Mason dropped his keys into a small ceramic dish in the foyer then hurried back to the car. His mother popped the trunk open. He grabbed his jacket, a black leather one, and slipped it on before unloading two duffle bags full of clothes. He carried them to the house, one in each hand, and then came back for more.
For the most part, Mason had packed light— with a couple exceptions. Resting in the open box under his arm was a faded wolf figurine, its lifeless plastic eyes fixed on him. It was a gift from his mom, bought nine years ago on a road trip up north. As a child, Mason had been fascinated by wolves. She’d insisted he keep it, forgetting, as she sometimes did, that he was no longer eleven years old.
Once everything had been moved into the house, Mason said a sort-of goodbye — “I guess I’ll see you later” — but that wasn’t going to cut it.
Mom stepped out of the car and hugged him, leaning her head on his chest. “I’m going to miss you,” she said.
“I’m still close by,” he replied.
She sniffled. “No, dear, it’s not the same. I’ve got no one to share the house with now.” She wiped her face with a tissue.
Mason didn’t know what else to say. He considered suggesting she buy a pet but said nothing instead, waiting for her to finish crying, wondering if he should be sad too. He didn’t see the big deal.
“You take care of yourself,” she said after a minute. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” he replied.
She kissed his cheek before getting back in the car, and then she was gone.
Mason returned to the house, drenched. His dark hair was a mop, rogue strands patterning his forehead, water dripping down his face. He combed them back with his fingertips then closed the front door and surveyed his surroundings, wondering where to begin.
Because he didn’t have much to unpack, the process was relatively painless. The master bedroom upstairs, which had a big window overlooking the backyard, became his new room. It already had a bed and a desk, buried under binders, pens, and loose-leaf paper. His father’s notes. Mason piled them and put them aside. Then he hung his clothes, arranged his books, and found a nice spot on the desk for his wolf. The room was his. It looked pretty much the same.
By dinnertime, the boxes and bags he’d brought with him were empty. He tossed them into the recycling bin in the garage then meandered around the kitchen aimlessly, wondering what to do now, as if living alone brought new expectations. Eventually, he fetched an apple out of the fridge. A McIntosh. Mason preferred the green ones, but he munched it all the same, staring out his living-room window at the setting sun— a faint, orange blur buried behind sheets of rain. The downpour still hadn’t let up.
He made his way outside to watch the evening sky from under the cover of his porch. Heavy clouds formed a dark canopy overhead, stretching across the sky like an endless grey quilt. Or almost endless. That hint of orange still hung to the horizon, just barely, losing its grip by the minute. Mason sank into a white wicker chair and reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes.
Flick.
He closed his eyes, smoke seeping out his nostrils, and listened to the rain drumming on the roof.
Mason had picked up his smoking habit a few months ago as a way of self-medicating. After his dad’s death, he’d been offered antidepressants but ultimately decided against them. He wanted his emotions to be authentic, whatever the hell that meant. So he started buying cigarettes instead, and he’d yet to stop— but he would, he told himself, before they killed him. In the meantime, they were one of the few things that helped him relax.
Unfortunately, his most recent meditation would be short-lived. He was halfway through his cigarette when a voice yelled, “Lovely weather!”
Mason opened his eyes.
A short man in a yellow raincoat was walking up the driveway, his suitcase bumping along the pavement behind him. When he got to the porch, he lugged his baggage up each step with both hands and then finally — in the most annoying way possible — stomped his boots on the floorboards, one after the other.
Mason took another drag off his cigarette.
“Does your mother know you smoke?” the man asked, standing still now, panting, every corner of his raincoat dripping.
She didn’t, his mom.
“Who are you?” Mason ignored the question.
The small man removed his hood to reveal a bald head and a familiar face. His name was Lester Wright. He was an old friend of Mason’s father.
“Lester? What are you doing here?” asked Mason.
“Moving in,” said Lester matter-of-factly, followed by a toothy grin.
“What do you mean you’re moving in?” Mason cocked an eyebrow.
“I’m going to live here,” replied Lester, glancing toward the house appraisingly, “with you. If you don’t mind,”
Mason was pretty sure he did mind but was lost for words. Lester had this effect on people. Nine months ago at his father’s funeral, Lester had asked Mason if he believed in an afterlife. Mason had responded, in somewhat uncertain terms, that he did not. Lester had then stared at him for a few seconds too long, rubbing his stubble, adding just one word before walking away: “Interesting.” They hadn’t spoken since. Until now, of course.
“I should explain myself,” said Lester. “I’m here on behalf of your dad.”
“You’re here on behalf of my dead dad?” replied Mason.
“That is correct.”
“So, what, you’ve been talking to his ghost?”
“Well.” Lester scratched his head awkwardly. “You might say that.”
Mason was baffled. “And?”
“And what?”
“And what did my dead dad say?” Mason finished his cigarette and flicked it off the porch, thinking he should probably pick up an ashtray at some point.
“Right,” said Lester, stalling. “It’s very complicated.”
“I’m sure it is,” replied Mason. “Anyway, Lester, it’s, you know, nice to see you again and all that, but I don’t think—”
“How about this,” Lester interjected. “Let me stay here for a week. Just one week. If you still want me gone next Sunday, then so be it. Sayonara, little old Lester. I shall be on my merry way, no complaints. Promise ya. Scout’s honor.”
Mason seriously doubted Lester had ever been a Boy Scout.
“Kid, it took me twenty hours to get here,” said Lester. “Twenty hours on one of those shitty, cramped buses they have.” He sighed, wiping raindrops from his face. “I’m not a young man like you, sonny. Look at me.” He looked at Mason. “Look how old and feeble I am.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mason didn’t like losing negotiations and yet— “okay, fuck, whatever. You can stay but just for one week,” he said. “I mean it, man. After that, you’re on your own. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” Lester gave a thumbs-up. “I have just one more request.”
Mason shook his head, looking defeated. “What?”
“A cigarette.”
Mason passed him his. “Does your mother know you smoke?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Lester, sliding a cigarette between his lips. “She does. Lighter?”
“Here.” Mason lit it for him before wandering back inside the house, confused and annoyed.
At any rate, he figured he should make dinner or perhaps order some. Mason didn’t have much in stock, after all, or an internet connection yet. He found an old phone book buried in a cupboard beside the stove.
Lester stepped inside after his cigarette. “I’m going to bed,” he proclaimed. “I tell ya, I don’t know how anyone falls asleep on those buses. I might as well be a zombie.”
A rather talkative zombie, thought Mason. “Anywhere but the master bedroom,” he said, rifling through pages. “That’s mine.”
“Naturally,” replied Lester. “Enjoy
your evening, boy.”
“Good night, or evening— whatever.”
As Lester headed upstairs, Mason stared out the window. That orange on the horizon had faded to black now, gone like the last ember on a cold night.
A door upstairs slammed shut. Mason shook his head. Just what the hell was Lester Wright doing here?
Chapter 3
Mason was nibbling on his fifth slice of cheese pizza. He could have kept going but figured he should save some for breakfast. The TV was on, if only because it seemed better than staring at the wall. It was some hokey nineties romcom he couldn’t name. In the kitchen behind him, a sticky note pasted on the fridge read, CALL CABLE COMPANY TOMORROW.
“Don’t ever let me go, James.”
“I won’t, Sally. Not ever. As God is my witness, from now on I’ll be the man you deserve.”
Mason ended up staring at the wall anyway. Specifically, at The Death of Socrates, his father’s print of the famous painting. It had been hanging there for as long as Mason could remember. His dad first told him the story when he was young and again as a teenager. Sitting in a dungeon surrounded by his pupils, Socrates, the great philosopher, hangs his hand over a cup of poison— over death itself. His fatal sentence is punishment for doubting the gods and corrupting the youth, the jurors had decreed. For asking too many questions. All around him, his students despair, save his best, Plato, sitting solemnly in his dim grey robes at the foot of the bed.
“Wise people are rarely safe,” Mason’s dad had told him one winter morning, “especially the honest ones.” The citizens of Athens had silenced their wisest. If only his father’s death could have possessed such poetry.
That was another winter morning Mason would never forget. His father hadn’t come home the night before, but that was hardly unusual. He’d often stayed on campus writing into the early morning. When genius strikes, hang on tight, he’d said.
Apparently, he hadn’t applied that logic to his steering wheel.
Mason first heard their voices in his dreams, the cops who arrived at 6 a.m. to tell his mother her husband was dead. Then came her cries of disbelief. In his nightmare, her screams were his. He’d been walking down the highway to Terminal City, its skyline looming over the horizon like a distant fantasy that never came closer— no matter how far he traveled. Far enough that he collapsed to the asphalt, collapsed under his own weight. That’s when Mason woke up and realized his cries were coming from downstairs. But the dread, that was definitely his.
He’d never felt so afraid.
Outside, the wind was howling. The old house creaked after each heavy gust as rain drummed on the windows like pebbles poured over glass.
Mason stood up and walked into the kitchen, carrying the cardboard pizza box, a large, with both hands. But when he swung the fridge door open, ready to put away the last of his dinner, the light inside went out.
“What the hell?”
It wasn’t just the fridge. The whole house had gone dark. James and Sally were no more, their movie love forever preserved by their absence. Mason left his pizza in the fridge, closing the door to keep in whatever cold remained, then found a small black flashlight in a drawer beside the stove. It still worked, but its batteries must have been low; it flickered and shined a faint, warm yellow. He would have gone to bed, but he wasn’t tired— never was at the right times.
Mason stepped outside to survey the neighborhood. The power outage had hit the whole campus, at least as far as he could see. Resting his arm on the porch railing, he spotted his cigarettes lying a foot from his fingers, apparently where Lester had left them. He figured he might as well have another.
After his smoke, Mason lumbered back inside and headed to the bathroom to wash the cigarette smell from his hands. But he didn’t make it very far. His flashlight had caught something unusual— and his attention. It was a door underneath the stairwell, painted white, same as the walls, and blocked by a bookcase. A hidden door, or perhaps just a forgotten one. He’d never noticed it, not once all these years, and he probably wouldn’t have were it not for his flashlight, its yellow beam giving contrast to the doorframe’s subtle protrusion.
Maybe it was just an empty closet, but Mason wasn’t a fan of maybes. He preferred answers, and with nothing better to do, he was determined to get one. And so, resting his flashlight on the carpet, Mason grabbed one end of the bookcase with both hands and dragged it backward for what felt like three feet— it was hard to tell in the dark. He fetched his flashlight from the floor and stepped forward for a better look. The door had a small glass handle. Mason gave it a twist.
The hidden entrance creaked open. Inside, he found unfinished plywood stairs burrowing downward into a black abyss. He hadn’t realized the house had a basement. He stepped through. As cautiously as he could, Mason crept down the staircase a step at a time, one hand clinging to his flickering flashlight, the other tracing the cement wall beside him. He could still hear the wind howling outside. The old house moaned.
Mason made it to the bottom and felt the coldness of the concrete floor through his socks. He stepped lightly, scanning the basement with his flashlight— the only thing between him and total darkness. There were no windows down here, or much of anything, really, save three soggy cardboard boxes piled against the wall.
“Smaller than I thought you’d be,” he muttered. The basement was unexpectedly tiny, hardly bigger than his kitchen.
Mason ruffled through the boxes, but like the room itself, they were disappointingly empty. He was about to leave, but then, once more, his flashlight caught something on the wall. They were letters this time, or what looked to be letters, carved into the concrete, though he couldn’t read them. He’d never seen symbols like these, not even in books. They were simple and rugged, jagged like they’d been spelled out with snapped toothpicks. Mason ran his fingers across each letter and thought he felt two words. Two words that could have meant anything in the world.
His flashlight flickered once more and then died.
“Shit.”
Mason couldn’t see anything. He smacked his flashlight a few times, but the damn thing was deader than Dad. He took that as his cue to leave, though he couldn’t see the exit. He turned on his heel and retraced his steps, until finally he spotted a soft sliver of navy blue above him— the doorway out of here.
Mason stepped toward where he thought the stairs would be, his arms outstretched before him to ward off danger. He nearly tripped on the bottom step, catching the handrail just in time. “Son of a bitch.” He took a deep breath then continued upward.
Mason made it out, alive, shutting the basement door behind him. It was still dark up here, but at least he could sort of see— if only enough to keep himself from running into things. He pushed the bookshelf back into place then ambled down the shadowy hallway to his kitchen, hoping to find spare batteries.
Instead, he found the dark silhouette of another man, standing in the middle of the room, staring at him. Then came a loud smash. Mason stumbled backward into the wall, clinging onto his flashlight like a weapon.
“Jesus Christ, son!” It was a voice he recognized. “Don’t scare me like that!”
“Lester,” said Mason, exhaling relief.
“You almost gave me a heart attack. I’m an old man, you know.”
“I thought you were sleeping,” replied Mason. “What are you doing down here?”
“Pouring myself a glass of water,” answered Lester, gazing down at the shattered remains of his endeavour. “I guess I’ll have to pour another.”
“Right,” said Mason, regaining some composure. “Just watch your step. Clean the glass in the morning. It’s too dark right now.”
“Yes, sir, housemaster, sir.”
Mason ignored that. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Good night.”
“Sleep tight,” replied Lester, fetching himself another glass
from the cupboard.
After brushing his teeth in the dark, Mason felt his way to his bedroom. He locked the door behind him, undressed, leaving his clothes in a rumpled heap on the floor, then threw himself onto his new king-sized bed, which was actually quite old and squeaked.
Mason landed on a book. Immediately, he knew which book it was: his father’s posthumous gift. He rolled over, grabbed it from underneath his body, and tossed it off the bed.
Thump.
Mason closed his eyes and did his best to fall asleep.
* * *
Sleep wasn’t having him. Two hours had passed and Mason was still awake, wondering about the book on the floor. Curiosity could be a cruel bastard. He sighed, slid out of bed, walked over to his desk, and then shuffled through its drawers. He was pretty sure he saw a candle in one of these— ah, there it was. He placed the candle on his desk, beside his wolf, and found his lighter in the pocket of his crumpled jeans.
Mason checked the time on his cell phone. It said 1:04 a.m. At this point, he’d be lucky if he got five hours of sleep, but he knew the drill— it involved lots of coffee.
Mason lit the candle, grabbed his book off the floor, and then sat down and stared at its silver combination lock, flickering orange from the flame. He was completely clueless. There were four digits, ten thousand possibilities. He started with the year. It stayed shut. He flipped through some of his father’s notes, scanning for four digit numbers. Nothing.
It would only take a few hours to go through every possibility. Mason considered it, for another time. First, he would try a few more years. He began with Dad’s birth year and the year he married Mom. Then he tried the year after that, and the lock clicked open. It was the year Mason had been born. He lifted the cover, a little hesitantly, his old friend dread marching down his spine.
Mason worried about what he would find inside, but he wasn’t sure why. The worst had already happened. Dad was dead. What did his secrets matter now?
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 3