf, except the bark was deeper in tone. Everyone in the expedition froze and listened. The bark came from somewhere to the west, past the Jazz at Lincoln Center sign, farther down Sixtieth Street.
There was a pause, and then another answering howl. This one came from the east, somewhere in the darkness of Central Park. The two sounds communicated with one another, a back and forth between the howls. I sensed intelligence in the patterns of their communication. And I sensed something else. That whatever these creatures were, they were communicating about us.
Clayton turned and held his lantern aloft. The light penetrated only a dozen or so feet into the darkness of the park, not nearly enough to see whatever it was making the sounds. After a few minutes, the howling stopped.
“I told you I saw something,” Nasir said, almost defiant.
“Yes . . . but what?” I asked.
“I saw . . . that,” Nasir said.
He stood still, one hand extended, his finger pointed. I followed the line of his finger and saw that it extended directly at the art pad Charlotte still held. Charlotte straightened up in surprise, righted the art pad, and then turned to show the rest of the expedition.
Sketched across the paper was one of Charlotte’s earlier drawings from when we had first entered the tomb. As long as I had known her, Charlotte had always been a talented artist. And the drawing on her pad showed her ability. Sketched across the paper was a perfect likeness of the ancient Egyptian god Anubis. One of the more frightening of the ancient gods, with the muscular body of a man and the fierce snarling head of a jackal.
“That’s what I saw,” Nasir said again. “It was standing in the shadows. Watching us.”
The next morning I slipped away from camp without being noticed. Nasir preferred not to stay in the tents. He slept outside, his eyes wide open as usual, his body splayed out like a puppet on the ground. I walked slowly down Broadway, no real destination in mind. The photograph in the apartment still bothered me. I had no memory of anything in the apartment or the photograph. And yet, I couldn’t say it was totally unfamiliar. There was something there. Some faint wisp of history I couldn’t recollect.
I continued south, down Broadway, turned left onto Fifty-Third Street, intending to circle back in a few blocks. Ahead was an empty café, tables and chairs set up along the sidewalk for the dinner crowds. I could imagine the place filled with people, could hear the clatter of silverware on plates, the rush of conversation. But now, silence filled the streets, the building windows black and vacant.
Near the café, an automobile was parked on the curb, the first one I had seen since arriving down below. It was of a futuristic design, more streamlined than anything I was used to, almost like a small van with a large sliding door on the side.
The vehicle appeared to have been in a terrible accident. Its front end was crumpled inward, the windshield smashed and collapsed into the steering wheel. The car listed badly on a broken axle. Through the cracked driver’s side glass, I could see streaks of blood on the seats. The vehicle was empty, but nobody could have survived a crash like this.
I stepped away from the curb, filled suddenly with an intense loneliness. More intense than I’d ever experienced. Like a drug injected into my vein by some invisible hand. I paused on the corner, staring down empty streets, paralyzed and lost by my feelings.
So consumed was I that for a moment I failed to notice the light.
In front of a Sheraton hotel, on the corner of Fifty-Third and Seventh Avenue, a subway entrance was cut into the sidewalk. Between a green-painted rail, concrete stairs led underground. And from somewhere below, a dim light spilled out of the entrance.
The stairs led down to a black and white tiled wall. The source of light came from somewhere out of sight, farther down in the station. The air was still, but an unpleasant smell rose from the stairwell. Like something rotted. I paused, shifted my weight, wanting to walk down toward the light. Without knowing when, I found that I had already taken two steps down. The st
ench was a bit stronger. In a haze, I took another step. I paused, blinked, shook my head, then turned and walked quickly back up. From below I heard a metal gate creak shut and then another sound. Someone called out.
“Help me.”
The voice was thin and frail. A child’s voice. Like the voice on the phone. I froze at the top of the stairs, listening. “Help me. Please.”
The sound came from below. From somewhere underground, inside the subway station. Slowly I turned and looked back down the stairs. Everything was still the same. Above, the black windows of darkened buildings remained still. I could run back to the circle, get the rest of the team, and be back here in twenty minutes. As soon as my thoughts turned to leaving, the voice sounded again, more urgent this time.
“Someone, please help. Please.”
Hairs rose on the back of my neck. My heart pumped electricity through my chest. Something in that voice sounded unnatural. A strange imitation of a child. And yet, how could I explain myself to the group if it was a child? If someone really was in danger, how could I explain running in fear? The idea that we were not alone down here was both terrifying and exciting. I thought back to the cottage in the park. I was becoming convinced that something here was toying with us. Something that watched us, explored our behaviors, researched our patterns. But to actually meet the first resident of this place would be a defining moment in human existence. Some part of me wanted that experience to be all mine.
I removed the pistol from my belt and slowly advanced down the stairs.
The odor grew stronger. I thought of garbage left in the sun for too long. But that couldn’t be. Everything here was so perfectly groomed for humans, and I didn’t believe that this unappealing detail would be overlooked.
I reached the bottom of the stairs. Ahead was a small hallway and a line of thick metal bars painted green, which separated the hall from the rest of the subway platform. As I approached, I heard a buzz and a metallic click. A door in the bars swung open. Beyond was a long platform with more sets of stairs leading down to deeper subway platforms. Signs overhead directed travelers toward trains headed to the Bronx and lower Manhattan.
On the white concrete walls, poster advertisements offered vacation rentals and automobile wonders made of polished glass and metal.
I stood on the threshold of the gate, pistol in hand, listening to the crackle of the overhead bulbs.
“Help me, please, someone help,” the voice called out again. Instinctively I moved forward, and as I did, the gate slammed shut behind me. I turned and pulled, but it was securely locked. I tugged hard, a panic rising in my chest, but the gate refused to move. I was locked underground.
Behind me, stairs led down to the lower platform. I stood at the top and looked down, seeing nothing below but a row of wooden benches and a subway system map encased behind glass.
“Hello?” I called down. “Anyone there?”
No response. I moved carefully down the stairs, pistol at the ready. On the second level, a long empty platform stretched before me. On either side, tracks cut through the Earth, disappearing into tunnels as black as rabbit holes.
The smell of rot was almost overwhelming. A putrid scent that seemed to come from farther down the tracks. I thought of an animal that had maybe been struck by a train and crawled off to die. But there were no trains down here. And we had yet to see anything living.
“Help me please. I’m down here.”
The voice called again, somewhere below and off to my right. I walked to the edge of the platform. Underneath, subway tracks lay in a bed of gravel about four feet below the platform. The rest of the platform was empty. And somehow, I knew with a certainty, that the voice had called me from inside the tunnel.
My boots crunched against gravel as I jumped down onto the tracks. The platform was now at eye level. Below the platform was a hollow space in which someone small could crouch and hide away from the tracks. I walked slowly forward, checking if someone had fallen down into the space.
I approached the entrance to the tunnel. Ahead was only blackness. A faint gust of air seeped from the opening carrying the foul smell. I stood on the tracks as my eyes tried to penetrate the darkness. I wished I had brought a lantern with me. I remember Clayton had taken his lantern with him, and he was probably back at camp. If I was able to open the gate, I could get back to camp quickly, get Clayton, and we could be back here with lanterns within half an hour.
Faced with the logic of my thoughts, my previous courage began to fade. Slowly, I backed away from the tunnel entrance. I wished I hadn’t come down here alone. I thought back to the locked gate. The long hallways. There must be another—
Somewhere in the blackness of the tunnel came the crunch of gravel. I went completely still. My fingers clenched tight against the butt of the pistol in my hand. I listened.
There came another crunch of gravel. The sound of footsteps on the track.
“Help me.”
My finger tightened on the trigger and I almost let off a pistol shot. It was that same high child voice. But I knew that was no child. I knew that whatever was in the darkness only pretended. Whatever it was wanted me down here.
Another crunch of gravel. This time closer. Slowly I began to back away. I reached out with my free hand for the edge of the platform. I could lift myself up and off the track, back onto the platform, and then run toward the stairs. My mind formulated the plan and my body only needed to move.
Overhead, the lights flickered. A single strobe, light to dark, with a crackle of electricity. I knew it could only be a moment, but that moment seemed to stretch out an eternity. I heard the crunch of foot against gravel again, and again, faster, as something ran at me from inside the darkness of the tunnel. Whatever it was would soon reach the light and show itself. And I realized this was what I was most afraid of. I turned to run, but found myself unable to move. The lights flickered again, and from the tunnel I glimpsed something humanoid emerge from the tunnel entrance. Human in appearance, but ash gray in color. I had only a momentary glimpse. An impression that lasted no more than an instant.
And then the lights went out and I was plunged into utter darkness.
I stood on the tracks. My breathing ragged and short.
“Help me!” The voice again called from the darkness. This time very close.
A final crunch of gravel, right in front of me, and something hard and cold gripped my arm. I was pulled to the ground with an incredible force. My arm was twisted painfully behind my back and my face was pushed against the sharp gravel of the track bedding.
A hand pressed the side of my head. My cheek burned with pain as gravel dug into my skin. But it was not a human hand. Whatever it was that held me down was cold and dry. Sharp nails dug into the side of my face. I struggled to move, but the thing’s strength was incredible. My feet splayed out against the tracks and I tried to push myself back up, but the pressure only grew more intense. I was completely pinned in the darkness.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said. I felt hot breath on my face, the scent horrible and nauseating. “You don’t belong here.”
My arm pressed against the cool metal of the tracks and I realized that I could feel something vibrating. As I struggled, the vibrations grew more intense. The track seemed to have come alive beneath me, and with frightening clarity, I realized what it was.
A pale light began to fill the tunnel, gradually growing with intensity until the entire wall of the track glowed white. Two headlights rounded the curve of the track as a train bore down on me.
An intense wave of panic rose up inside me and I pushed against the ground. The force above me crushed down even harder. I tried to twist my head, turn my eyes to see what was above me, but could only catch a glimpse of a single gray finger that wrapped down across my nose.
The train picked up speed and a horn blared. The weight increased on my back until I could barely breathe. I thought back to the camp. I prayed that someone had come looking for me. But I kne
w there was no one. Vaguely I wondered if I would ever be found.
The train was eighty yards away and moving fast. I closed my eyes.
And then I remembered the gun in my hand.
My left shoulder was pinned, but I could move my arm at the elbow. I raised my hand up and aimed blindly behind me. I expected the gun to be slapped from my hand by whatever held me down. But . . . nothing. The train was almost on me. I held my breath, turned my head away from the barrel of the pistol as much as I could, and pulled the trigger.
Above me came a shriek. I pulled the trigger again and again. The noise was deafening and the gun bucked wildly in my hand. My eyes burned from the barrel flash and my ears rang so painfully that it took me a moment to realize the pressure on my head was gone.
I rolled off the track into the narrow space between the rail and the platform. With a blast of wind, the train roared past me. Flashing wheels hurtled just feet from my face and I braced myself as hard as I could against the wall, feeling wind pull at my clothes.
And then it ended.
The lights flickered back on. With a hiss of brakes and a sigh of hydraulics, the train came to a stop. I stayed motionless and listened for footsteps on gravel. Hearing nothing, I rolled beneath the train and to the other side of the tracks. I stood, pistol in hand. Now I knew at least one thing. That whatever had pinned me to the ground could feel pain. I glanced back under the train, looked for the body of the creature. Nothing. Not even blood. Just a disturbed sweep of gravel where it had crushed my head into the ground. I crossed between two cars and lifted myself back onto the platform.
The subway seemed empty. I moved quickly down the platform and cracked open my revolver as I walked. Two shots left. Behind me I heard the metallic whir of subway doors. I turned and looked back.
The Memory Agent Page 8