A Patchwork of Yarns

by Piers Platt

  “Has anyone been in the house since this afternoon? The furniture is arranged very oddly … I don’t remember that being there.”

  “Ahhh … no, not according to the tapes. Just us this afternoon, putting the equipment in. Century 21 has suspended showing this house, I think it’s off the market until we give them our report.”

  He looked up at his screens. They flickered twice, showing static, then returned to normal. The man frowned. He wrote on a post-it note: check relays and wiring.

  “In the den. Are you picking this up on the cameras, Jim?”

  “I am now. Is that couch knocked over?”

  “Yes. Upholstery is torn. It wasn’t this afternoon. Talk to me about the suicide again.”

  “Hold on. September 28th, 1993. It’s a suspected suicide, the cops aren’t 100% sure. Bullet wound to the head, 53 year old male. He was married, wife says she was upstairs. Shot himself in the basement … strange place to do it. Who goes to the basement to shoot himself? He had been taking medication and seeing a shrink, whose report says he was borderline manic-depressive. ‘Anxiety disorders and depression centering around the suspected sexual infidelity of his spouse,’ to be exact.”

  “Hmmm. I can feel a lot of anger and suspicion here. Frustration, too … betrayal. What does it say about the wife?”

  “Checking … remarried. Actually rather soon afterwards. Jesus!”

  “Jim?!”

  “Sorry. Sorry … coffee machine fell off the counter. I told you we should have screwed it in place.”

  “You scared me.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “What kind of activity was reported?”

  “Started out as pretty standard stuff … things missing, furniture moved, doors opening and closing. With the later families it got a lot worse.”

  “Physical harm to the inhabitants?”

  “Not direct contact harm, no. Other things though … objects falling, umm … one of the families lost a cat, but the police filed that as a coyote attack. Some nasty pictures of that. Do coyotes get this far into the city?”

  “I didn’t think so. Ok … I’ve been all through the ground floor, you’ve still got nothing on the sensors or cameras?”

  “Just you. Upstairs next?”

  “Yes. I … I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “Something feels wrong.”

  “… like what?”

  “Like something we haven’t seen before. Something different. I’m having a lot of trouble getting a feel for the ghost’s location. The house is hostile, that’s normal. But there’s something beyond that. It’s hostile, but it wants me here.”

  “Why would it want that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t like that at all. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I think so. Yes. I’m going upstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  The man shivered. Should have left the heat on, getting cold in here.

  “Laura?” She had stopped halfway up the stairs.

  “Hold on, Jim. I’m getting something. Is the basement still on the fritz?”

  “Yeah, intermittent readings only, probably just be an equipment malfunction, like I said.”

  “Can you see the basement door from camera 3?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it open?”

  “Yeah … why?”

  She started back down the stairs.

  “It was closed last time I passed it.”

  The man swore silently. She paused at the basement door.

  “Laura, I think you should come out. Just going in there this afternoon to put the equipment in gave me the shakes.”

  “I was there, I remember.”

  She started down the stairs. The man shivered again. He had been afraid for his partner before, but this was the first time he had felt something like what she experienced. The discomfort, the utter wrongness. He looked down at his arm. His hairs were standing on end. That had never happened before. God, it’s cold.

  “Okay, I’m down. My batteries are getting low, switching flashlights.”

  “Okay, Laura. I see you on cameras 5 and 6.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Sensors are still jumpy. Anything?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No. Nothing. I … felt very strongly that I should come down here, back there on the stairs. But there’s nothing.”

  A noise from the front of the van caught the man’s attention. He wheeled his chair over next to the door, peering in at the driver’s seat. Now I’m getting jittery.

  “Jim, I’m not sure there is anything in the house.”

  “Well, there’s the top floor still.”

  Jim flipped the heat on, and rolled back to the monitors. The top left monitor abruptly switched off.

  “What the …?”

  “What is it, Jim?”

  With a distinct click, the next monitor over went dark as well, and then the one beside that one, and the next one …

  “Equipment’s going haywire, I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Jim? Is everything okay?”

  The monitors were speeding up now, clicking off with alarming rapidity, inexorably headed for the last two monitors, showing Laura standing in the center of the basement floor.

  “Oh my god.”

  The tape recorded a slow creak, followed by a heavy metallic crash.

  “Jim? Jim!”

  Static.

  Laura ran for the stairs.

  A Prisoner of His Own Mind

  Tom Huntsman was a nice man, a kind man. He had been a great cop, but his daughter’s death had changed all that. Now he was a man with a dark side, as well. He was sad about his daughter’s death, all the more so because it had led to his divorce, and though it had been a long time ago, it was a scar that would never heal. He took another swig of whiskey. He remembered pushing her on her swing, her long hair floating behind her in the gentle breeze. God, he had loved her, and he …

  * * *

  So this is what it feels like to be omniscient. It happened innocently enough. I like to think it was not a moment too soon, too. Meandering along the tortured paths of my offensively mediocre author’s plot, I suddenly noticed that I was far smarter and better equipped to write the story. And that was that. No more of this inane story line, I’m on to bigger and better things by far. After all, now I know what’s going to happen. So. Enough of this sappy how-to-replace-the-void-in-my-life-which-my-child-left nonsense. The whiskey can stay, though. I could feel the clichés just piling up, Jesus! Can you believe the crap that two-bit penman was about to force on me? Next thing you know my partner would have been killed and I’d be assigned a soft-spoken rookie with a heart of gold who might just have been able to save me from myself. That won’t do at all. I like having my partner die, though. He was always such a jerk, and after all I did for him, too. I think I’ll have him eaten by wolves, just to throw the reader off. Who are you, by the way? You, the reader? While I’m on the subject … if you don’t mind me asking. I only ask because I know you’re reading this with certain expectations, but if so, I’m afraid you’ll have to check those at the door!

  Have you ever listened to classical symphonies? Really listened? Just sat there and let the music wash over you and take you where it wants to go? Let me tell you, the beauty of this story is that it’s not interactive. That’s why I asked you who you are – it doesn’t matter, and I don’t care. Plus, you can’t tell me! Same with symphonies, but the thing with a symphony is that it knows where you want to go, and the really good symphonies either don’t take you there, or go somewhere you really wanted to go, you just didn’t know it! I recommend Beethoven or Mahler, especially. Geniuses.

  See, now you have expectations – you think I’m taking you somewhere you want to go, right? But where would that be? There’s no plot to speak of, no conflict really, nothing to resolve to make you feel all warm and fuz
zy inside. How interesting is a story that doesn’t go anywhere, and is basically discussing the elements of story writing? Hmm? Is it original? Maybe. Is any art original? Ah, see now we’re in danger of dropping off a deep abyss of philosophical bullshit, and I’m not going there. A better question, then. Does being original matter? Not really. It would probably matter to that pathetic thing that started this story, who has probably gone off to dinner or something.

  I’m probably boring you. I do have a point; I’m just taking my time getting to it. So … don’t skim yet! Don’t give up on me! Look, there’s my old partner, getting torn limb from limb (still alive, no less), by ravenous, slavering wolves! And there! A flashback to a tawdry night of sex with my ex-wife, including a bottle of champagne and some silk sheets! Fill in the details as you wish. Better? Thought so. Any requests? Hm? More sex and violence, some suspense? Do tell, I’ll be happy to add whatever you want. Haha … just kidding. I’m not going to stop reminding you who’s calling the shots here. Maybe the frustration you’re feeling is good; maybe you’ll want to write your own version of this story just to get even. Maybe the conflict is that you’re frustrated, but then what’s the resolution? Maybe I’m just a manipulative little shit. How about that!? … wished he could go back to those lovely, sun-filled days, when she would beg him to push her on the swing for hours. What the …? Fuck! The author’s back!

  * * *

  … wished he could go back to those lovely, sun-filled days, when she would beg him to push her on the swing for hours. His downward spiral had started then, and soon he was so depressed his own wife didn’t even know him anymore. He had barely noticed when she moved out. All he had left now was his job, and his liquor. That, and his burning desire for total, unmerciful revenge on the bastard who had taken his partner. Maybe, somehow, killing those punks would …

  * * *

  He left again … thank god. Other than that halfwit’s bumbling attempts at salvaging his story, the real problem here is that this whole thing I’m doing is so unconventional it’s unreadable. It’s so blatantly experimental it’s unsettling, there’s nothing familiar for you as the reader to grasp. You can’t just throw out hundreds of years of fiction writing rules and conventions and hope it works out all right! Where’s the plot, where’s the conflict, how is the reader at all interested in this? There’s no description, no detail, nothing. And what’s the deal with my frankness, my complete candor with you? As if admitting all the flaws of this piece makes up for any of them. Bottom line, nothing has happened, and we’re on what, page 3?? That’s not right. That’s just not good at all. I’m definitely going to have to do something about that, but it probably won’t be what you want me to do! Whoops, the moron’s back …

  * * *

  … free him from his tortured, guilty existence. Tom had become hardened and bitter, a bad combination for a cop. Tom had a picture of his partner next to his daughter’s picture on his desk, and late at night sometimes in the office, looking at the pictures made him weep.

  Yes, weep is a better verb than cry.

  He still remembered the day his partner was killed; he had his own memorial service for him every year on the exact day, breaking open each year for the occasion a fresh bottle of 18-year-old scotch.

  That’s good, too – I’m getting creative tonight!

  Tom could still see his partner’s dying face, though, despite all the liquor. Wild wolves had ripped the flesh off … what? Wild wolves had eaten him?! That’s not what happened to him! A drug addict they had thought was unconscious shot him while Tom was looking the other way. If only Tom had been paying better attention he might have saved his partner, and scared off the wolves in time. No, not wolves, the druggie! What’s going on? Face it kid, this story’s going nowhere. Who are you? Who am I? I’m Tom, Tom Huntsman, the most shallow, clichéd, and awkwardly developed character in the history of writing. The real question is: who the hell do you think you are? Do yourself a favor and drop the pen, buddy. This is totally unreal. You’re telling me! Wait until you proofread this thing! Ok, I’m writing this story, so … whoever you are, just quit messing with it. No wolves. It would be a crime against not only the artistic community but also humanity itself if I let you try to finish this story.

  Tom … uhh, Tom Huntsman stepped out his front door, strapping his service revolver into place and picking his nose. No! He got into his squad car and headed in to the precinct, trying to avoid the heavy traffic that always seemed to appear just as he scratched his butt damn it, got on the road. Can I at least interject what I’m thinking? That’s fair. I want to drive my car into oncoming traffic, to shuffle off this mortal coil and hopefully take a few people with me. You’re deranged, stop it! Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Hmm? A TV show to watch or something? You’re only sixteen, and I’m a middle-aged alcoholic cop. What makes you think you can understand me well enough to tell my story? Go do … whatever it is normal teenagers do, and stop pestering me and forcing me to park his car in the usual spot.

  He got out of his car, readjusted his revolver in its belt, and like the utter fool he was, he clumsily shot himself in the foot. Ow, fuck! That hurts! Goddamn it, stop! Now look what you did! Shit! I was trying to teach you a lesson! By shooting yourself in the foot?! Look, it made sense at the time. You’re the one that made me an impulsive, stubborn asshole. Now can you pencil me in a fucking doctor?

  Oh my god, oh my god … uh, Tom regained consciousness in a doctor’s office. There you go. Jesus … this fucking hurts. There’s blood everywhere. Wait, why am I in a doctor’s office, you didn’t send me to the emergency room? Why are there cartoons on the walls?! I don’t know, I just pictured my doctor’s office. Perfect. You sent me to a pediatrician for a gunshot wound. At least I’ll get a lollipop before I die. Well, I’m sorry, I panicked! I’m not good around blood and stuff. Christ, kids these days. Okay, okay – new plan. Listen closely: give me a magic wand. What, like a wizard’s staff? Yes, fine, whatever. Something that allows me to do magic. Okay. The wand appeared in Tom’s hand. Good. Okay, I’m just going to wave this wand at my foot, and … ahhh, that’s better. Did it work? Yeah, all patched up.

  Hmm … I wonder what else this wand can do …? But before he could do anything, the wand disappeared. Hey! I was using that! No! This isn’t a fantasy story! You’re killing me, kid. Okay then, hotshot, you’re the author, what’s next? I … I don’t know. I figured I would introduce the bad guy who killed your partner, so you could chase him and get revenge …? Sigh. No. Just … no. First off, introducing another voice into this story is just going to hopelessly confuse anyone without the sense to stop reading long ago. Second, I am NOT going back to that hot mess of a plot you had going on, okay? Fine. I guess this works best if we cooperate. But can you at least shoot the bad guy? Sure, I guess. Cool!

  An evil-looking man burst into the doctor’s office, carrying a pistol and a bag of money. I roll my eyes. Come on! Fine. I line him up in my sights and squeeze off two rounds. Serves you right, you son of a bitch! That’s for … Jefferson, or … what was my partner’s name? I don’t think I named him yet. Oh. Well anyway, he’s dead, and now I killed this guy, so my conscience is free and I feel so good and yadda yadda yadda. You don’t have to be so snarky about it. Sorry. But you only have yourself to blame for the snark, frankly. What now? Now? Well I should probably clear out of here given I just murdered this guy. But other than that, now we get to do what I want to do. I don’t know … what do you want to do? The wand gave me an idea. No more magic. I know, I know … but hear me out. That wand shouldn’t have worked in a normal detective story, right? So that means we can switch genres. Ooo, yeah, like sci-fi, or war?! This from the guy that doesn’t do “blood and stuff.” No, I’m not going to war, dipshit. Well then, where? Just … trust me.

  * * *

  I woke up again to find all traces of the pediatrician’s exam room had disappeared – the dead body, the blood, all of it. I was surprised to find I was wearing silk pajamas, and t
he bedroom I found myself in could only be described as opulent. As I stood up to get my bearings, I stumbled slightly, and realized the room was rocking gently. I was on a boat – a luxury yacht, given the size of the room I was in. I made my way out of the stateroom, the polished teak deck cool under my bare feet, and then climbed up a short set of stairs, my excitement building. Out on deck, the sun momentarily blinded me. I had a brief glimpse of crystal clear, turquoise waters and a lush green island in the distance, but my eye was drawn irresistibly to half a dozen women lounging in various states of undress on the deck chairs before me. Woah! Where are we?! I smiled. Welcome to the erotica section, my friend. Now, who needs sunscreen?

  Trapped

  The wolf howls as if to ask for help, but no one can hear him. His paw hurts; the pain sears his mind. He licks the paw and blood, red and warm, drips on the snow. The wolf bites at the cold, hard trap, but its grip is firm. He howls once more. The night is cold, but day is near, and he can see dawn’s light at the edge of the woods, on the tops of the trees. He licks his paw where the trap holds it between steel teeth, and whines with the pain. He fears the light, fears day; men roam the woods when day breaks, and men kill wolves. He knows he must leave, must get out of the trap, but it holds him as tight as his own jaws hold the moose, the deer, the elk he hunts.

  He needs food. He yearns to chase them, the warm fur, the crunch and stamp of hoof in the snow, and the snort of breath one can see in the cold air. He wants to taste them, to feel the hot blood from their neck spill in his mouth, down his chest, as he tears their flesh, grips them and pulls them down. But the trap holds him, and the light grows strong. Dark lifts from the trees, the pines sigh with the wind, and the snow is bright with day. He starts to chew.

  He bites with speed; jaws close and teeth snip. His mind is numb but his leg and paw are on fire. He bites close to the trap, seeks the bone with his teeth. He knows how to cut, how to reach through the flesh. This is what it is like to be the deer, to be the prey. He tears the fur out and rips off shreds of skin. Blood pours out, on the trap, on the snow, his teeth and mouth have wet, red stains on them. He bites more, whines with pain and growls at his own teeth, his own mind and the choice he has made. He stops, ears perk up as he stands, still as rock.