by Rain, J. R.
“If you say so,” I said and turned and left.
As I sit here now, with a drink by my side and a need for more blood raging through me, I recalled hearing the single word repeated over and over:
“Brother, brother, brother… .”
D. Salvatore
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
We were slumming at the Mystic Grill.
Tom Moore sat across from me, drinking beer from the bottle and watching a group of boisterous high school students playing pool.
“Were we ever this loud, Max?” he asked. “When we were in high school.”
“Louder, I think,” I said.
My best friend, Tom, drank more beer and shook his head. “We had more to laugh about, I guess. These kids today, they’re growing up in a different Mystic Falls. A dangerous Mystic Falls.”
Tom had a right to be cynical. Three years ago, Tom’s wife, Daphne, had been killed from yet another animal attack. This attack had occurred not in the woods, but while she was jogging through some residential streets, her normal jogging path. Tom had led a search for the creature and had returned with a dead cougar. The cougar had been shot multiple times, prompting many in the community to state that the animal attacks would now stop.
That didn’t happen, of course. There were still other attacks, and still more big cats were brought in. The local cougar community had nearly been decimated.
Anyway, Tom was coping with his loss as best he could. I knew he often drank to cope. Hell, I would have, too. I missed Daphne more than I let on. She was a true friend. She didn’t deserve what had happened to her. No one did.
After Tom drained his first and motioned for another, he looked at me. “You sounded excited on the phone.”
“I’m always excited to meet you, Tom.”
“Can the crap. You sounded like something’s wrong.”
Tom had known me all my life. We played football together all the way from pee-wee up to high school. I was the best man in his wedding and a pallbearer for his wife’s funeral. He knew me better than anyone, but even so, he got it wrong.
“Nothing’s wrong, per se.”
“What the devil does that mean?” he asked.
“Good choice of words.”
Tom turned and looked at me. He was a big guy, which is why he always played offensive line in football. He raised his eyebrows and asked, “Am I missing something here?”
For an answer, I raised my hand, palm up. I had been practicing the movement ever since returning from the woods—and ever since finding the tree branch covered in blood. I’d discovered that my palm had to be faced upward, and I had to raise my hand or hands slowly. If I raised both hands together, I got a stronger reaction. Now, I only raised my palm slowly.
Tom’s shirt began flapping. His square napkin sitting on the bar before him fluttered and then went flying.
“Jesus,” said Tom, looking over his shoulder. “Would someone close the goddamn door?”
Except the doors were closed, both front and back. And still the wind continued, clinking the wine glasses that hung upside down in the overhead rack. Napkins, receipts, and straws scuttled over the scarred wooden counter. Tom’s shirt flapped wildly and so did his thinning hair. Nearby, the pool tables’ balls began rolling around one of the tables, and a waitress who had been carrying drinks suddenly had to reach down with her free hand to hold down her short skirt.
“What the hell is going on?” asked Tom. “Where’s that blasted wind coming from?”
He looked up for a ceiling fan that wasn’t there. Then he looked at me. As he did so, I lowered my hand, and the lower it got, the more the wind subsided.
Tom didn’t put two and two together yet. After all, who would have?
But when I finally lowered my hand into my lap and the wind dissipated altogether, my good friend Tom looked at me with an expression that just might have been a combination of eight or nine different expressions mixed into one big look of confusion. And a little bit of awe.
“What the hell just happened?” he asked me.
“That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“Talk to me about what?”
I was about to open my mouth to answer, when a handsome devil at the bar caught my attention. He had blow-dried hair and wore a leather jacket. It was too warm for the leather jacket. The blowing wind didn’t seem to alarm him, not like the others in the bar, who were still looking around and chattering about it excitedly. Also, I could be wrong, but the man appeared to be listening to us, even from the far end of the bar.
Impossible, I knew, but so was controlling the wind.
“C’mon,” I said, leaving some money on the bar.
“Where we going?” asked Tom.
“Outside,” I said, leaning in and whispering. “We need to talk. Privately.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
* * *
Once we were outside and crossed Main Street, Tom grabbed my shoulder and spun me around in the town square. “What’s going on, Max?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? That was some freaky sh—”
I shrugged him off my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s keep walking.”
“Why?”
I didn’t want to tell him because I wanted to get away from Mystic Grill, or that I was certain I had seen the same guy I had been dreaming about for many months. Instead, I said, “Because walking clears my head. Let’s go.”
We continued along the outer edge of the square. It was late evening, but there were still some people about. A couple strolling together. Two friends talking and laughing on a nearby bench. The town bum urinating into a bush. When we were far enough from the Grill that my uneasiness passed, I pulled Tom over to an empty bus stop bench.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, man? Because I could swear that I saw you controlling the wi—”
I shushed him. “Not so loud, man.”
“Jesus, Max. You’re kind of freaking me out here.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“How about you start with that part about you raising your goddamn hand and the wind blowing in a closed building. And then lowering it, and the wind stopping. Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a raving lunatic.”
“You’re not a lunatic, Tom. I mean, you have some serious issues, but you’re not a lunatic.”
“This is no time for jokes, Max.”
I ran my hands through my hair and scanned the square. We were alone in this section. Across the way, I could see the Mystic Grill, with its slew of cars parked out front and people coming and going. Each time the door opened, I could hear music emanating from within.
“There’s something happening to me,” I finally said.
“You think?” said Tom, looking at me with an expression I rarely saw on his face: complete confusion. But then the confusion turned into a grin. “You’re messing with me, right? Ha! That was good one. Who all’s in on this—”
“It’s no prank or joke, Tom,” I said, and raised my upturned palm again, and as I did so, the leaves beneath my feet began swirling into a slow vortex… .
Tom gasped and moved his feet. I didn’t blame him.
As I raised my hand higher, the vortex swirled faster and faster. Today, I had discovered that I could control the shape of the wind with my mind. That the raising of my hand sort of activated the wind, and the image I held of it in my mind was what followed. In this instance, I wanted a slow vortex centered near my feet—and that’s exactly what I got.
“My God,” said Tom again. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s kinda why I wanted to see you alone.”
He continued staring down at my feet, transfixed. Hell, I was transfixed, too. “You’re doing that.”
“Yes.”
“But how?”
“I haven’t a clue.” I lowered my hand and the leaves drifted down, settling on the sidewalk once again.
> “That’s some Criss Angel ‘Mindfreak’ stuff.”
“Except this is real,” I said. “Although my mind is no less freaked.”
Tom looked at me, squinting. I saw my old friend’s mind working. Tom had worked as an insurance investigator. Although Tom was not as cool as me, he had a pretty good logical mind and saw through crap quickly. After all, he could sniff out a fraudulent claim a mile away. “Then, do it again,” he demanded.
“Tom—”
“Are you afraid?”
I laughed. “I’m not afraid. I’m just freaked out.”
Tom wasn’t listening. Instead, he shot his head up and looked around. “Over there. Do you see those piles of leaves?”
I looked to where he was pointing. It wasn’t much of a pile. It was getting dark now, but a nearby street lamp illuminated the area well enough. The leaves were piled under a big, leafy sycamore. “I see them.”
“Go over there and do the same thing, so I will know it isn’t rigged.”
“You think I’m messing with you, Tom?”
“I don’t know what to think. Just go over there and do the—”
“No,” I said.
“I knew this was a trick—”
“No, I mean, I don’t have to go over there. I can do it from here.”
So, I did. I focused my thoughts on the area in question—about 50 feet away. I raised my palm slowly and the leaves rose with them, now swirling in a slow circle.
“Holy hell,” said Tom.
I decided to remove all doubt from Tom’s mind—and maybe to show off a little. I stood and raised both my palms. As I did so, the slow-moving vortex turned into something not so slow moving. I whipped them around faster and faster, gathering more and more leaves.
“Okay, stop! Make it stop!” There was a hint of panic in his voice.
I lowered my hands and the wind subsided almost instantly. We were alone in this section of the square, but the whirlwind, which bordered on a mini-tornado, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Others were either fleeing or coming closer to check out the commotion.
“Tell me I’m dreaming,” said Tom.
“I’ve been saying the same thing all day.”
“When did this … when did this happen?”
“Today, I guess, but… .”
“But what?”
I thought about what to say, how to say it. And decided there was just no right way. It was all just too damn weird. “I started feeling off a few nights ago.”
Tom cocked his head a little. “What happened a few nights ago?”
“Nothing, other than I was watching the meteor with the rest of the town.”
“I’m not following.”
“Truth is, I’m not either,” I said, “but I’ll tell you what I know.”
The town had thrown a meteor party. This town loved to throw parties—usually, in this very square. I think it was the city council’s way of showing that everything was okay in Mystic Falls, even when things weren’t okay. Anything to make all of these disappearances and murders fade into the background of a faked normality. Anyway, there had been a school science fair, along with a big, projected countdown to the meteor. The meteor had literally shown up like clockwork. Tom had been there with his son.
“Remember that I spent some time with you and your son, but then, I excused myself?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I hadn’t been feeling well.”
“What do you mean you weren’t feeling well?” asked Tom now.
“I felt dizzy. Nauseated.”
“Go on.”
“I sat by myself, actually not too far from here, and as the countdown got closer and closer to the meteor’s appearance, I felt worse and worse. I vomited. Violently. Just barely making it to some bushes, I must have looked like the town drunk.”
“That’s my job,” said Tom, giving me a rueful smile. “Sorry, go on.”
I continued.
“I watched the countdown from the bushes, alternately heaving and looking into the sky. Food poisoning, surely, although all I could recall eating was a can of soup and a PB&J. Anyway, the sickness was growing worse. What I thought was the stomach flu turned into violent shaking, sweating, and fever. I literally felt as if I was being burned alive in my old skin.”
“Sweet Jesus,” said Tom. “I had no idea.”
“No one did. Anyway, I had just decided to haul my ass to the urgent care clinic when the countdown reached zero and the meteor appeared in the sky.”
“What happened then?” asked Tom.
“I felt better. No, I felt perfect.”
“What do you mean perfect?”
“I felt better than I had before. In fact, I felt incredible.”
“You’re not making sense, Max.”
“None of this makes sense.”
I told him more. I told him about the case and the two killed campers. About the falls, and about the bloody tree branch.
“This might just be the weirdest day anyone has ever had, ever,” said Tom.
“Tell me about it.”
“Do you think this weird wind stuff has to do with the murders?”
“I don’t know.”
“And why was the branch bloody?”
“I checked it out,” I said. “The branch had been about 30 feet up.”
“I’m not following.”
“Something bleeding had been on that branch 30 feet up.”
“Why did it break free?”
“I’m guessing it was already broken—”
“Maybe from the weight of whatever was up there,” said Tom.
“Maybe.”
He thought about it. “Leopards and cheetahs are known to bring their kills into trees,” said Tom. “Maybe cougars do the same.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Are there any cougars left in 10 square miles, though?”
He looked perplexed. “And your little windstorm trick broke free a branch that had already been about to break, thanks to the ‘cougar’ and one of the dead campers.”
“Could be,” I said, “except….”
“This windstorm you created somehow broke free this branch.” Tom nodded. His investigator instincts had thoroughly kicked in, which was what I was hoping for.
“Sounds about right,” I said, although nothing about this sounded right. It felt good to confide in him, though.
Tom clapped his hands and said, “Okay, now that we know that we’re dealing with another cougar in town, we’re going to have to figure out what the hell is going on with you … and your antics.”
I grinned, and that’s when the door to the Mystic Grill opened, and the same guy emerged. The guy who I was sure had been listening to us … the guy who might also be haunting my dreams.
Then again, I could just be going crazy.
“Let’s get the hell out of here before something else falls from the sky,” I said.
Dear Bloody Diary,
Stefan came home excited. Apparently, he’d seen something that freaked him out. I had said, what else was new? Although, admittedly, I had been damn interested. My little brother then went on to describe something freaky indeed. A windstorm in the restaurant itself.
“A windstorm?” I asked, and even as I raised my eyebrow incredulously, I felt my heart pick up a beat or two. One of the Four Elements, of course, was wind. I continued drinking my drink as casually as I could.
“It was … crazy.”
I said, “Someone left a door open—”
“The doors were closed, Damon.”
“So, what are you saying … the wind just appeared?”
“Something like that.”
“You sound insane.”
“Says the 150-year-old vampire,” said Stefan.
“So, what caused it then?”
Stefan opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again and gave me a half grin. “I don’t know.”
“You’re holding out on me, brother.”
He shrugged and headed up to his
room, moving quickly along the wide stairway of the old boardinghouse where we currently resided. “I don’t know anything,” he said and smiled and disappeared from me.
I finished my drink.
He might not know anything—or, more likely, he didn’t want to tell me what he knew. But someone, someone at the Mystic Grill had piqued his curiosity.
I think it’s time to get some answers—and to put aside this damn diary. Now, where the hell are my car keys?
D. Salvatore
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
I was in my apartment, pacing.
Tom had gone home, probably to drink the night away. Truth was, I felt like drinking more, too. Except getting drunk wasn’t going to make this problem go away.
Did I want it to go away?
“Yes,” I said to no one. “I do.”
Then again, I thought, as I turned again in front of my worn couch, it was kind of fun to see Tom’s surprise.
I quickly dropped that line of thinking. Fun or not, something very weird was happening. Yes, I lived in Mystic Falls where the weird had become commonplace, but I had always seemed to exist outside of that. On the fringe of weird, not immersed in it. My life had always been decidedly not weird, and I liked that. I preferred that.
I raised my upturned palm and a blast of wind erupted through my simple dwelling.
“Welcome to Weirdsville,” I said.
I let in some air—air from my lungs that is, and paused in my kitchen. “Why wind?” I ask. “I mean, what was the deal with that?”
For an answer, I did the only thing I could think of.
I fired up my laptop.
I poked around on the Internet for a bit and only stumbled across various witchcraft and psychic experience sites of those who claimed to control the wind. I read through the experiences, but none sounded like my own.
Still, an article on one site caught my attention: The Elementals: Earth, Wind, Fire and Water.
According to the article, Elementals were four nature spirits that embodied the elements of antiquity. The embodiments of these elements took on the characteristics of the elements. In fact, Shakespeare’s The Tempest was about a wind Elemental who aids the main character. According to legends, Elementals, under the guidance of archangels, were responsible for creating, renewing, and sustaining life.