by J. R. Rain
“Oh my God, Sam! Are you okay?”
“I think I’m dying, Allison. Tell my children I love them. Tell Kingsley I will miss him, but not so much his hairy back. That I won’t miss.”
“Such a bitch. I could have hurt you.”
I stood, dusted myself off. “You did hurt me.”
“Why are you so mean to me?”
“I’m the one that got blasted.”
“Serves you right.”
“He’s coming,” I said.
“You’re still smoking, Sam.”
“Well, blow on me or something,” I said.
Which is what she was doing when the front door opened and Charlie Reed appeared. “Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day,” said Charlie Reed. “Come on in.”
We followed him back through his spacious home, as Allison occasionally blew on my neck or hair. I smelled the burning too. There was a small chance one of her electrified worms had ignited my hair. Once in his office, he headed straight to his seat behind his desk.
“How’s the writer’s block?” I asked.
“Don’t ask him that,” hissed Allison. “That’s, you know, taboo to ask a writer.”
“I don’t think it is,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure it is, Sam.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Charlie. “I’ve been doing nothing but staring at my screen for hours, ever since I got home from work. So, I guess you can say the writer’s block is going strong.” He gave us an enthusiastic and sarcastic double thumbs-up.
Although we had both been hoping to read up a little more on the Land of Dur while we waited for Queen Autumn’s possible midnight arrival, I suspected that the whole reason we were here in the first place was precisely because of his writer’s block.
Allison caught my eye and nodded; indeed, we had discussed this earlier.
“Now?” she asked.
“Now,” I said.
“Now what?” asked Charlie.
Allison and I both came around his desk and pulled up some extra chairs. I said, “Charlie, we need to talk.”
***
And talk we did.
We laid on him some pretty heavy stuff. It’s not every day that someone is told they are a creator, that the imaginings in his mind had sprung whole cloth into living, breathing people. More so, that an entire world had been created to support these people and creatures.
When Allison and I were done, he looked at us sadly. “Are you two okay? I mean, seriously.”
“We are,” I said. “Well, I am. I can’t vouch for Allison.”
“I’m fine, too,” she snapped.
“Obviously, you two are pulling my leg,” he said. He was sitting back in his office chair now, arms folded over his narrow chest, hair about as wild and unkempt as hair could be; I mean, had he looked in a mirror recently? Still, through it all, he was good looking. Bedraggled and messy, there was still no escaping that jawline. It was, I noted, thirty minutes before midnight.
“It would be the obvious answer,” I said.
“That, or you two are crazy.”
Allison and I had assumed he would balk at the suggestion he was a creator, that he had inadvertently created whole lives, both animal and man, and an entire whole world to populate them on. Truth was, I wasn’t entirely convinced myself, although it felt right to me, too. Either way, he needed to wrap his brain around it in his own time, in his own way.
“Sam, I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. I just hired you to investigate a haunting—”
“You’ve seen her, Charlie,” I said. “Kind of.”
He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again, as, I assume, the real possibility that one of his characters might have come to life, truly occurred to him for the first time. “I-I never got a good look at her.”
“It’s Autumn,” said Allison, jumping in. “And she’s here for help.”
“That’s just crazy, Allie.” He held up the phone bill. “I mean, yes, this is an uncannily accurate representation of the woman I see in my mind, but that still doesn’t mean she’s showing up here in my hallway.” He paused, looked at me. “Perhaps the stress of this job has been too—”
“The stress of hanging out with my new favorite writer. The stress of relaxing in his beautiful home? The stress of meeting one of my favorite new characters, as well?”
“Well, maybe I misspoke. Perhaps the stress of your job in general is affecting your—”
“Sorry, Charlie. You’re my only client.” Which was sad but true. Unless one works in a big firm—and Moon Investigations, to be clear, is not a big firm—a private eye generally works one case at a time. Although we may get lucky and a few might overlap, there are usually whole days, sometimes whole weeks, where I wait for work.
“Maybe this job finally pushed you over the edge,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” I said. “Except you know there’s a chance we might be right.”
“Just to be clear,” said Allison. “The stress of my job hasn’t been too much for me, either.” We both looked at her, and she sort of sank back into the couch. “Just saying,” she mumbled. “But no one asked me, of course.”
“How long have you been thinking of the world of Dur?” I asked Charlie after we both ignored Allison.
“Nearly my entire life. My earliest notes on it were when I was eight.”
“And you’re, what? Thirty-five?”
“Forty-four. And thanks. Still, that proves—”
“You’ve been living in this World of Dur for more than thirty years,” I cut in.
“Well, yes. But not really living...” But he thought about, then retracted. “Okay, maybe I have daydreamed about it. Perhaps even often.”
“How often?” asked Allison.
“Usually throughout most days. Maybe before I go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up. In the shower. In the hot tub. Sometimes when I’m jogging and often when I’m walking.”
“That’s nearly every waking minute,” pointed out Allison.
“Well, not when I work. My job is tough.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “But you find yourself thinking about it on breaks and lunch, and on your drive to and from work?”
He shrugged, crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, yeah. But most writers probably do the same thing, right?”
“I would question that,” I said. “I would question the sheer amount of thought you put into your world compared to other writers. I am sure they have only thought of their own stories a mere fragment compared to—”
“What about J. R. R. Tolkien?” he said suddenly. “Or J. K. Rowling?”
I let his question sink in, as he had just listed the two authors who, I suspected, were also very much creators. Two authors known for having made extensive notes on their worlds. Whole volumes of Middle Earth history existed. And J. K. Rowling herself had created a veritable gallery of drawing of all her characters, each rendered loving and exquisitely. As if... well, as if she had been doing an actual portrait of an actual living, breathing man, woman, or magical creature.
“I assume I’m only buttressing your point,” he finally said, sinking back into his chair.
“You are,” I said. “And no one uses buttressing in the real world.”
“What’s a butt dress?” asked Allison.
“See?” I said.
“Be that as it may,” said Charlie, “I refuse to join your crazy little party. I think, maybe, we should call this your last night.”
“We could,” I said. “And we’ll leave right now if you think that’s best. But know this, until you get past your writer’s block, your ghost is going to keep showing up, right there in that hallway. Looking for help. From you, her creator. C’mon, Allison. Let’s go.”
My friend didn’t like it, but she understood a standoff when she saw one. She extricated herself from the couch and stood with me.
I said to Charlie, “I’ll email you my final bill. Also, could you please let us know when t
he final book is published?”
“Sure,” he said glumly. His hands were crossed in his lap and his head was bowed. He looked like he could have been praying to his own creator. “Except I haven’t written in four months, ever since my wife left me.”
“I know,” I said. I waited. I also waited for him to make the connection. On his own. He didn’t. Not yet.
I touched Allison’s shoulder. “C’mon.”
We were just exiting the study when his voice reached us. “The ghost appeared not long after.”
I paused, waited. Allison took my hand. I let her.
“Except she’s not a ghost, is she?” Now I heard the wonder in his voice. The sheer, beautiful, infectious, earth-shaking wonder. “It’s Queen Autumn. And she needs my help. Son of a bitch.”
Chapter Twenty-five
We waited. He needed to work through this. The weight on him, I suspected, was enormous. I kept the option of erasing his memory of it on the table. At least, the memory of this last day.
“So, they’re all real?” he said again. He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair, making it more unkempt. I think once or twice he fought back a little vomit. After all, in his world, there had been much death and destruction as well.
“I think so,” I said. It was now twenty minutes before midnight.
“Had I known, I would never have...” his voice trailed off. “I would never have killed off any of them. Or hurt any of them.”
“I know,” I said. “But they also wouldn’t have been alive either.”
“What do you mean?”
“You loved them,” I said. “Even the terrible characters. Even the monsters. You loved them all, with all your heart, for decades. They were real people, with real motivations, both good and bad. Sometimes good and bad people get hurt or killed.”
“Then I shouldn’t have loved them, or even wanted to tell their story!”
“Then you wouldn’t have been alive, either,” said Allison. “Their stories, their world, their hopes and dreams, gave you life too.”
“Please tell me I’m dreaming,” he said, burying his face in his hands. “Please tell me this isn’t real.”
Allison and I looked at each other. Neither of us knew what to do. I had never met a creator, and I especially had never been around one who just discovered that his creations were, in fact, real. Admittedly, it was hard to watch. He stood and paced, he cursed God and the heavens, he buried his face in his hands and wept. Sometimes he just stood there and laughed, nearly hysterically. Once or twice he hugged himself. All while the clock marched inevitably toward midnight.
With a few minutes to go, he finally collapsed between us on the couch again, where Allison and I had sat. I could smell the sweat on him now. I could also see some semblance of acceptance in his eyes.
He looked at me. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I haven’t written in four months,” he said.
“I know.”
“Is that why Autumn…” He paused, and I secretly wondered if he loved her most of all. “Is that why Autumn is here? Her baby?”
“I think so.”
“But I don’t understand. Is their world on...” He paused again, searching for the right word. “On hold?”
Allison and I had thought about that, and had concluded that we didn’t know. We said as much to Charlie.
“Their world just stopped?” he said, standing again, pacing again, running his hands through his hair again. I could see the mad genius flashing in his ‘yes.’ I could see his mind going in a hundred directions at once. Mostly, I could feel his sheer passion and love for what he had created. His sympathy and knowing. He knew all of them, down to every last person. Like a true god. There was, after all, decades of momentum here. This wasn’t a man who decided to write just a few months ago, or even a few years ago. This was a man who had lived in this world for nearly all his life. I was, quite simply, watching a creator create.
“Yes, yes,” he said, pacing faster, his eyes flashing with light in a way that hinted at the supernatural. “When I stopped writing, they stopped living. But not really. No, not really, because I think about them continuously, often, and wonder what they are up to. But their lives, for the most part, are on hold. They are waiting for me to finish this tale.”
“And to start new ones,” said Allison, sounding, suddenly, every bit the fangirl that she was. That we both were. I wouldn’t have minded if Charlie wrote a hundred more stories set in the World of Dur. That is, before I knew their lives were real. Would it make reading the book different, knowing that people were really living and really dying? Really suffering and really loving, too? I didn’t know, but it was an... exciting prospect. I caught Allison’s eye, and she nodded with me, having followed my train of thought.
“There’s one problem,” said Charlie, and slumped down next to us again.
“Writer’s block,” I said.
He nodded glumly.
Allison said, “Have you ever had writer’s block before?”
“Well, I’ve never really written before. This is my first book. Everything I’ve done up to this point was daydreaming and note taking. I have hundreds of notepads filled with character sketches and notes and histories of Dur.”
I said, “And when you started writing, you were consumed with the book?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And your wife thought she had lost you.”
“I wouldn’t come up for air for days. I used up all my vacation time and called in sick constantly. It was all I could talk about or think about. I got to work late, and left early.”
“Until they fired you,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And your wife had finally had enough,” said Allison.
He nodded. “Yes.”
I said, “And in one fell swoop, you lost your wife and your job was in jeopardy...”
“And any day now my house,” he added.
I said, “Which all adds up to one hell of a case of writer’s block.”
He looked at us, nodded. Sweat was on his brow. “I gave up everything for my writing, and now I can’t write either, all while the very world I created suffers. I am in hell.”
If anything, we might have made his writer’s block worse.
Allison nodded, picking up my thought. She reached out and took one of Charlie’s fidgeting hands. He stopped fidgeting and his hand closed around hers. He held onto her as if she were a lifeline. I suspected he was drowning in his own way.
In that moment, a bluish glow appeared in the hallway. I glanced at my cell phone and was not surprised to see that it was midnight.
“She’s here,” I said.
“Autumn?” asked Charlie, snapping his head up.
“Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I moved over to the hallway opening, slowly, so as to not scare Autumn. Then again, I seriously doubted she could see me. Neither Allison nor Charlie could see her, and Charlie had created her. Except that Allison could see what I saw, by dipping into my mind.
“Is she there?” asked Charlie. He had come up behind me too. He was turning his head this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of her in his peripheral vision. Apparently, sometimes he could, and sometimes he couldn’t. His human eyes, quite simply, were not used to seeing into the supernatural.
“Yes,” I said.
The closer we got to the hallway, the more Queen Autumn seemed to fidget. She held her hands up like a mime, pushing against an invisible wall. In fact, she seemed to be doing the “trapped-in-a-box routine,” as she now pushed against either side of her too. Except, she really seemed to be pushing against something... invisible.
Was the queen a mime, too? asked Allison.
No. She’s inspecting something, searching for something.
For what?
I don’t know.
Now, the queen cocked her head to one side, as if listening. After a moment of this, she bent down and
inspected the floor, then stood up on her toes and felt above her, as if on an unseen shelf. She wore a loose gown that I suspected were pajamas in her world. Either way, they looked cozy as hell.
“What’s she doing, Sam?” asked Charlie.
We were all standing before the hallway archway by now. Autumn was there, looking directly at us, but not really. Sometimes she made direct eye contact with me but that was only in passing. It was obvious that she couldn’t see us, but I suspected she could sense us. After all, I could see the confusion, the strain, the eagerness and the hope on her face. Her mouth moved as well, although I couldn’t make out any words.
“She knows we’re here,” I said.
Allison, who had been filling my head with her own presence, was seeing what I was seeing in real time. She said, “Sam, she appears to be in a closet of some sort.”
“A wardrobe,” said Charlie suddenly, and I realized how nice it was to have the actual creator of the world next to us, even if he did seem a bit confused. “And it’s not just any wardrobe.”
“Is there a lion and witch in it?” asked Allison.
“Not quite,” said Charlie. His breath smelled vaguely of coffee. I wondered if all writers’ breath smelled of coffee. “The wardrobe hasn’t made it into the novel yet, but it it’s there, in my notes.”
“What kind of wardrobe is it?” I asked.
“It’s how Queen Autumn communicates with...” but his voice trailed off.
“Communicates with who?” I asked, although I could have just as easily found the answer in his thoughts.
His voice sounded distant and hollow when he said, “With God.”
***
I looked at Allison; she looked at me.
Charlie stepped lithely between us, and reached out a hand toward the shimmering doorway. At least, it was shimmering to my eyes.
“As queen, midnight is typically the only time she has to herself,” said Charlie, lowering his hand. “But when her husband sleeps, and most of the castle has quieted, she slips out of bed and sometimes opens her wardrobe, to speak to God.”
“You mean to you,” said Allison.