The Time Eater

by Aaron J. French

  I softened my expression. “Yes, I can do that.”

  She smiled and craned her neck to kiss my nose. A quick, bird-like peck. I quivered at the sensation of her lips.

  “What do you say we make breakfast together?” she asked.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Great.”

  I followed her into the kitchen.

  * * *

  We spent most of the day together. It was strange, but for so long I had avoided women, and here I was clinging to one like a newborn. The way she spoke and the way she responded to me felt new and different. She never yelled or told me what to do. Of course, it was impossible for me to ignore some of the similarities she shared with Jenny… but even those were few, and forgivable.

  James refused his breakfast on account of being exhausted, so Annabelle and I sat down at the kitchen table and we ate the meals we’d prepared for ourselves. We were becoming pros at this eating together game; it provided the best opportunities for intimacy. Later, when Norma showed up, I received a proper introduction.

  “This is Roger Borough,” Annabelle said, handing the woman a cup of coffee. “He and James were friends in college. Now he’s come back to… spend some time with James.”

  Norma gave one quick nod. “Awfully kind of you to do that. Lord knows he needs it.”

  She wore blue scrubs and had a face mask and stethoscope dangling around her neck. Though middle-aged, her skin was smooth and unwrinkled, her hair thick and straight, tied back in a ponytail. She seemed soft, her full figure lending her a maternal quality.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking her small hand.

  “You guys old drinking buddies?” she asked.

  I grinned. “Something like that. We lived the bachelor’s life together for a while, until we both graduated and got married.”

  Norma glanced at Annabelle. “Would that be the, uh… Celeste woman?”

  Annabelle nodded.

  Norma shook her head and made a sound in her throat.

  “Did I tell you she’s missing?” Annabelle said.

  “Missing? Nah. Do you mean missing, as in missing person—CSI: New York, Law and Order—that kind of missing?”

  “Yes, that kind. That’s where I was when you came over yesterday. The police called, asked to talk to James, but I told them he wasn’t able to speak to anyone. They agreed to talk to me instead.”

  “And?”

  She threw up her hands. “I went down to the police station and answered their questions, but I had no idea what to say. Celeste is missing, what do I care? Who knows the kind of trouble that bitch gets into.”

  “You’re obviously sympathetic,” Norma said with a smirk. “Was it enough for them? Or do they still want to speak to James?”

  Annabelle sighed. “I don’t know. I think my visit to the police station satisfied them for a while. But… if she doesn’t turn up soon, I have the feeling they’ll be poking their noses around.”

  Again, Norma shook her head. “A real shame what you people get up to out here in Brooklyn. Me, I prefer my safety—down near Jersey!”

  I laughed out loud, but Annabelle sat there with that worried expression on her face.

  “Good to see one of you has a sense of humor,” she said, smiling at me. I went mushy all over. Her eyes were a brilliant reddish-brown and seemed to sparkle the harder I stared at them. For a moment I felt I could see into her, and I realized she was a woman of strange intelligence.

  “I think I’ll go check on the patient,” she said, hurrying upstairs.

  “She’s nice,” I said after she had gone.

  Annabelle smiled. “I’m glad you like her.” Then she took my hand. “But I’m even more glad you decided to stay for a while. I feel so much brighter just having you around. I had heard stories about people losing their marbles over caring for a sick relative, how much strain it puts on you, but I guess I didn’t believe it. Still, I know I’m doing the right thing.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Whatever I can do to help, let me know.”

  She lowered her eyes. “That’s very sweet. And I hate to do this—especially after the nice time we had last night—but all this has really put me behind. If you could just… I dunno, entertain yourself for a while so I can get some work done—”

  “Say no more. I have an errand I need to run in the city. I was wondering if I could borrow your car again?”

  “Yes, of course. But is it possible you could be back by six to give James his dinner? I’ll make it, if you’ll bring it to him. I’ll take care of his lunch after Norma leaves around noon.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  I sensed the layers of stress falling off her. She lifted her head, smiling now. “Wonderful, Roger. I get so nervous about my work, about getting buried. Even though I’ve been doing this a while, it’s still a challenge. I’m totally independent and it’s up to me to handle everything. When I was a nurse, there was a doctor to defer to and… these days it’s just me. I have to take care of myself. This fucking golf project is a pain. I keep collecting emails from prospective clients, but I haven’t had a chance to respond to them. If I don’t soon, they’ll find someone else—”

  I stopped her by leaning forward and kissing the side of her mouth. It was spontaneous. I kept hearing the anxiety in her voice, how she kept feeding into it. My immediate impulse was to soothe her.

  Worriment vacated her face and she gave me doe eyes. “Roger Borough, aren’t you fresh,” she said, imitating an English accent.

  “A gentleman at your mercy,” I replied.

  The exchange pleased her; or perhaps the kiss itself had pleased her. She stood from the chair and very brazenly got in my lap. The warmth of our bodies mixed, driving up my heart rate. I put my arms around her waist, the ends of her long black hair tickling my skin. Then she bent and kissed me. Nothing modest, nothing timid; a full-on, mouth-to-mouth, sappy-as-hell smoocher.

  It felt so foreign. How long had it been? Not really since Jenny. A few stolen bar-kisses here and there while I was drunk, but nothing like this. I thought I had forgotten how to do it, but I soon realized it was like riding a bicycle.

  We sat kissing passionately for several minutes, the quiet house surrounding us, morning sun streaming through the kitchen window above the sink. Her tongue quested through my mouth, and I put my fingers in her luxurious hair.

  A loud noise upstairs ended the moment. James, yelling, words garbled with anger.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  Annabelle appeared unfazed. Smiling, she got out of my lap and straightened her clothes. “He always yells when Norma puts him in the bath. It’s a game he plays. He claims it’s such an outrage to be treated like a baby, but on the other hand he likes it when Norma pays attention to him.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a pause. I could still hear James’s shouting. I listened, thinking about the thing behind reality, whether it occupied James’s body during moments like this.

  “I liked kissing,” Annabelle said.

  I smiled at her. “Me too. Very much. Best kiss of my whole life.”

  She laughed. “Don’t get carried away. I’m off to get a jump on work.” She started for the stairs.

  “Okay. Oh—I meant to ask you. Is there a computer with internet?”

  “In the living room. Be sure to turn it off when you’re done. What’s the errand you have to run?”

  I thought about lying, but realized it would probably be a bad move. Instead I decided to tell her without explaining. “I have to find a bookstore,” I said. “One that specializes in the occult.”

  To my surprise, she merely nodded and continued upstairs.

  Chapter Eight

  According to Google, there were only two bookstores in New York dealing in rare manuscripts and specialty occult texts. One was in Albany. The other, fortunately, was in Manhattan, Hell’s Kitchen area. I pulled up the directions on my smartphone, got in Annabelle’s car, and headed for the city.

>   I tried to remember the title of the book we had used to summon the thing behind reality. My memory was blurry, though bits and pieces had begun to return. Apart from the Ohio State library, I recalled the little used bookstore on the eastside of Columbus I liked to frequent. It was strange how deeply this memory had submerged in my unconscious, surfacing only now after my conversation with James.

  Randolf’s Rare Books, I reflected, owned by that buzzardly old lunatic Randolf. He was the one to help me understand the more complex aspects of occultism.

  The two of us spent hours talking, discussing the various spells I was casting around campus. Randolf was a good listener, and he knew more about the occult than anyone. For a while, he was like a second father figure to me. He didn’t practice any of the occult arts himself, yet he was never surprised when I recounted my successes to him. He regarded matters of the supernatural with a kind of banal acceptance, which I had found both confusing and impressive.

  Randolf would’ve died long ago, and so there was no hope of ever contacting him. I’d run a Google search on his bookstore, and the listing came back closed. There was a phone number, but it led to a We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service message. It seemed the days of Randolf’s Rare Books had come to an end.

  But I remained hopeful that seeing the book again might jog my memory about the ritual we performed. Still, there was no guarantee. The bookstore near Hell’s Kitchen most likely wouldn’t carry what I was looking for, even if I could remember the book’s name. At the very least, however, I could pick up some kind of occult book to help me fill in the gaps.

  As the stream of traffic entered the tunnel leading to Manhattan, the light became halved. I switched on the headlights. Still dazed, I coasted through the concrete corridor on autopilot, letting my hands do the driving. Dimly glowing artificial lights passed overhead, blurring together in a continuous glare.

  I probed the inner regions of my mind, interrogating memories, analyzing images, and examining thoughts. I attempted to uncover whatever events my unconscious had repressed from the period surrounding my college years. The deeper I dug, the more I seemed to uncover.

  Jesus. It feels like I’ve forgotten half my life.

  I emerged from the tunnel and the sunlight struck me so brightly I was momentarily blind. Mechanically, I switched off the headlights, reducing my speed. The buildings and structures of Manhattan distinguished themselves from the glare, and I happened to glance in the rearview mirror—to find Jenny sitting in the backseat.

  “Hello, Roger,” she said.

  My heart stopped, panic flooding me. I nearly lost control of the wheel. I had to slam on the brakes, almost rear-ending the car up ahead, and then the car behind me began honking. In true New York fashion the driver stuck his head out the window as he roared past, yelling, “What’s yah problem, asshole?”

  I closed my eyes, reminding myself to breathe. Relax, take deep breaths, visualize calm. There’s no one in the backseat.

  That worked until I opened my eyes again and saw Jenny sitting, not in the backseat now, but right next to me up front, so close I could reach out and touch her.

  “Jesus!”

  She grinned. “No. But you’re close.”

  She wasn’t the young Jenny anymore. She was older, closer to my age. Her skin had grooves and the hint of wrinkles, and there was a slight yellow to her complexion.

  “Good thing you’re not really there,” I said. “Because you’re finally starting to look your age.”

  She chuckled. “Thanks, same to you. I felt you were ready to see me as I truly am instead of that glamorized image you’ve kept locked inside your head for however-many years. I’ve aged, Roger, same as you. That’s what time does to people.”

  “Don’t lecture me about time.” I felt the anger rising in my throat, and I marveled at how quickly it could sneak up on me again. “I don’t think time has been as cruel to you as it has me. Fourteen years since you left, Jenny. I’ve spent all of them alone. Do you know how lonely it is just to even say that? I don’t imagine you experienced it the same way.”

  “Oh, Roger. Still as bitter as always. I think you’ll be surprised to learn I too was lonely.” She performed the familiar mannerism of whipping her blonde hair out of her eyes. Seeing her do this sent shivers down my spine. It’d been a long time, yet I remembered it vividly.

  She still looks beautiful, too.

  “Sure, I had a string of lovers,” she continued. “Being a therapist is great for that. You meet a bunch of screwed up people who know nothing about love and only how to fuck.”

  “You slept with your patients?” I was appalled, but not totally surprised.

  “Damn straight. Dozens. But I never remarried.” She seemed to become sad after saying this. “Don’t let anyone fool you, therapists are as screwed up as the patients coming in through the doors.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said.

  The traffic started flowing and I accelerated to keep up.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “It isn’t just what I want.” She glared at me until I assented to look over and then proceeded to stare me down with her pretty blue eyes. I didn’t see Jenny in those eyes anymore. Whatever looked out was dead and lifeless, nonexistent, empty, and went on forever.

  And when she spoke, she no longer sounded human but like a machine, a frequency, a TV screen gone fuzzy. “It’s what we want.” She gave me a sinister wink, opening her mouth fathoms too wide, resembling some kind of demon or flesh-eating zombie. She began climbing onto the seat.

  “We want to devour every piece of your existence,” she said. “Your body, your soul, and your mind. The space you occupy in the universe, the accumulation of time you experienced, the memories you collected, the thoughts you had—all of it must be consigned to the abyss, the void of creation, where you’ll be ground up, diffused, and spit back as a bug, a rock, a mote of space dust in the middle of nowhere. This marks the end of you, Roger Borough. It’s time you move to the next stage of your existence…”

  The cab of the vehicle filled with a deafening, rushing wind, a whoosh like the inside of a tornado. Although I didn’t actually feel this wind, I heard it in my ears, moving up the pipeline to my brain, like an insect boring into my skull. I tried to scream but nothing came out. All I heard was whooshing. I had enough sense to pull over, but even this was dangerous, as I wound up cutting across two lanes, yielding honks and shouts from other drivers.

  Jenny was on her hands and knees, inching toward me at an excruciating pace, her mouth hanging almost to the seat. For a moment, I imagined she was an oversized cat, hissing, getting ready to pounce.

  When I looked, my heart turned to ice. I could see the horrible darkness spewing from her mouth like fog or mist, blotting out everything it touched. Miniature stars and planets twinkled in the depths, growing larger and brighter by the second.

  I unlatched my seatbelt, opening the driver side door ready to flee into the traffic. But the moment I allowed exterior reality to enter the cab, that horrendous whooshing dissipated and the image of Jenny flickered out, taking the encroaching blackness with it.

  I sat shaking, adjusting to the sound of cars. I felt queasy, and so I leaned out the door to vomit. I had been roused from a fever dream. My skin felt cold. My head throbbed.

  Get a grip, I told myself. Come on, man, you’re losing it and this thing’s only just begun.

  I closed the door, wiping my face with my hands. In a little while I felt relaxed, and so I pulled the car onto the road and merged with the traffic. But every so often I checked the backseat to make sure no one was there.

  Chapter Nine

  The occult bookstore was called Cosmos, Psyche, and Higher Worlds. After scoring a parking spot, I searched around for the entrance. The door was secreted behind the back of a larger building, partially visible from the street.

  To keep things hidden, I thought, as I opened the door and stepped inside. I was met b
y a long room lined with bookshelves. Overhanging chandeliers, the old iron type from around the Victorian era, illuminated many leather volumes. The floor was covered with paperbacks and sprawling disordered piles containing history’s long line of bestsellers.

  The shop appeared empty, but as I approached the counter I noticed a metal call bell. I struck it, sending a shrilly ding through the aisles. Behind the counter was a collection of labeled jars containing herbs. The names sounded foreign; however, I seemed to remember that I knew them once, back in college.

  In addition to the jars, a row of wood filing cabinets sat against the wall. Atop these were card catalog cabinets, the kind once used by libraries. From behind a red curtain between the filing cabinets and jars, a teenage boy emerged wearing black. His face was sallow, pockmarked with acne, dominated in the center by a thinly growing premature mustache. His hair was wild, unkempt, and brown as a forest tree.

  “Yes?” he said. “Can I help you?”

  He sounded American, but with an underlying Eastern European accent.

  “I’m looking for something in particular,” I said. “A book. An old book. But I can’t recall the name. Is there someone here I could talk to?”

  He nodded, then over his shoulder: “Papa! Come!” Looking at me, he added, “My Father is the owner. He will assist.” The boy moved from behind the counter out into the labyrinth of books and began organizing some paperbacks on the floor.

  A moment later an enormous man stepped through the curtain, so big he seemed to dwarf the entire shop. He resembled his son in that he had wild brown hair and a thin mustache. When he looked at me, I was struck by the intense blueness of his eyes, like peering into a cloudless sky.

  “Yes?” he said, his accent thick and strong. “Is there something specific you need that my son Sergei could not help you find?”

  “There is actually.” I realized I didn’t know how or where to begin. If I told this man about my past, would he think I was crazy?