by A. I. Nasser
Kyle frowned. "No, I don't," he said. "He asked for me?"
Tracey nodded. "Yup," she said, pointing to some obscure place behind her. "Took a seat at one of the tables by the windows. I honestly thought he looked real suspicious, so I told him you weren't here, but he said he'd wait."
Kyle's frown deepened. He didn't know any priests, and it was rare for him to get visitors at the library. He was used to bumping into random fans at the bar or during his shopping runs, but they were always people he knew by name. Most had grown up with him and respected his privacy, giving him the space he needed ever since he came back home.
"Can you continue here?" he asked, pushing the cart to Tracey.
"Sure," she replied. "Just yell if you need me to come chase him away."
Kyle nodded and made his way down the aisle of books to the front of the library where massive tables were lined in rows close to the large windows looking out onto North Main Street. The library was usually empty at this time of the day, the sun already beginning to set outside. The last hour before closing time was usually spent restacking the shelves and cleaning up, and Kyle was prone to finding a secluded corner where he could do a little reading before driving to Kingsley's for a drink.
A visitor right now cut into his daily routine, and frustration had begun to set in even before Kyle saw the man sitting alone at the end of one table, hat set in front of his neatly folded hands. He wore a black suit, with a matching black tie and button-down shirt, and his white hair was combed back perfectly, revealing dark gray eyes that seemed to pierce into Kyle's soul as the man watched him approach.
"Mr. Ashfeld," the man greeted, standing up and reaching a hand out to Kyle. Kyle took it, then gestured for the man to sit back down. "Thank you."
Kyle sat opposite him, folding his arms across his chest.
"I must apologize for barging in on your place of employment this way," the man began, "but I assure you, I would not be so bold if it were not of the gravest importance."
Kyle frowned. "I'm sorry," he said, "but who are you?"
"Ah, yes, apologies again," the man smiled. "I am so preoccupied, I've forgotten to introduce myself completely. My name is Connor Fegan."
"And how did you find me, Mr. Fegan?"
Fegan chuckled. "Well, it's not like you are an obscurity in this world, Mr. Ashfeld."
"That's not what I meant," Kyle said, instantly suspicious. He had always been warned about fans turned stalkers, and if Connor Fegan had been able to find him, then nothing good was going to come out of this. Besides, as a horror author, Kyle had a habit of attracting the crazy. He had just hoped that moving back to Kent and out of the spotlight would have eliminated that.
"Let me put your mind at ease," Fegan said. "I'm not here for an autograph."
"Then what are you here for?"
Fegan leaned forward and looked Kyle directly in the eye. "Do you believe in prophecies, Mr. Ashfeld?"
"Are you a priest, Mr. Fegan?"
Fegan smiled. "Of sorts."
"Of sorts?"
"Faith comes in many shapes and forms."
"So do cults."
Fegan hesitated, his smile still plastered on his face, but his eyes showed that he wasn't amused. "I assure you, Mr. Ashfeld, I am here for a very important reason. A matter of life and death. And it involves you."
Kyle sniffed, looked over his shoulder at where Tracey was watching from between the shelves, then mirrored Fegan's posture and leaned in. "Mr. Fegan, if you know anything about me, then you'll know I came to Kent to get away from the strange and weird."
"I thought it was to escape the memory of your wife and son."
Kyle inhaled deeply and leaned back. "I don't know you, Mr. Fegan, so I'm going to strongly suggest you don't bring up my family."
Fegan held a hand up and nodded. "I apologize," he said. "The last thing I'd want to do is aggravate you. But I am not lying when I say that you are crucial to the matter at hand."
Kyle eyed him for a moment, trying to decide whether to humor the man or send him on his way. He knew that a simple gesture to Tracey would have her dialing the Sheriff's office in an instant, but he couldn't deny his curiosity. Fegan might have been a little odd, but whatever he was here to say obviously bothered him, and that spiked Kyle's curiosity.
"Fine," Kyle sighed. "I'll bite."
"Witching hour, Mr. Ashfeld," Fegan began. "Do you know of it?"
Kyle nodded. "Wrote a book about it."
"I know," Fegan replied. "I read it. Quite interesting, despite being a work of fiction."
"Your point, Mr. Fegan?"
"The common misconception is that this unholy hour is a daily occurrence. At the stroke of midnight, all the evil we know and don't know comes out to wreak havoc on our world. It's been attributed to witch hunts, Halloween, ghost sightings, everything that people cannot explain."
Kyle nodded, remembering some of the research he had done for his book, now only scraps of notes at the back of his mind where all his other mundane memories had gone to rest. Fegan seemed to be simply reciting what every mystic blog and website on the internet had to offer.
"The truth, Mr. Ashfeld, is that the witching hour occurs only once every century, on a specific night, and the repercussions are usually disastrous."
Kyle frowned, a small smile escaping him. "The witching hour is a myth, Mr. Fegan. We use it to spook our kids into getting them to sleep early. Sure, it's probably been blown out of proportion every now and then, commercialized to an extreme, but nothing more."
"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Ashfeld," Fegan replied. "Every one hundred years, on the second Friday of September, events are put into motion that lead to catastrophic consequences. Almost every disaster caused by man can be traced back to a butterfly effect starting on that date."
"One night?" Kyle raised his eyebrows in skepticism. "You're trying to convince me that one night every century is the cause for all of man's suffering? You really want me to believe that?"
"It's not a belief," Fegan shook his head, his face twisting in frustration. "It's a truth that you will have to accept, because you, Mr. Ashfeld, have been chosen to stop the next set of events from taking place."
Kyle would have laughed if he hadn't been a little annoyed at how much time he was wasting with this man. It all seemed a little too rehearsed, a sketch Connor Fegan had probably worked on for months before finding his way here from God knows where just to reenact it for Kyle. In retrospect, he shouldn't have been too surprised. He'd had fans come to him before, stringing along fantastical tales that they believed – knew would be – the next bestseller, if only Kyle would write the story. He was just waiting for the punch line when Fegan would sit back, smile, and ask to be credited for his wonderful concoction.
"Mr. Fegan, I've left the horror stories behind a long time ago," Kyle said. "Don't get me wrong, there are days when I believe I can really get myself to do it again, but those days are rare, and the outcomes are nil." Kyle stood up. "I'm sorry for the trouble you've gone through to find me, but unfortunately, you're wasting your time."
Fegan slammed his hand down on the table, and Kyle flinched as the sound echoed throughout the empty library. Tracey stepped out from between the aisles, ready to pounce, and Kyle quickly stopped her with a raise of his hand.
"This is no game, Mr. Ashfeld!" Fegan yelled. "The next witching hour is tonight. Six individuals will be touched by an evil so great, so terrible, it would make your greatest nightmares seem like fairytales. Events will be set in motion that will lead to some of the worst catastrophes history will ever record. And you dare to ignore me!"
Kyle waited for the man to calm down. Fegan's face had turned a bright red. His hand was shaking, and his chest rose and fell in swift, angered breathing. His gray eyes squinted at Kyle menacingly, the anger radiating from him like a heavy cloak of negative energy. Kyle held the man's gaze for a few seconds before he turned to Tracey and nodded. She dashed for the telephone.
"W
e're going to call the police now, Mr. Fegan," Kyle said. "I suggest you leave before this conversation escalates to a point where you and I are going to have a lot of explaining to do."
Fegan's eyes darted to where Tracey was dialing the sheriff's number, and he looked back at Kyle with eyes that were less angry and more somber. Kyle almost felt sorry for the man.
"Very well," Fegan said, standing up and grabbing his hat, holding it close to his chest. "You are making a grave mistake by not heeding my warning. But then again, you will come face to face with the truth soon enough." He fumbled in his suit pocket, then dropped a box of matches on the table. "I'm staying at the Kent Country Inn. When you realize this is not a joke, you can find me there."
Connor Fegan pulled on his hat, then turned and made for the library door. Kyle picked up the box of matches, stared at it for a second, then called out, "Don't hold your breath."
Fegan stopped but didn't turn around. "Tonight is the witching hour. The first of the six will show you that I am telling you the truth."
"How would I even know who the first one is?"
Fegan looked over his shoulder, and Kyle felt his blood freeze when he saw the smile on the man's face. "Because she's in Kent, Mr. Ashfeld."
***
Helen Lint stared at her phone and felt tears stinging her eyes.
Steven was furious. She had spent the last ten minutes trying to explain why she had to stay late, but hadn't been able to get more than a few words in at a time between his bursts of rage and shouting. And with every word, every accusation he threw at her, she felt like a knife was being wedged deeper and deeper into her heart.
He hadn't even asked when she would come home. Once he was done with what he had to say, he had hung up on her. She doubted they were ever going to come back from this.
Setting her phone down next to the stack of files she had to go through, she looked through the glass divider that separated her office from the empty cubicles beyond. Everyone had left an hour before. Some of her colleagues had waved at her before leaving, wishing her a good night, and she envied each and every one of them.
A few fluorescents had been left on, casting shadows across the empty workplace. Across the rows of cubicles she could see the light coming from Jack's office, and she frowned in anger. Steven's words played over and over again in her head, and she suddenly felt a deep resentment towards it all. The job that was taking her away from her family, her irritating manager with his annoying winks and the way he constantly undressed her with his eyes; her husband for not trying to understand. Helen felt it all on her shoulders like an incredible weight threatening to break her into a thousand pieces, and she would never be able to be put back together again.
She needed it all to go away. She wanted to close her eyes, count to ten, and open them to a life where her problems didn't exist anymore. Miraculously solved just by wishful thinking.
Helen blew her nose, put her glasses on, and pulled out the first file of the night.
She didn't notice the fluorescent lights flickering.
Chapter 3
Kingsley was crowded tonight.
Stepping in, Kyle was instantly struck by the noise and fog of cigarette smoke that escaped through the door like a horde of children racing out of a classroom. The jukebox played an old Rolling Stones tune, and somehow a few people had made enough space for themselves to dance, despite how stacked the bar was. Kyle weaved through the crowd, making his way to the bar where he found an empty seat at the far end close to the bathrooms. The bartender saw him, waved, and gave Kyle a thumbs-up, letting him know that his drink was on its way.
Kyle drummed his fingers on the bar counter and watched the crowd around him. Many of the faces were familiar, childhood friends and acquaintances who would occasionally lift a glass towards him in greeting or simply make due with a friendly smile. Kyle returned each in turn and waited for his own drink, letting his mind wander.
Because she's in Kent, Mr. Ashfeld.
Kyle rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and blinked several times, trying to push Connor Fegan's words to the furthest corner of his mind. He wouldn't let the man's crazy rant ruin his night, even though there wasn't much to ruin in the first place. A few beers and a short ride home, then he would succumb to another night of nightmares and shadows that moved in his bedroom, begging to be acknowledged.
That smile.
Kyle shivered. If he could rid himself of Fegan's words, he wouldn't be able to forget that smile as easily. It was a knowing smile, one of a man who was confident that time would prove him right, and that he had no problems playing the I-told-you-so card. It was a look that came with a promise that, since he had been ignored once, he would show the same courtesy when Kyle finally came calling. And it was clear that he believed Kyle would. It was that certainty that worried Kyle the most.
Tonight is the witching hour. The first of the six will show you I am telling the truth.
Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again and turned his attention to the TV hanging above the bar. There was a replay of a baseball game, and he decided it would suffice to take his mind off of Fegan for the time being. The bartender brought Kyle his beer just as he was lighting a cigarette, and then quickly returned to the other guests. Kyle took a long gulp, rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes again and returned to the game.
"Mr. Ashfeld?"
Kyle didn't hear his name at first, and only turned when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. The brunette standing in front of him looked familiar, clad in denim jeans and a yellow top, both of which accentuated her curves. He frowned as he tried to place her.
Aley Davis smiled. "From Mauri's," she said. "I met you this morning when you came in for cigarettes and the paper."
Kyle nodded in recognition and tried a friendly smile, although it felt awkward. Kingsley was his getaway from the need to socialize. Everyone here usually came with friends and were generally uninterested in the lonely man at the bar cradling a beer and smoking his Lucky's. Besides, one stranger a night, he felt, was where he drew the line, and after his meeting with Fegan, he thought he was good for a few weeks ahead.
"I remember," Kyle said.
Aley pointed at the empty stool beside him. "Do you mind?"
Kyle did, but he shrugged and gave her the go-ahead. He watched her climb onto the stool and gesture to the bartender before turning to face him. He remembered thinking she was attractive back when he first saw her at Mauri's. But in the dim light of the bar, she looked stunning.
Aley smiled. "I wanted to apologize about this morning."
"What for?" Kyle asked, taking another sip from his beer. He offered her a cigarette and she shook her head.
"The way I was staring," she replied. "Well, gawking actually. I'm really sorry, I must have freaked you out."
Kyle waved the apology away and took a long drag from his cigarette. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I was staring, too."
"It's just, I recognized you, but couldn't place you."
"It seems you finally did."
Aley nodded. "Maureen helped," she said, "although I should be slapping myself for not figuring it out myself. Believe it or not, we actually met before."
Kyle raised an eyebrow questioningly and waited while she thanked the bartender and took a long sip from her beer. "Book signing," she said. "You signed my copy of Shelter."
Kyle chuckled, remembering his first book tour and just how long ago it had been. Back then he had still been living in Kent and was only a few months away from moving to California with Jennifer and the six-month-old bump she was carrying. That was almost a decade ago.
"That was an awful book," Kyle said.
"Some would argue against that," Aley frowned. "Not every author has his first novel in the top ten."
Kyle smiled. "It wasn't my first novel. It was the first one that got published."
"I'd still call that a win."
Kyle's smile widened. Flashes of his previous life came rus
hing to him, nights spent in his old room typing away at one manuscript after the other, collecting rejection slips with Jennifer urging him on as she worked double shifts. Sheets upon sheets of handwritten notes he had filled while working at this very bar; a young man with ambitions and expectations. Shelter had turned his life around. But he wasn't going to forget how much of his life had been spent trying to make it work one day at a time, hoping that nothing too big to handle would come along and knock his carefully balanced existence over.
One word at a time.
That's what Jennifer had always told him when he was close to giving up, when the words just wouldn't come, when life had him by the balls and just wouldn't let go. She had been there through it all, making sure he never lost sight of the end game. She balanced encouragement with tough love, and made it all seem easy. Sometimes she would leave him a note by his PC with little messages like 'I believe in you' or 'Sex sells, try that'. And even when the two lines had appeared on the pregnancy test, she had instantly dispersed his worries by telling him that the baby had better not get his sick mind.
Kyle felt a small stab in his chest and took a long drag from his beer.
"Aley Davis."
"Sorry?" Kyle turned to Aley and frowned in confusion.
"My name," Aley said. "You didn't ask, so I thought I'd just put it out there."
Kyle laughed. "Yeah, sorry, I'm better at writing dialogue than actual conversation."
"That's fine," Aley smiled. "I'm sitting at a bar with Kyle Ashfeld. I'll mark that off my bucket list."
Kyle laughed again. "That was on your bucket list?"
"I'm a fan, guilty as charged," she said. "Besides, you made it easy for me to sift through the endless manuscripts that ended up on my desk. The first page was usually enough to let me know what I was getting into."
"You worked in publishing?"
"Pippen's," Aley nodded.
"Wow?" Kyle raised his eyebrows in surprise. "How did you get that?"
"A lot of free hours interning."