by J B Murray
“Are you all right?” Annalise is the first to ask.
“Why would I not?”
“That noise. The light-”
“Yes, yes. Minor inconveniences. That is all.”
“What the hell happened?” Reynolds questions, his look stern and focused on the man, relaying he’s not likely to believe it a simple inconvenience.
“What it was, no longer is. It shouldn’t concern you. Any of you,” Jakob says looking to each. “Now, we must continue. Find the proper door. Time is wearing thin and I’ll be damned if I’m not having trouble resolving the who and why of it all.”
Jakob pushes past the three, his cane taking back up the cadence from earlier. Reynolds, Annalise and Garrison don’t wait but a moment before trailing his heels.
“What has you so perplexed about all of this?” Reynolds finally asks. He’d rather have a better understanding of his situation. But for now it seems the two are entwined, his and that of the kids.
“I am attempting to decipher who might one, have the knowledge to allow them to puppet a boy and gain access to the Veil, and two, who would also be so bold as to think they might get away with it under my watch.”
“I’m missing something here. Puppet a boy?”
“My brother. He’s been kind of different lately. Jakob thinks it’s because he’s possessed by someone else.”
“Possessed?”
“I know, sounds crazy.”
“Kid, there’s plenty out there I would have called crazy before I ended up here. Now, I’m not so sure. So what happened?”
“My brother Brent disappeared last night. I… well… I think it was last night. I don’t know how long we’ve been here.” He looks to Annalise for some confirmation, but she simply shrugs.
“Wait a minute. You said Brent?”
“Yeah.”
“Brent Holly?”
“Yeah?” Garrison returns, a bit weirded out by the fact this man knows the name.
“Holy Christ! This is getting weird.”
“Please,” Jakob interjects. “Elaborate.”
Satisfied the boy might now remain quiet, the man pulls away and continues his preparations. Sure, he could reach into the child’s mind, take hold once again and silence the boy from within. But that kind of intrusion takes some effort. Concentration. And he’ll need all the focus he can muster to finish the ritual he began when he possessed Brent just a short time ago.
He pulls away from the cold, turning his back and crossing the room. His hand rubs the wall and the first symbol painted there. It hadn’t been easy attaining the blood for the ritual. He was, after all, in that place which lingers between the real world and the imagined. That final border between rebirth and one’s imminent end. He’s content to see the blood’s dried. He’d hate to smudge it now, after all the work that went into getting the room ready.
He had scoured the Beyond for weeks. Months. Until finally he noticed a ruptured soul. One much like his. One fragmented with pieces left behind. He lured the young woman away from the Arena with promises that if she helped, she could forgo the tournament, and he would send her soul along into the next life. But this would require sacrifice. He’d hoped the conceived rigors of the Arena would easily persuade her. He hadn’t been wrong.
She went with him and he’d led her here, to this very room. Once present, he’d made the necessary arrangements. Repeated the needed incantations, while her soul writhed and twitched in the very chair the little boy was now tied to. He of course, didn’t tell her his true purpose. He sat just a few feet from her, his legs crossed, hands clasped in fists held out in front of him at shoulder height. Head bowed while he murmured and chanted, his eyes drawing up in their sockets, until he commandeered her.
She walked through the Veil, hunting for the one thing he needed. She walked a great length, her feet pulling her through woods surrounding an otherwise rural area, but never grew tired, until she came upon the one proponent he’d need to get himself out of the Beyond forever. To complete the fragmented soul which lie in wait inside the boy’s body. She lingered at the forest edge, her eyes trained on several prospects. His head jerked from side to side as he forced the incantations out. Time and life itself always fought to stabilize the now and here. He knew this venture would be no different. Sweat broke on his brow, wetted his shirt, front and back.
He guided her best he could, though she knew well her true purpose and would complete the task. This, he was certain. She moved forward casually, not saying a word until she was upon the child. Moments before, there had been several of them. But the other two ran off from the water’s edge. To where, she knew not, nor cared. She knelt by the small girl squatting at the water, pushing a stick into the lily pads which floated lazily in the pond. She reached out and grabbed the little girl’s hand. But the girl responded in panic. Pulled her hand away from the woman. When she looked at her, she noticed the woman’s eyes were giant, crimson orbs hosting only a spec of black near the center. The little girl started to scream, but the woman cut her off before a breath escaped her. She scooped her up from the water, wrapping one hand around the girl’s waist, and the other around her mouth.
The little girl struggled, but only for a moment. When the woman reached the edge of the woods again, she set the child down and forced her on her back. Kneeling over her, she pinched the child’s nose, a knee pinning her chest, and forced her hand back over the girl’s mouth. The ordeal ended in moments. Little legs that kicked seconds before, fell limp. The man hadn’t expected it to take place like that. But the moment elated him; one less thing he’d have to do.
She stood from the girl and, grabbing the child’s wrist in her hand, dragged the limp body through the woods back toward the Veil. She came through with the child and set it at the man’s feet. But he wasn’t through with her yet. He sent her back through the Veil to the other side, then closed it on her. He knew when she came to, when she regained herself completely, she’d only need a few ticks to realize what happened. For a soul left on the other side of the Veil without a proper vessel would painfully be excoriated from existence forever.
He never considered himself an evil man, though now he wasn’t so sure. Never in all his living years did he consider doing what he must do next. But it didn’t stop him. With a knife, he opened the child and used her blood to set the symbols in place on the wall. The symbols he now touches. Each in turn, while he recites the necessary words needed to infuse the markings with power.
They continue walking while Reynolds relayed what he knew; the events that eventually caused him to turn up here. He told them about the falling out with his partner, though left out the bitter details of why. Told them of his brother calling and asking for help. Garrison’s eyes light up with wonder that the man walking beside him had actually come to help find Brent. What were the odds? Then Reynolds reiterates his journey through the snow and the room with the anomaly.
“Tear,” Jakob corrected.
“Excuse me?”
“Tear. You keep referring to it as either an anomaly or apparition. It is neither. It is, however, a tear in the fabric of the Veil.”
“And the Veil is what exactly?”
“The Veil is that barrier which keeps all things dead from spilling over into your world.”
“Jesus,” Reynolds utters. “When you put it like that.”
Jakob comes to an abrupt halt. He turns on heel, facing his three companions. A look of exhaustive pertinence takes hold the features on his face. He sighs deeply and looks off over their shoulders a moment, before pulling back his gaze and training it on Reynolds.
“Indeed. And you’ve no concept of what horror might transpire should I not be able to close the Veil in due time.”
“Horror like what?” Annalise pipes in.
“As brutal and violent as the Arena might seem to those unaccustomed to it, the Great Beyond is a haven. A place sacred and safe from the flesh and blood of life itself. True, many here are as evil a soul as they w
ere corporeal. But one cannot do another harm. There is no pain here. Save for the final moments in the Arena. But such battles cannot endure outside its walls. If two souls were to, let us say, take mind to violate each other, the image their soul projects might reflect such misfortunes. However, those projected images would not endure the pain which is often known to accompany such violence. Theres nothing physical to be harmed nor destroyed.”
“Until the Arena.”
“The Arena acts as a conductor of sorts. It harnesses the electric currents which make up one’s soul and for those moments within, amplifies them to a degree where they become closer to real as they were in actual life. When death is brought upon those amplified vessels, thet crumble, they cut and bruise, and succumb to the same harm a body would in life. There is pain, yes. Much pain. But remember, we are erasing that soul from all aspects of existence. It will be, no more.”
“So how would it affect our world?” Reynolds asks.
“Imagine, if you will, souls bound by greed and hate, rotted hearts and dark imaginings walking your world. Imagine further that they are still only images. But on the other side of the Veil, they would gain some sense of physicality. Become solid. But they’d still only be the soul’s image. Outside the Arena. No pain. No repercussions or consequences for their actions. Think of them as ghosts with dark intentions.”
“But if you close the Veil?”
“If I can close the Veil once more, those caught on the outside would perish forever. Their bodies would become corporeal once more. Fully alive, but only for the briefest of moments. They would burn from the inside as their souls venture escape, trying to rip themselves from the vessel they’ve now found themselves trapped within. Their insides would cook, while their skin would begin to crumble. And they would ignite. They would scream through the fire of their soul begging release.”
“Do you think there are any out there now?”
“I can’t say. But it’s likely.”
“What can we do?”
“We can close the Veil. Once that is done, as I said, any outside of it will perish.”
“So how do we close it?”
“We find this young man’s little brother.”
4
4.
Brent’s eyes follow the man around the room. In turn, the man stops at each symbol, placing his hand on the marking and uttering words the boy can’t even begin to understand. The fear within him subsides once again as the colors come to life. Or at least, they distract him. Behind the man’s hand, each letter shimmers with its own distinctive color. Some burst in yellows and orange, while others illuminate in purples and silver. They waver beneath his hand, their outlines glowing until eventually their original color fades to a darker, smoky red. Each symbol looks as if it’s caught fire. Embers burning low, while wisps of smoke drift up and off the wall.
An acrid smell fills the room. It tickles Brent’s nostrils, making him scrunch up his nose. The smell isn’t all that unpleasant at first, lingering somewhere between ripe fruit and a burning campfire. But it morphs quickly into something else. Something more vile. The gaunt scent of burnt metal and rust, tinged with aging rot. It makes Bren’t stomach queasy.
The man nears the last of the symbols, bowing his head and saying the necessary words. On this last symbol, Brent watches as the colors glow beneath a hot, white. For a moment he can see through the man’s hand. The light burns so bright his skin becomes nearly translucent, showing the shadowy muscles and tendons beneath, framing the even darker bones and joints. The veins within glow a strange vermillion. The man struggles then, as if his hand is somehow joined to the wall. He tugs, some force attempting to hold him in place. The wall beneath throbs as he pulls from it, bowing outward as if the man’s magnetic touch were beckoning it. He stumbles away, nearly falling to the floor as the wall bounces back into place, becoming solid and flat once more.
It’s then Brent notices the man’s face. His skin is flushed, red, bald head and face soaked with sweat. His breathing is irregular, coming in short bursts. He looks exhausted. But somehow, with all of this, the man steels himself. He straightens up for a moment, looking around the room and taking in his handiwork. Once satisfied, he walks back over to the boy. He turns the chair Brent sits in, so the kid’s back is to the far wall. Then, he sits on the floor. With his feet together he lifts his hands, clenching his fingers into fists and holds them at shoulder length. With one deep sigh, the mantra begins.
“So, why steal the boy?” Reynolds asks.
“I mentioned the fragments of soul?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“The boy carries one.”
“A fragment of someone else’s soul?”
“No. His own.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I can see just by looking at you that your light has been passed on several times. This is not your first incarnation. Neither is it the boy’s.”
“I don’t really believe in that stuff ya know.”
“It matters little what you believe. You’ve been before. But unlike the boy, your soul managed purification each reincarnation. It didn’t fragment. Nothing was left behind.”
“Ok. So let me see if I get this straight. Whoever took Brent, left a piece of soul so he could what… control him? Find him?”
“All of the above.”
“And our souls are really just charges of electricity?”
“Precise enough.”
“Which can be reincarnated into different bodies. How many times? Can this go on forever?”
“Alas, no. Every soul must eventually fade away. The old souls burn without much illumination at all. The wisest of them have in some way managed to retain bits from each version of itself, continually learning. Those however, fade the easiest. It takes great energy to hold onto the past.”
“So, Brent is a reincarnation.”
“Yes. Of himself.”
“So with that train of thought, isn’t it then a version of Brent that’s taken him?” Reynolds can hardly believe the words coming from his mouth. His mind reels with the possibilities; the strangeness of it all. The impossibility of it all. But he grasps at straws; some way to use his calculating mind to reach the question’s end.
“I’m not so sure.”
“How so?”
“I’m dealing with something I’ve never seen. I expect that somehow, this individual managed to purge a part of his soul through the Veil. Then in some way, fashioned it to the child.”
“And now he wants to do what?”
“I can only guess. But I would assume that through the boy he means to… escape.”
The acrid smell increases with each moment. Brent wrinkles his nose at it. It stings his eyes. Through the resulting tears he watches as small bursts of flame erupt from the walls. The symbols glow first, a dark, deep red before their outlines sizzle. The spark catches and soon the symbols around the room are afire. They burn and crackle, smoke drifting up from them. They flame, lighting the room eerily as the rest of the room around them grows dark.
The man sits on the floor in front of him. His eyes haven’t as of yet opened, but he continues to sweat. His lips strain to release the flutter of nonsensical words from his mouth. All around them the room darkens. The fire from the symbols alight flicker in the sheen of sweat on the man’s head and face. It casts sinister shadows about the room. Shadows which seem to take form a moment, before dissipated in wisps of gray smoke. But they aren’t shadows of light and shade. Rather, creations of the dark itself. They whisper, the shadows. Brent hears their voices; tiny needles scratching at the surface of an old record filtered through broken speakers. It’s all hisses and buzz. Snakelike, the voices slither through the room. They tickle Brent’s ear and he fears there might be an actual serpent there, trying to burrow into his skull.
Maggots of burnt paint start to crumble and fold from the symbols on the wall. They pile on the floor in tiny mounds, writhing as they cool. The voices grow louder, but the man�
�s is loudest of all. His chant is deep, guttural and thrums over the rest of it, adding a haunting cadence. Brent’s eyes dart upward; widen in astonishment as the ceiling falls away. It fades by degrees until it’s gone. Above him a dark sky looms with pinpricks of light floating about, dancing in the black.
“And you can find this man?” Reynolds questions.
“I’m assured of it.” Jakob answers, nodding, his eyes directing toward the ground.
Their pace hadn’t slowed, only found a natural rhythm while they spoke and continued down the hall. Reynolds hadn’t realized they’d come to a stop, he’d been so engrossed in the conversation. Now, he looks at the floor Jakob indicates before them. Could this be the actual door? The one he’d seen the man slink through? They’ve been walking, but it seems to Reynolds they’ve traveled well beyond the door the man had slunk through.
“But it seems…”
“Yes, appears as if we’ve gone much farther that needed. Trust me when I say, things here are never what they seem. It takes a certain talent, to navigate the ever-changing, always evolving nature of this place. One must have an eye for such a thing.”
“If you say so,” Reynolds concludes.
Without saying anything further, Jakob takes hold the handle and gives it a turn. At first, it won’t budge. Reynolds can’t help but smile a little. At least it isn’t just him. The doors appear to be locked to everyone. But Jakob closes his eyes and mutters something beneath his breath. With his fingers, he then eases the handle and opens the door in front of them.