by Thomas O
The car shook as it went over the bumps in front of it. The man didn’t slow down, in fact, he sped up, making the ride as uncomfortable as possible for me. Soon, a small building, framed in moonlight and dirty snow, appeared in the distance. As we got closer, I saw gray paint peeling from its clapboard siding. A shabby tin roof covered the structure. The only entrance was a garage door that opened automatically as we approached.
As the car pulled into the structure I took in my surroundings. This garage was far larger on the inside than it looked on the outside. Grease covered the walls and grimy tools lay haphazardly on the floor. The only light came from a single overhead lamp and a smudgy window that let a little moonlight seep through.
The man pulled inside and revved the engine before killing it. “God damn it!” he yelled as he punched the steering wheel. I didn’t know why he was mad. “Don’t leave this car,” he demanded of me as he stepped out and walked toward a small room that was built into the corner of the garage. The man entered and closed the door behind him.
I did as he had demanded and stayed in my seat, bleeding in silence. Soon the rag became saturated with blood and I was faced with an undesirable choice – leave the car against the man’s instructions or get blood on the seats, also against the man’s instructions. I glanced around at the interior of the car, and oddly enough, it was in showroom condition. Hesitantly, I opened the door. It was well greased and moved silently. I stepped outside just as the rag absorbed its last possible drop. The next drop landed on the floor of the garage.
A new voice spoke out to me from the dark. “That looks painful.” It had come from just beyond the illuminated area created by the overhead light. “It’s okay, you can come closer.” The new voice was far less aggressive than the voice of the man who’d cut my tongue.
I waited to let my eyes fully adjust to the conditions, and eventually I was able to make out the shape of a person sitting on the ground. The new person sighed over my reluctance to go to him. “All right, hold on a minute, I’ll come to you.” I heard the clanging of chains as the form stood up.
A scraping sound, specifically metal being dragged over concrete, filled the room. As he drew nearer to the light, I could see that an automobile engine, attached to him by chains, was being dragged behind him. He huffed as he pulled his burden. The cacophonic sound of clanging links and scraping metal made me cringe. The chains were wrapped around his body and secured with several cast-iron padlocks. This man, a wretch, wasn’t going anywhere fast.
“Did he do that to you?” He pointed to my bloody mouth.
“Yeth,” I said.
The wretch in front of me laughed. “Well it looks like he fucked up, then.” He pulled closer to me and studied my face. “That’s a lot of blood. He ain’t allowed to do that to the kids.”
We studied each other for a moment. His face was smudged with grease and he wore blue coveralls. He looked like he might have been about twenty, but they were twenty hard years.
“What’d you do that got him so pissed off?” the wretch asked me. “He usually doesn’t make mistakes like that.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Hmmm, something’s got him outta sorts.” The wretch stroked the stubble on his face. “What’s your name?”
“Tharley Morrithon.” The pain and swelling in my tongue made it nearly impossible to speak.
“You said Charley Morrison?”
“Uh huh,” I uttered with a nod.
He pondered some more. “The name don’t sound important. Where do you live, Charlie?”
“Bilthforth Manthor”
“Ah ha!” he shrieked. “That’s it! That’s what’s got him so outta sorts. He had to go back there.”
I stared blankly at the wretch, waiting for an explanation.
“You see, guys like Corbin,” he pointed to the office where the man had disappeared, “they don’t like visiting places that remind them of when they were alive.”
Corbin. The man’s name was Corbin. I pondered on whether it was a first name or last name.
The wretch kept babbling. “After the state put him in the hot-chair in seventy-four, he became something of a new man. He became a disciple of the Rule Maker.”
“Whoth the Rule Makther?”
The poor wretch seemed desperate for friendly conversation. “You know, I’ve been here ten years and I haven’t totally figured that out for myself. Best I can tell, he’s some sort of demon that Corbin pledged his soul to. I don’t even know what his real name is. I just call him the Rule Maker because it seems like he lays out all sorts of rules for Corbin to follow. All I know for sure is that he sends Corbin out every Christmas Eve to destroy the lives of certain kids. He sees the same ones over and over. They’ve got some sort of master plan but I don’t know what it is.”
From inside the office, a booming voice spoke out in an inhuman language that sounded to me like chain saws and car crashes. The walls of the garage shook and my teeth rattled inside my head.
The wretch paused to listen to the voice, then spoke when it was quiet again. “That was the Rule Maker. I ain’t ever actually seen him, I only hear him. Anyway, those two really get off on messin’ up kids’ lives. Just to give you an example of what they do, one kid asked for his parents to go away, so Corbin cut their goddamn heads off. Then, he gave the heads back to the kid the following year, just ‘cause the kid said he missed them.” The wretch looked around suspiciously to make sure they were still alone. “This shit is planned out, man, and it’s totally fucked up.”
“Whyth me?”
“Like I said, I don’t know how or why he chooses his kids. All I know for sure is that he’s not actually supposed to hurt them while they’re still young. It’s the Rule Maker’s number one command. He’s just supposed to screw with ‘em... take their wishes and twist them around.”
More of the booming voice came from the room, and Corbin could be heard arguing back in the same indecipherable language.
“Man, the Rule Maker’s pissed,” the wretch said with an almost gleeful laugh. “Whatever Corbin had planned for you, it’s going to be totally different now. He’s going to have to make amends for hurting you.”
The voice of the Rule Maker exploded again. For a moment, it felt as if the whole building was going to collapse around me. When it stopped, Corbin yelled back in English, “No, I don’t want to give her up! She’s my first kil...” He was cut off by a scream from the Rule Maker that was so loud that cracks formed along the dirty window and paint chips fell from the ceiling above.
“Fine! I’ll do it!” Corbin shouted in anger and resignation.
The door to the office opened and Corbin backed out slowly. He genuflected as he passed through the doorway. His angry stare began to fade from his face. Turning, he noticed me and the wretch. “Stop talkin’ to him before I cut your damn hand off,” he said to my new acquaintance.
“Yes sir!” The wretch snapped up and saluted.
“Get back in the car,” Corbin demanded as he threw a clean rag at me.
Not wanting to further upset him, I jumped into the passenger side of the car while the garage door began to open. In the side-view mirror I could see the wretch lift his arm up and wave goodbye. The car peeled out and sped from the building, clearing the bottom of the door by only a hair. The last I saw of the wretch, he was standing amid a cloud of rubbery smoke looking dejected.
The car tore over a fog enshrouded road while its headlights reflected backwards and created a glowing white aura around it. The engine protested and growled as Corbin shifted into the highest gear. I couldn’t see more than five feet out the window, but Corbin only went faster. I looked at the speedometer... 120... 130... 140.
I felt woozy and laid my head back against the headrest and shut my eyes. The pitch of the engine went higher and higher until it faded away completely.
I came to. Had I been unconscious? The night was clear, with no sign of fog. I saw dirty snow banked up along the edges of the road a
nd the car was traveling at a relatively sane speed. We drove for several more minutes in silence until Corbin slammed on the brakes and skidded along the asphalt.
He turned and glowered at me. “Here’s the deal, if you can save the girl, you can save yourself.”
“What girl?” I asked with the sudden awareness that my mouth no longer hurt. I stuck my tongue out and felt along its side. I could feel a lump of scar tissue, but it was otherwise healed.
“You’ll figure out who she is soon enough.” He reached over me and opened my door. “You’ve been given one chance, which I’ve never given to any kid before. Save her and you’ll never see me again. If you don’t, I’ll be comin’ back for you.”
I stepped out of the car, confused about my mission. A moment later the car peeled out and drove off, its rear wheels spitting pebbles at my face. Soon, I was alone. The moonlight reflected off the snow, providing me with at least a little bit of light to take in my surroundings. One of the nearby hills looked familiar, like something I’d seen around my home. I walked that direction and crested it within minutes. From the peak, I found myself looking down on Biltfort Manor, yet, something seemed different about it. The cars parked in the manor’s roundabout driveway didn’t belong to my family – they were older style cars that I didn’t recognize. As I trudged through the slushy snow and drew closer, small details came into view that confirmed that something wasn’t quite right. The curtains in the windows were the wrong color. Plants and hedges were different, and the Christmas trees, the ones that were all in a magnificent line, seemed to be smaller from when I’d last seen them.
The front door opened and a well-dressed couple emerged onto the front stoop. The woman, who was holding some neatly wrapped gifts, descended down the stairs, followed by the man. They were deep in conversation as they went to one of the cars and opened the trunk.
“Hello?” I shouted to the couple. They both cocked their heads as if they heard something, like I might have been shouting at them from a mile away.
“Did you hear that?” the woman asked the man.
The man shrugged his shoulders. A moment later, a boy, who was maybe a couple of years younger than me, emerged from the front door and ran to the couple. “Shut the door,” the man said to the child, “and make sure it’s locked.” The child ran back up the porch stairs to make sure the house was secured.
“Can you help me?” I asked with uncertainty.
They gave no response, continuing to fret amongst themselves about being late for whatever gathering they were going to. Their conversation was meaningless to me, right up to the point when I heard the woman mention the name Corbin. I froze and listened intently. “... so I put Corbin to work today, mostly some gardening out back, but I also had him dig a hole to plant the Christmas tree.”
“Already?” asked the man who I assumed to be her husband. “It’s barely Christmas Eve. Why the rush?”
“Have you seen the tree?” she asked. “It’s dry. If we wait too much longer there won’t be anything left to put in the ground.
We won’t be breaking fifty-plus years of tradition on my watch.”
“Yes, he agreed, “I suppose it’s starting to get a little dry.” The three of them loaded into the car and drove off without ever acknowledging my presence.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but I decided there would be little to gain by standing around outside. I had a task – a mission even. I had to push onward. I went to a side door and tried the handle to see if it was unlocked, but I found myself unable to grip it. As I clamped my hand down, the doorknob felt soft, like it was made of dough, and my hand actually sank into its rubbery surface. I gasped and pulled my hand back. Collecting myself, I put my hand out again, this time pushing on the door itself. As before, the door, which should have been rock-solid, felt like dough that my hand could pass through. I put my arm all the way in, then kept pushing. In a few moments my shoulder was through as well. I took a deep breath and then thrust my leg through. I was half inside and half out, which was an extremely odd sensation. I continued on, pushing my head, and then the rest of my body, into the home. I turned and looked at the door I had just gone through. It was solid as ever.
I explored the house, room to room, with my confusion growing as I saw that all of the furniture and decorations were different from what was supposed to be there. When I got to the kitchen I finally saw it, a wall calendar from 1958. That confirmed a suspicion I’d been having – I was out of my own time.
Not wanting to waste time by pondering my situation, I continued exploring, looking for the “her” who I was supposed to save. I checked every room in the manor, and soon it was clear that nobody was home. As I passed by one of the backrooms, I saw, through the window, a bunkhouse to the rear of the property. It was a small, cozy structure with light emanating from inside. This bunkhouse wasn’t something I’d ever seen before - it didn’t exist in my time period. I left the manor and headed over to the unfamiliar building.
As I approached, I could see that the bunkhouse was not kept up nearly as well as the manor house. “Hello?” I spoke as I peered into a window. I could see that it was a two-room structure, with the front room doubling as a workshop. In the corner, I could see the back of a man who appeared to be fixing a lawn mower. His shaggy hair fell over his shoulders. In my heart, I already knew who it was, Corbin. I heard the wretch’s words sound in my head, You see, guys like Corbin, they don’t like visiting places that remind them of when they were alive. It was clear that thirty years before my time, Corbin had not only worked as a handyman at Biltfort Manor, but had lived there as well.
My goal was somewhere inside of that bunkhouse, I was sure of it. I entered the same way I’d entered the Manor, by stepping through a closed door. Corbin didn’t seem to hear me, until he did. The clicking of his ratchet stopped cold as he jerked his head up. “Who’s there?” he asked. I stood still. Turning and looking in my direction, he spoke louder, “I said who’s there?”
He couldn’t see me. I took the opportunity to study his face. He was definitely the same man who’d cut my tongue, but he looked much younger, more vibrant. His face was fuller and his teeth weren’t nearly as nasty.
“What do you want here?” He spoke in my direction, but his gaze fell somewhat to my left.
He fetched a pack of cigarettes from the tabletop next to him and took a moment to light one.
“You’re the one who brought me here,” I said. He cocked his head, but it was obvious that he couldn’t make out what I was saying. I must’ve sounded like a fly or a gnat to him.
A light thumping sound came from the back room. Corbin instantly decided there was nothing of interest in front of him and shouted behind him, “damn it girl, you best not be makin’ noise!” He walked to the bedroom door and kicked it open. Inside, I could see a girl sitting on the floor. She was chained to the bedpost, and she looked miserable in a ratty gray dress and old slippers. I guessed she was probably about twelve or thirteen years old. The girl shivered in fright. It was her, the one I was expected to save.
Corbin reached back and slapped her. “I said shut up!” he screamed as the poor thing winced in pain. Without another word, he walked out, slamming the door shut behind him. By then I had walked into the bedroom – it was just me and her. She waited a minute after he left, then reached under the bed and pulled out a long file. She looked at the door to make sure Corbin wasn’t coming back any time soon, then slowly started rubbing the file against one of the links of her chain. She’d already created a large divot, even though the file was dull. She must’ve been working on it for days. At least the dullness made for quiet work.
The poor girl was filthy and ragged. Black circles ringed her eyes. She paused from her filing and looked up, sensing something in the room with her.
“Hello?” she whispered.
“Can you hear me?” I whispered back.
“Yes, I can hear you. Where are you?”
“I’m right in fron
t of you,” I said.
I hadn’t meant to scare the girl, but it was understandable when she jumped back in fear. She banged into the bed, pushing it backwards. She shot a fearful look at the door, hoping that Corbin wouldn’t come barging back inside. From the other room, the sound of the ratchet turning stopped for what seemed like an eternity, but soon the clicking picked up again.
“I won’t hurt you,” I told the girl. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Magda.”
“I’m Charlie,” I told her. She reached out her hand to where I was sitting, and I felt its coldness as her fingers passed through my face.
She shivered. “I can feel you!” She managed a small smile.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her.
She told me her story in whispers and gestures. Corbin had purchased her from her father a couple of months earlier, who himself had kept her locked up in a cabin for several years. She recounted some happy memories from her early childhood, when her mother was still alive, but the second half of her existence had been one of misery. As she told it, nobody except her father and Corbin even knew she existed.
For the next hour I was Magda’s guest. She was happy to have someone to talk to, even someone she couldn’t see. Her years of captivity hadn’t broken her spirit, and she talked to me in excited whispers, telling me all of her hopes. I listened, the first person to do so in years, probably. “Do you want to see something secret?” she asked me. I told her yes. She moved to the nearest corner and lifted a small slab of rock from the floor, exposing a hidden compartment within the foundation of the bunkhouse. She reached inside and pulled out her single treasure, a small doll she had created out of various scraps that were left over after Corbin had readied that year’s Christmas tree. “This is Perla,” she told me as she held the doll up before cradling it like a baby. It was pathetic, made from bits of burlap and sticks tied together with twine. Its head was a small, closed pinecone that was nearly falling off.