Untitled, part II
Twenty years later . . .
Raindrops splatted heavily onto the windshield, obscuring Alex’s view of the narrow forest road ahead. The rain was coming down at exactly that most annoying rate, hard enough to blur the glass, but not quite heavy enough for the wipers to scrape it away rather than smear it out. The road wound to and fro, refusing to remain straight for any appreciable length, and the thick growth of trees surrounding it made viewing around any corner an impossibility, especially in the darkness that had descended along with the rain. Alex had never before seen this particular stretch of street – though “street” was being generous, seeing as how this particular path lacked even rudimentary paving – and was not even sure how he had arrived here; his driving had been more or less random, governed more by some instinct than any sense of direction. All of these factors taken together implied that Alex should have been devoting the majority of his attention to navigating his vehicle, but he had other, more pressing, matters on his mind.
A stairwell in an old, rundown building. The walls, floor, and stairs themselves are constructed of that gray, industrial concrete that seems to be the standard for ancient college dorms everywhere. The handrails are metal, polished smooth by generations of students, as are the steps beneath their feet. It is not far to the next landing, but a fall here could mean serious injury, or death. Nevertheless, students run up and down it every day and think nothing of it. Why should Alex and Roger, his closest friend, act any differently?
Alex saw very little of the twisting path his car continued to hug tightly, all his necessary responses operating purely on autopilot. One image replayed itself over and over in his mind’s eye, the gray of that stairwell superimposed over the wet blackness of the real world before his physical eyes.
Alex and Roger are deep in conversation, the topic girls or movies or games or some such matter, the words themselves just a buzz, incidental to the true significance of the image. They are barreling down the stairs when the focus tightens in, and the image of Roger’s right foot fills the picture with unnatural clarity. He has turned to the side to make a point, and the foot comes down at an awkward angle, several inches beyond its intended destination. It hits the edge of the stair, catches for an instant, and then loses its grip. The foot falls, dragging the leg behind it. In a split second, all of Roger’s limbs are in motion, but their wild flailing finds no purchase, and Alex finds himself accidentally pushed backwards, unable to help until he finds his own balance, a task made more difficult by the heavy backpack slung across his shoulder. He watches helplessly as the seconds tick slowly by and his friend falls backward, his head inching ever closer to the inevitable, and fateful, encounter with the solid floor below.
The turbulence of nausea slowly crept up into Alex’s stomach. He knew what was coming next – he had seen it replayed in his head more times than he could count in the last few hours – but he could never get used to it. Nor could he get it out of this repeating mental loop it has established within his consciousness. Unconsciously, he held his breath as the little drama yet again reached its conclusion.
Roger’s skull was only a few inches from the floor. Alex wanted to scream, but instead, some other instinct took over. He saw vividly in his mind the image of what he wanted to do but lacked the time: grab his friend and pull him back up. In that instant, Alex felt his mind reach out and do what his hand could not. Only an inch away from the floor, Roger’s body froze in midair, seized by an unseen force. Roger gasped in shock, and Alex looked on with a frozen expression of wide-eyed terror, as his body slowly righted itself. A few seconds passed in utter silence, and then Roger was once again standing firmly on the stair, with only unsteady legs as evidence to what had just occurred. They both stood there, staring at each other. The silence lasted for a very long time.
Roger had wanted to attribute the entire incident to divine interference, guardian angels or some such, but Alex knew better. He knew exactly from where that unexpected force had originated, and it was someplace much closer to home than any ethereal guard dog. He had never believed in ESP, telekinesis, or any of that nonsense, but he knew that he had done something to save his friend. And while some might have reveled in the discovery of such power, Alex found the thought of it to be nothing but disturbing, good results notwithstanding. He had found some excuse and taken his leave of Roger not too long after the incident, and had locked himself away in his dormroom, struggling to make some sense out of everything, find some other explanation for what he knew had occurred. But every time he thought he had explained it away, he saw it all again – felt it all again – and knew that there was no easy answer.
Towards twilight, Alex had experienced a sudden urge to get away, put the campus behind him and get out where he could be truly alone. He had driven out with no set destination in mind, taking every road, every turn, on instinct as his mind continued to reel. Half of the time he had barely seen the road ahead of him.
Which was how he had arrived here, out somewhere in the country, in the dark, on a dirt road rapidly turning to mud, twisting and turning through a wood thicker than any he had ever seen. He could not even remember the transition from the city into the country, and he was shocked at the totality of the shift. From what he could see through the dark and the rain outside, this was no settled suburbia, but true wilderness. All about him were trees whose lichen-encrusted trunks ran straight up into the darkness, even the lowest branches ten or more feet above his head; the forest floor was choked with undergrowth, vines and bushes and moss. The narrow dirt road was the only sign of any kind of civilization he could see. And he had no idea how to get back.
That last thought punched its way through the repeating movie. He didn’t remember how he got here, and he had no clue how to get back. Damn, he thought. I should have been paying attention, no matter what else was going on. The rising anxiety partially overrode his previous concerns, and he could finally devote some portion of his mind to something else besides the events of earlier in the day. He realized that the urge that had driven him outwards had faded, and he wanted nothing so much now as to get back home to familiar surroundings, to some semblance of the stability that had deserted him internally. Why did I ever think leaving would help anyway? At least there were some distractions back at school, ready for me to take advantage of as soon as I was ready. Out here, it really is just me alone with my thoughts. The idea was terrifying, and added an extra kick in the pants to his desire to find his way back as soon as possible.
The question was: how? There was no place he could even turn around, no side roads or driveways, and the road was too narrow and the trees to close and thick to allow him to make a U-turn on the road itself. The only direction he could drive was forward, and he had the distinct feeling that going forward would only lead him deeper and deeper into these mysterious woods. And where did this place come from, anyway? I didn’t think there were any woods this remote for miles and miles.
He had begun to truly despair of finding his way back when salvation appeared, in the form of a light shining through the tree trunks off to his right. Alex’s heart jumped at this sign of actual human habitation, and even as he wondered how to approach it, the road took a sharp turn to the right, and Alex found himself looking at a truly massive house. From what his headlights revealed, it looked to be something straight out of some Victorian novel, if the novelist had been particularly enthusiastic about architecture. Turrets and gables jutted out at every available corner, windows peeked out from under small roofs, and several columns supported the pediment covering a large portico. The whole thing was made of reddish stone left bare. The light came from a single window near the door, which glowed warmly. Despite the overall strangeness of the place, the light in the window was inviting, and Alex didn’t hesitate too much before he left the car and walked up to the entrance.
Alex lifted the ornate iron doorknocker and let it drop, once, twice, three times. The sound echoed much more than he expected, momentarily drowning out the pounding of the rain on the roof above. The sound acted unpleasantly on Alex’s frayed nerves, and he felt an urge to run back to his car and drive off before whoever inhabited this place could answer; only a sense of his own ridiculousness held him in place. Knock on the door and then run away? What am I? Twelve? Before his thought could get any further, the door opened.
The man who answered the door appeared to be in his mid-forties. His hair was dark, worn brushed back and shoulder-length, but the touch of gray at his temples and a few lines on his face betrayed his age. He was tall and narrow, topping Alex by several inches, a physique emphasized by the rather severe suit he was wearing. His expression was also severe, his features hard, but before Alex could once again feel the impulse to bolt, his tight mouth relaxed into a smile.
“Please, please, come in,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “Get out of the rain.”
“No, thank you,” Alex answered. The man may have been smiling, but Alex was still feeling far from comfortable. “I just need to know how to get out of these woods and back to the highway.”
“And would you rather get those directions out here in the cold and wet, rather than safe inside?” The man sounded as though his request was the most reasonable in the world. “I know what the world can be like nowadays, but I won’t hurt you. Nothing could be further from my mind. Please, come inside, dry off a bit, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Normally, such an invitation would have sent Alex running back to his car as fast as his feet could take him, lost or no, but something within him seem to operate his feet without his consent, and he stepped inside before he even knew what he was doing.
The room inside was a match for the façade outside. It was large and wood-paneled, the walls covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. There were several large chairs, which looked to be padded comfortably, as well as a few intricately-carved tables, on which were several more books, some opened and some not. The floor was covered with a rug of intricate and colorful design, and the ceiling was high above his head, lost in shadow. Taking up one entire was a large and ornate marble fireplace, with what was nearly a bonfire raging inside. At first Alex thought this was the source of the warm, dim illumination, but though the amount of light seemed to be correct, the light that revealed the room and shone out the window didn’t waver or flicker with the fire. But the few lamps adorning the various tables were not lit, and Alex could see no other possible source of light. This was all Alex had time to notice before the man spoke again.
“Sit down and have a drink,” he said, waving to a chair. “We have much to discuss. My name is Jonathan, and there are so many things I want to tell you.”
Twenty years later . . .
Raindrops splatted heavily onto the windshield, obscuring Alex’s view of the narrow forest road ahead. The rain was coming down at exactly that most annoying rate, hard enough to blur the glass, but not quite heavy enough for the wipers to scrape it away rather than smear it out. The road wound to and fro, refusing to remain straight for any appreciable length, and the thick growth of trees surrounding it made viewing around any corner an impossibility, especially in the darkness that had descended along with the rain. Alex had never before seen this particular stretch of street – though “street” was being generous, seeing as how this particular path lacked even rudimentary paving – and was not even sure how he had arrived here; his driving had been more or less random, governed more by some instinct than any sense of direction. All of these factors taken together implied that Alex should have been devoting the majority of his attention to navigating his vehicle, but he had other, more pressing, matters on his mind.
A stairwell in an old, rundown building. The walls, floor, and stairs themselves are constructed of that gray, industrial concrete that seems to be the standard for ancient college dorms everywhere. The handrails are metal, polished smooth by generations of students, as are the steps beneath their feet. It is not far to the next landing, but a fall here could mean serious injury, or death. Nevertheless, students run up and down it every day and think nothing of it. Why should Alex and Roger, his closest friend, act any differently?
Alex saw very little of the twisting path his car continued to hug tightly, all his necessary responses operating purely on autopilot. One image replayed itself over and over in his mind’s eye, the gray of that stairwell superimposed over the wet blackness of the real world before his physical eyes.
Alex and Roger are deep in conversation, the topic girls or movies or games or some such matter, the words themselves just a buzz, incidental to the true significance of the image. They are barreling down the stairs when the focus tightens in, and the image of Roger’s right foot fills the picture with unnatural clarity. He has turned to the side to make a point, and the foot comes down at an awkward angle, several inches beyond its intended destination. It hits the edge of the stair, catches for an instant, and then loses its grip. The foot falls, dragging the leg behind it. In a split second, all of Roger’s limbs are in motion, but their wild flailing finds no purchase, and Alex finds himself accidentally pushed backwards, unable to help until he finds his own balance, a task made more difficult by the heavy backpack slung across his shoulder. He watches helplessly as the seconds tick slowly by and his friend falls backward, his head inching ever closer to the inevitable, and fateful, encounter with the solid floor below.
The turbulence of nausea slowly crept up into Alex’s stomach. He knew what was coming next – he had seen it replayed in his head more times than he could count in the last few hours – but he could never get used to it. Nor could he get it out of this repeating mental loop it has established within his consciousness. Unconsciously, he held his breath as the little drama yet again reached its conclusion.
Roger’s skull was only a few inches from the floor. Alex wanted to scream, but instead, some other instinct took over. He saw vividly in his mind the image of what he wanted to do but lacked the time: grab his friend and pull him back up. In that instant, Alex felt his mind reach out and do what his hand could not. Only an inch away from the floor, Roger’s body froze in midair, seized by an unseen force. Roger gasped in shock, and Alex looked on with a frozen expression of wide-eyed terror, as his body slowly righted itself. A few seconds passed in utter silence, and then Roger was once again standing firmly on the stair, with only unsteady legs as evidence to what had just occurred. They both stood there, staring at each other. The silence lasted for a very long time.
Roger had wanted to attribute the entire incident to divine interference, guardian angels or some such, but Alex knew better. He knew exactly from where that unexpected force had originated, and it was someplace much closer to home than any ethereal guard dog. He had never believed in ESP, telekinesis, or any of that nonsense, but he knew that he had done something to save his friend. And while some might have reveled in the discovery of such power, Alex found the thought of it to be nothing but disturbing, good results notwithstanding. He had found some excuse and taken his leave of Roger not too long after the incident, and had locked himself away in his dormroom, struggling to make some sense out of everything, find some other explanation for what he knew had occurred. But every time he thought he had explained it away, he saw it all again – felt it all again – and knew that there was no easy answer.
Towards twilight, Alex had experienced a sudden urge to get away, put the campus behind him and get out where he could be truly alone. He had driven out with no set destination in mind, taking every road, every turn, on instinct as his mind continued to reel. Half of the time he had barely seen the road ahead of him.
Which was how he had arrived here, out somewhere in the country, in the dark, on a dirt road rapidly turning to mud, twisting and turning through a wood thicker than any he had ever seen. He could not even remember the transition from the city into the country, and he was shocked at the totality of the shift. From what he could see through the dark and the rain outside, this was no settled suburbia, but true wilderness. All about him were trees whose lichen-encrusted trunks ran straight up into the darkness, even the lowest branches ten or more feet above his head; the forest floor was choked with undergrowth, vines and bushes and moss. The narrow dirt road was the only sign of any kind of civilization he could see. And he had no idea how to get back.
That last thought punched its way through the repeating movie. He didn’t remember how he got here, and he had no clue how to get back. Damn, he thought. I should have been paying attention, no matter what else was going on. The rising anxiety partially overrode his previous concerns, and he could finally devote some portion of his mind to something else besides the events of earlier in the day. He realized that the urge that had driven him outwards had faded, and he wanted nothing so much now as to get back home to familiar surroundings, to some semblance of the stability that had deserted him internally. Why did I ever think leaving would help anyway? At least there were some distractions back at school, ready for me to take advantage of as soon as I was ready. Out here, it really is just me alone with my thoughts. The idea was terrifying, and added an extra kick in the pants to his desire to find his way back as soon as possible.
The question was: how? There was no place he could even turn around, no side roads or driveways, and the road was too narrow and the trees to close and thick to allow him to make a U-turn on the road itself. The only direction he could drive was forward, and he had the distinct feeling that going forward would only lead him deeper and deeper into these mysterious woods. And where did this place come from, anyway? I didn’t think there were any woods this remote for miles and miles.
He had begun to truly despair of finding his way back when salvation appeared, in the form of a light shining through the tree trunks off to his right. Alex’s heart jumped at this sign of actual human habitation, and even as he wondered how to approach it, the road took a sharp turn to the right, and Alex found himself looking at a truly massive house. From what his headlights revealed, it looked to be something straight out of some Victorian novel, if the novelist had been particularly enthusiastic about architecture. Turrets and gables jutted out at every available corner, windows peeked out from under small roofs, and several columns supported the pediment covering a large portico. The whole thing was made of reddish stone left bare. The light came from a single window near the door, which glowed warmly. Despite the overall strangeness of the place, the light in the window was inviting, and Alex didn’t hesitate too much before he left the car and walked up to the entrance.
Alex lifted the ornate iron doorknocker and let it drop, once, twice, three times. The sound echoed much more than he expected, momentarily drowning out the pounding of the rain on the roof above. The sound acted unpleasantly on Alex’s frayed nerves, and he felt an urge to run back to his car and drive off before whoever inhabited this place could answer; only a sense of his own ridiculousness held him in place. Knock on the door and then run away? What am I? Twelve? Before his thought could get any further, the door opened.
The man who answered the door appeared to be in his mid-forties. His hair was dark, worn brushed back and shoulder-length, but the touch of gray at his temples and a few lines on his face betrayed his age. He was tall and narrow, topping Alex by several inches, a physique emphasized by the rather severe suit he was wearing. His expression was also severe, his features hard, but before Alex could once again feel the impulse to bolt, his tight mouth relaxed into a smile.
“Please, please, come in,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “Get out of the rain.”
“No, thank you,” Alex answered. The man may have been smiling, but Alex was still feeling far from comfortable. “I just need to know how to get out of these woods and back to the highway.”
“And would you rather get those directions out here in the cold and wet, rather than safe inside?” The man sounded as though his request was the most reasonable in the world. “I know what the world can be like nowadays, but I won’t hurt you. Nothing could be further from my mind. Please, come inside, dry off a bit, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Normally, such an invitation would have sent Alex running back to his car as fast as his feet could take him, lost or no, but something within him seem to operate his feet without his consent, and he stepped inside before he even knew what he was doing.
The room inside was a match for the façade outside. It was large and wood-paneled, the walls covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. There were several large chairs, which looked to be padded comfortably, as well as a few intricately-carved tables, on which were several more books, some opened and some not. The floor was covered with a rug of intricate and colorful design, and the ceiling was high above his head, lost in shadow. Taking up one entire was a large and ornate marble fireplace, with what was nearly a bonfire raging inside. At first Alex thought this was the source of the warm, dim illumination, but though the amount of light seemed to be correct, the light that revealed the room and shone out the window didn’t waver or flicker with the fire. But the few lamps adorning the various tables were not lit, and Alex could see no other possible source of light. This was all Alex had time to notice before the man spoke again.
“Sit down and have a drink,” he said, waving to a chair. “We have much to discuss. My name is Jonathan, and there are so many things I want to tell you.”
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