by J B Murray
“And the loser?” Annalise questions.
“The loser is extinguished.”
“As in-”
“As in… gone forever.”
THE FARMHOUSE 3
THE FARMHOUSE…
Reynolds can’t remember having fallen asleep again. But apparently, he had. His eyes pull open slow at first, but he bolts awake as the situation becomes clear. Before him, the remnants of the previous evening’s fire is all but gone again. A few burning embers. He’d drifted to sleep on his side, hands tucked beneath his head and face. Reynolds rolls onto his back, aches and pains more prevalent than the day before. Lifts his hand to his face and turns his wrist to pull back his glove and read the time. Another day has passed. Shit!
“What the hell?” He questions aloud.
He sits, but does so slowly. His body doesn’t feel right. Reynolds could guess at the reason, but he’s sure it’s mostly to do with sleeping on a cold floor, while the winter storm rages outside, and not having anything to eat in the last forty-eight hours. His stomach is in knots, tied up with hunger pains. But he can’t dwell on that. He’s been asleep a full day again. And he has to find some place to go.
His breath, cold in his chest and a dry cough finds his throat as he turns on his knees and pulls to his feet. Reynolds stomps the floor for a while, trying to regain some warmth in his feet. Get the blood flowing. His eyes find the fireplace. The faintest glow peeks through the crumbled and charred remains of the burned banister. Not much, but enough to get the fire going again, in case the need to spend the night arises once more. No! Reynolds shakes the thoughts from his head. He can’t stay another night. He’ll surely perish out here in this old farmhouse if he tries. He must get moving.
Reynolds pulls the coat around him tighter and starts for the front door. It pulls open, and he wonders if his eyes are deceiving him, looking out across the front yard. The wind assaults him first with cold, brisk, thundering gusts which cut through his clothing and sink their teeth into his bones. The snow, which yesterday had collected at the top of the stairs, now spills over onto the porch. Rolling hills of it extend from the front door out into the landscape ahead. And the storm’s not stopped. Not even quieted. But how can that be? Giant flakes of white whip about the air making it difficult to see beyond the porch. He dares take a step forward. His boot sinks deep into the powder, almost up to his knee. Reynolds pulls back, knowing it’ll only take moments to soak through his pants and boots, adding to the chill which already invades his body.
“What the hell is going on?” He questions through gritted teeth.
He watches for a time from within the house, out the front door to the storm still raging. Something about the scenario doesn’t sit right. He can accept the storm having come from out of nowhere. That happens in New England from time to time. Especially in isolated places. Reynolds grew up here; is well accustomed to such things. Weathermen were famous for getting forecasts wrong. But not this wrong. There’s no way they’d have missed a storm building to this kind of apex; one that’s still going on, dropping what now seems like endless inches of wet powder on the ground.
But it’s not just that. There’s something else tugging at the back of Reynold’s mind. Two things in fact. The first, that he doesn’t feel as if he’s been here, fallen asleep and awoken several days in a row. It’s more like he’s on a loop. A record skipping. Caught somewhere between then and now. Almost as if time stopped moving forward when he stepped into this farmhouse. He thinks back to the accident. To climbing from the wreck and starting his trek through the snow. All of that gave him a sense of forward momentum. But now? Now he’s stuck.
The second item itching at the back of his skull, is what lies in the other room. The apparition he’d stumbled upon. He can’t know for certain how or why, but even in his dreams it calls to him. It’s getting harder and harder to push the idea from his mind. Harder still to fight the urge to walk back into that room and take a step inside whatever it is. That’s the conundrum. It’s almost as if the snow, the storm, the falling asleep by the fire and waking to the dying light are all proponents meant to thrust him toward this mass of dark matter thriving in the next room over.
Reynolds sighs. Watches his breath crystalize on the air. He swears it’s only getting colder. The situation lays heavy on him. There’ll be no venturing into the storm today. Not while it continues like this. He turns back into the house, closing the door. Needs to start a fire. With some trepidation, he finds the remains of the railing and banister and breaks it apart, pulling with his hands and kicking with his feet. All his extremities are growing colder and colder. It takes a little time, but soon the flames catch. He removes his gloves and squatting, holds both hands out to the fire. Tiny pinpricks of heat penetrate his skin, but only for a moment. It must be his mind playing tricks on him, but it feels as if the fire grows cold. Without giving it much consideration, he leans forward and exhales into the flames. Watches his breath fog in the air before it, and all around it. But how can that be? It’s a fire for crying out loud! He repeats the motion several more times. Each time, his breath carries farther and farther into the flames themselves.
Cold seeping into him even deeper now, he throws caution to the wind. Pulls off his coat and rolls up his sleeve to the elbow. Gradually he pushes his hand toward the flames. The cold around his fingers and hand is numbing. Soon, his digits break the surface of the flame and before too long, his hand is submerged. But instead of burning, instead of catching fire, the cold seizes his skin. He withdraws his hand as if it’s been burnt. Looks it over. Then at the fire. Can’t believe any of this.
The nagging begins again. That sense he needs to move toward the other room. Take his chances with the anomaly there. He fights off the thought for a few ticks. But the idea becomes more and more inviting. And he’s not even sure why.
Reynolds stands, eyes transfixed on the fire burning, only in a visual sense of the word. He drapes his coat over one arm before spitting into the flames in anger and disgust. Turning from the fire, he walks out the door and through the kitchen to the other side of the house. The vibrations of the apparition pulse through the door. And something else. Warmth.
With a weary hand, he turns the handle and moves back into the room. The anomaly sits where it’s been for days, as if unmoved. The same strange black swallows everything alive, refusing to reflect any kind of light, while the dust motes of illuminations glitter within. With a deep breath, both feet step up to the anomaly. His body tenses as he works his fingers open and closed before pushing one hand through again. This time he’s sure of the warmth. It travels along his hand, up his wrist and forearm before floating to a stop somewhere below the shoulder. The sensation is divine. After all this time in the cold, nothing could be more inviting.
Reynolds pulls his hand free; examines it. Nothing seems amiss. He’s not sure what this thing in front of him is for certain. Only that he’s run out of options and is too cold and tired to fight it anymore. He pulls his coat on, adjusting it in the shoulders until comfortable, takes another deep breath, and steps through.
ARENA OF SOULS 3
THE ARENA OF Souls…
“I don’t get it. Are we talking past lives here or something?” Garrison asks.
“You’ve suggested a rather prodigal understanding of this my friend. Past lives do, in reality, exist. They are mere recorded bits from days gone that cling to the strands of electricity flowing through you. One’s past is never truly gone forever. It’s simply, rewritten, if you will.”
“So,” Annalise butts in, still stuck on what she’s seen in the Arena. “They fight to the death?”
“More or less.”
“I don’t… well…” Both Annalise and Garrison struggle to sort through everything. The idea of death suddenly seems closer to a lie. And if what they witnessed were spirits of some kind, or as Jakob put it, reconstructions of their corporeal image, and they were already dead, how could they die another time? Jakob smiles as i
f he knows what they’re thinking.
“If it helps, consider them as already dead. Their body’s no longer exist. So death is a rather moot point. It has… shall we say… many levels.”
“This is too much,” Garrison spits with a shake of his head.
“There are many ways to die my young friend. The body is only one of them. And as you’ve learned, we are all more than just our physical self.”
“And we all have to go through this?” Annalise inserts, trying to bring the conversation back to the Arena.
“No. For one, as you may have noticed, there are no children. Only once in a great while is the core of someone so vile that they come to us in the form of a child.”
“And they fight? The kids?”
“If they so choose. But it is a rare occasion. Rarer still to have two children here at any given time.”
“What happens to the others?”
“The others?”
“The kids who don’t come here.”
“Some are discarded at the time of death. Made into someone else. Those whose souls aren’t tainted, as far as I understand it. I never see them here. They bypass this place. All others, fight.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair or not, I’ve no mind for either. It’s how it is. Always has been. Always will be.”
Cheers arise, startling both Garrison and Annalise from thought. It seems surreal. The Arena. The man Jakob. Even the idea of the soul as he’s explained it. A scream reverberates from below, a warrior’s cry of havoc. Silence fills the Arena once more. Both know what’s happened. Soon, if they look out beyond where they sit, strands of light will dance on the air until they explode into their conclusion.
“What does any of this have to do with us? Why are we here?” Garrison pleads.
“It’s a superb question, that. I might have an idea.”
“Well?”
“I’ve explained at length the concept of your soul being electrical impulses which mold and record the history of you.”
“And?”
“Sometimes, a fragment of that current, or rather if you will, a filament of one strand lingers. Gets left behind.”
“So if-”
“And I surmise that is how you crossed the Veil. Your brother there,” Jakob juts his chin in the boy’s direction. “Holds such a strand. Or at least, I believe he does.”
Silence grips the room for a moment as Annalise and Garrison contemplate Jakob’s words. They look to each other for some form of acknowledgment, but instead return each other’s looks of confusion. Annalise startles as the surrounding crowd erupts in applause and shouts again. She need not look, in fact, doesn’t want to, to know a few new contestants have taken to the Arena floor.
“I’m not sure I get it.”
“Very well. Consider this. I’ve stated all past lives are rewritten. Recorded in the strands of electrical current which construct the whole of you. When one dies, when that soul dissipates, on occasion, a small fragment of those strands might get lost, detached if you will. They float around out there until finding a new home. But that strand remains neither dead nor alive. In its confusion, as in the case of your brother who I believe contains one of those strands, the Veil cannot discern the corporeal body. Therefor, it opens. Allowing you to walk through.”
“And us too?” Annalise pipes in.
“It would appear so,” Jakob answers, though the look on his face tells another story. He’s contemplated something else in regard to their being here. Though what, remains to be seen.
“If that’s the case,” Garrison offers. “Then we can get back the same way?” Garrison’s voice sounds hopeful.
“Indeed. Only…”
“Only, what?” For a time Jakob sits in silence, deep contemplation furrowing his brow.
“What would stop him from coming back?” He more whispers this to himself than anything.
“Come back? Who? Brent?”
“Who indeed? That is the question.”
“I don’t follow.”
“No, no. I didn’t at first either. But I believe all is becoming clear. Did you notice anything abnormal about your bother recently?” Jakob’s eyes light as they fall on Garrison’s. “Ah! You have! See, I don’t believe your little brother stumbled onto the breach in the Veil. Nor did he wander into The Great Beyond. No. Something led him here. So, what was it exactly? What change came about?”
“The last few nights he talked different.”
“Different how?”
“I’m not sure.” Garrison turns toward Annalise. Shrugs. “He talked like a man. Not like his usual self.”
“A man you say?”
“Yeah. His voice was deeper. His talk was… funny. Brent rarely talks that straight.”
“Explain.”
“He had an accident a few years back. Hit his head. Now he talks all jumbled sometimes. Like a kid. Only, that wasn’t the case last night.”
“Or earlier today” Annalise adds.
“Anything else?”
“The way he looked at me I guess. I didn’t see Brent in his eyes. Something else was there instead.”
“Indeed. Then I am most assuredly right! Come. Let us walk again. If I’m to get you back, and find out who is playing at all of this, I need a quieter place to reflect.”
Jakob stands from his chair. Taps his cane on the floor and starts for the door. Garrison and Annalise turn to each other, both shrugging. What else can they do? They need to get back. And at this juncture, Jakob seems their best option.
“Brent,” Jakob calls after the little boy. “Would you care to join us please?” Brent’s head turns from looking down at the Arena. But it no longer holds the wonder of a boy. Garrison notices it straight away.
“Why, certainly,” Brent returns, his voice deepened and steady. Jakob’s eyes grow wide a tick, before furrowing.
“Who are you?” He asks the boy.
“I’m just a kid Jakob. Just a kid.” The manly voice emanating from Brent’s mouth seems jarring even to Jakob.
“I doubt that very much.”
“Go about your business. I’ll be along soon enough young man. Soon enough.” Brent’s face seems to pop at that moment, as if a switch flips, and his bright, cheery, boyish complexion returns. “Did’ya see the all the colors Gary?” Annalise and Jakob freeze in place, but Garrison’s seen this before.
“I did buddy. I did” He answers, not missing a beat.
THE FARMHOUSE/VEIL
THE FARMHOUSE/BEYOND the Veil…
Reynolds keeps his eyes shut tight, in fear of what the substance might do to them. His foot finds its way through, catches solid ground within and pulls the rest of his body into the anomaly. A warmth surrounds him. His body pushes through the viscous-like substance easy enough, cradling his body as he walks on. He takes maybe five or six steps before feeling the gelatin part and the air on the other side caress his face.
It’s cool at first, as his skin breaks the surface of the apparition. It tugs at the rest of his body as he pulls himself to the other side. He stumbles, but catches himself and stands upright. For a reason he can’t explain, Reynolds keeps his eyes closed moments longer. What grips him is a childlike fear. A fear from days of being a boy and facing an unknown world; from being a boy and facing even more terrifying things in your dreams. A deep breath and the cool, crisp air feels exhilarating in his lungs, even though he’s just come from near-freezing temperatures. But there’s something clean about the air here. Something fresh. There’s no scent of snow, nor is there a biting wind.
Reynolds drags his eyes open, unsure what awaits them. The light around him is dim. Behind him, as he turns, sits an anomaly much like the one he came through. Though this one looks a light gray. It still swallows the light, refusing any reflection, though instead of white pinholes, the gray surface boasts just as many, though in black. They shimmer as they float about within the gray, their surfaces shiny, oily, almost metallic. He spins on heel, taking i
n the surrounding room. A moment of disappointment strangles the hope he felt coming through as his eyes scan the room he just left. The back room off the kitchen. It looks the same. The only difference apparent is the color of the anomaly. Reynolds hangs his head in defeat. He’s still in the farmhouse. How can this be?
Beyond exhausted, hungry and fighting to find some light in the situation, Reynolds folds in on himself a moment. He bends at the waist, squats to the floor and puts his hands on his head. He runs them through his hair, over his face, trying to suppress the disconsolate feeling consuming him. Reynolds rarely felt out of his league. He’s always held tight some sense of logic and common sense. But now?
He exhales deep, spitting the breath from his mouth in a huge gust. That’s when he notices the one, subtle difference. His eyes fix themselves in a downward position. He breathes again. He might be in the same room, off the same kitchen in the same farmhouse, but his breath is no longer visible. Even as cold as it is here, it’s not cold. He stands, turning this thought over in his head and looks about the room. It all appears the same as before, though maybe now, just a little faded. It’s the most fitting word his mind can conjure at the moment. Faded. As if the colors remain, only time weathered them; removed from them their once brilliant hues.