AWOL: A Character Lost (8 page)

The character looked up at the bar-filled window and thought of the author. He hoped that any minute he would flash out and be back in that round room, back in the safety, ready for the next story. He was sure this wasn’t his home.

It didn’t happen, as a key clicked, and tumblers turned.

The killer opened the door and stood there a moment, sizing up his next victim, knife pointed in the downward stabbing position.

The character noticed the killer was standing with his legs spread. He steadied his nerves as the killer watched, debating, wondering what the character was up to. A second later the character ran towards the killer, but the killer moved. The character stopped on an instant, paused in mid run. The killer took a swipe at him. Pieces of fabric came off of the character’s shirt, as he managed to contort his body in a way that would allow him to just be missed.

The character had seconds to think. He looked to the bed and rolled under it. The killer turned towards the bed as the character picked it up and charged. The killer was hit with the bed and pinned to the cell bars. The character could feel the killer’s strength as he tried to squirm free.

The character dropped the bed, and made a run for it. He grabbed his guns, as he ran, and headed out the door. Once in the street, he tried to find a place to hide because the killer was coming down the steps after him.

That’s when the character saw something he didn’t expect.

“Johnny,” the character replied, as his other son wandered across the street, and up a flight of stairs. At top of these stairs were a balcony and a door. Johnny (short brown hair, five feet tall, twelve years old, wearing jeans, t-shirt, cap, and tennis shoes) walked up to the door and turned the handle. He opened it and stepped inside.

The character raced up the stairs, and flung open the door.

The world flashed out.

The character and his son were gone.

*

The sheriff woke up on the bed, wet sheets from the nightmare he just had. He looked over at the woman beside him as storm clouds started to roll in. He checked his body to make sure he was intact. He was.

He lay back on the bed and rested his head.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Are you okay honey?”

The sheriff looked over at his wife.

“I just had this terrible nightmare . . .

The character tumbled back into the room just like he had several times before. If this were a pin ball machine, you would have heard a ding when he made hard contact with the wall. His hat and one boot were knocked off in the tumble, the gun belt sliding out of view as he lost his grip on it. The Western door flashed out as he lay there and didn’t move.

Something caught my attention. These words appeared on the wall as I wrote them. “Get up and get moving! Something’s not right!”

The character stood up and dusted himself off. He found the lamp and turned it on. In the light, he found his boot and gun belt. He put them in their respective spots and didn’t worry about the hat. “You’re damn right something’s not right. What the hell was that guy doing in a western! Can’t you write anything just as status quo? Can’t you just make it a traditional story without throwing in something extra, and where’s Johnny? Where’s my other son?” The character was obviously in a rage. “I’m tired of you putting us through this. I want to go home. Now!”

“I’m serious. I just don’t like the room right now. It’s off. You need to get moving!”

In the dim light of the lamp, something silver flashed and gleamed. This silver object moved as it followed the character.

“You know what . . .” the character trailed off. He noticed it as well.

He held the lamp up high and shined it around the room. The light didn’t cast that much of a beam, so he couldn’t kill the dark spaces as much as he would have liked to.

While his eyes searched, the killer from the Western came charging out of the dark – knife held high, ready to stab, ready to finish the job he had started in the Western story. The character on instinct swung the lamp (it didn’t break for some reason) and hit the killer right up side the head knocking him sideways. The killer stumbled, dropped the knife, and fell to the floor.

“GO NOW!” I wrote on the wall as the character stood there confused.

“Go where?” The character asked, splashing the light across the doors.

“The door marked Slasher. It’s the story he came out of. He’s called The Goodnight Killer.”

“That’s not the next door.”

“Who cares? Get moving! It will put him back in his home!”

The killer got to his feet and reached for the knife.

“This isn’t over between us. I need to know where my son is, and I want answers.”

“He’s moving. Get going.” I wrote trying to prod him on. I was afraid he might actually die in here, and I would have no way of knowing where he belongs. That would haunt me for a very long time.

The character grabbed the handle on the door marked Slasher and opened it. He turned off the lamp and dropped it onto the floor. He dove through, and the door closed.

The Goodnight Killer walked over to the door, and looked down. He turned the handle, and the door opened. A thick shaft of moonlight fell into the room – buttery yellow. The Goodnight Killer could hear kids partying and having sex. Blood lust filled his soul, as the voices filled his head again. “Kill them all,” they said. “Kill them because they’re happy, kill them because they are doing things you will never do, kill them and we will be quiet.”

That was good enough for The Goodnight Killer. He stepped through, the door closed, and he was gone.

A question occurred to me after he left; one that sent shivers up my spine. Are there others that have gotten out of their stories, or is this just the work of a killer in a Slasher story? Those killers always seem to wind up where you least expect them. Maybe since the rules of the creative world have blurred, it made it easier for The Goodnight Killer to move about. Who knows? Let’s just hope, that since the killer is back in his story, that he will stay there, and let’s hope, other characters haven’t found their way out. I hit the save button, and returned to my day.

The character appeared beside a lake on a small sandy shore with brown sand grains below his feet. The world around him was empty.

A thick yellow moon, fat and full, filled the night sky with light. Trees danced in a soft breeze, talked to one another with green leaves, pines swayed in hush whispered tones. The water lapped gently. The night was still.

A loon cried out from somewhere distant, an owl seemed to answer.

The character, as he stood there, absorbing the peace, saw a roaring bonfire in the distance, and heard party noises. He decided to walk in that direction.

*

The party was filled with young people from eighteen to twenty five, laughing it up, having sex, smoking pot, drinking, and just doing all those things young people do. The character walked into this scene of debauchery, and spied four kids sitting in a circle smoking weed and listening to heavy metal music. He made his way over to them.

“What’s going on?” The character asked one of the stoned youths – 18 years of age, wearing a hat, jeans, sweatshirt and tennis shoes. He had blonde hair and blue foggy eyes.

“What’s up cowboy?” The stoned youth laughed, and so did his friends.

The character looked down at his Western clothes, complete with six shooters and jingling spurs. He was severely outdated in this Eighties world where everyone was dressed in something neon in color – pink and green seemed to be the popular choices.

“Cowpoke, where did you leave your horse?” The stoned youth let out another laugh; and his friends, like trained monkeys, joined in again.

The character ignored them as a strange voice sounded off behind him. “Do you want to know what’s going on?”

The character turned around to see a man who looked like a cop in street clothes. He was an older guy – late sixties, with salty brown hair and a thick mustache, wearing kaki pants, a polo shirt, and loafers.

“I would love to know what’s going on,” the character replied, as he saw a young man and woman escape off into the woods nearby, laughing and pawing at each other’s clothes.

“My name’s Frank by the way, former cop,” he replied, holding a hand out for a shake.

“Martin,” the character replied, returning the handshake.

“Well, Martin, a few days ago The Good Night Killer disappeared, simply vanished. One minute he was slicing and dicing and the next, nothing. I was tracking him when it happened, almost got him.”

“Like he just walked out of the story,” the character paused. Was this a slip up? Would it send this story into some kind of creative chaos? The character didn’t know that answer, but he was happy when Frank seemed to gloss over it.

“Story? No, just like he walked out of the world.” Frank gave the character a look over. “Not from around here, are you?”

“No, I’m sure of that.”

Frank moved on with the conversation. “After that, it all got weird.”

“Weird?”

“People started doing what they wanted to do, mostly sex and partying. It’s like they have no fear. They’ve lost that part of themselves.”

*

The young couple the character saw heading off into the woods, a little bit ago, are now done with their quick bit of sex, happy and carefree, youthful hormones quieted for the moment. They lay there side by side, relaxing, smoking weed, enjoying the cool air on their warm sweaty young bodies. It is obvious they have no fear, no threat. They are foot loose and fancy free.

“It really has changed around here,” the girl replied.

The boy closed his eyes and headed off to slumber.

The girl ignored him, as she lay there, and watched the sky above. Like any good Slasher story moment, after a minute or two, the girl has to get up and pee, go pee in the cold dark woods.

Guess what? She does.

She slides on her top, which covers her to the tops of her knees, and walks just behind a tree, close enough to see her boyfriend, but far enough away for privacy.

She squats.

A twig breaks.

She turns around to see what made that noise, but seeing nothing, decides to turn around, and finish her task.

Of course it’s nothing, never is. Am I right?

She turns around when she hears it again, and this time gets a knife blade right between the eyes. She goes limp and hangs from the blade for a moment, blood running free, happy to escape the body from the open wound.

The Goodnight Killer pushes her head off the blade, and it sounds like a knife being pulled out of a ripe pumpkin. Her body hits the ground as her boyfriend starts to stir. The boyfriend reaches over for her comfort, and sits up when he doesn’t feel her there. He has but a moment to realize something is wrong when The Goodnight Killer leaps from the woods.

The boy looks up to see this large black shape sailing through the air towards him, blade held high. The boy goes to scream, but The Goodnight Killer ends that noise with the knife by slamming the blade into the boy’s mouth. This blade splits open the boy’s mouth like a jagged smile, ripping and tearing open the tissues of flesh, tearing apart the tongue, busting out teeth as it travels to the back of the boy’s throat. The point of the blade exits the out the back of his skull and pins the boy’s head to the ground. The boy spasms underneath The Goodnight Killer as he pushes the blade as far down as it can go.

The Goodnight Killer removes the blade and stands up. He looks towards the bonfire and hears the party sounds. It is time to set things right.

With determined, but somehow light steps, he leaves the scene; and a moment later arrives at the edge of the party, which is being held inside an open circle in the woods. The Goodnight Killer watches the four stoned youths who the character first encountered at the start of this story. These four are the closest to the woods, closest to the edge of the circle, and closest to death. The Goodnight Killer readies his blade and proceeds forward, popping into the circle of four, wielding his knife blade with precision; needless to say, it’s a circle of carnage.

Screams erupt from the party crowd.

Frank, the character, and whoever can make it out alive, head for safety, as The Goodnight Killer goes about slicing and dicing, killing anything that moves in order to quiet the demon’s in his head.

*

The character follows Frank as he leads him towards the deserted FIVE POINTS CAMP, the direction they all seem to be going in, screaming and running for their lives.

When the character arrives at this camp, something catches his eye. He stops and looks. For sure he’s seeing things, but upon a deeper glance he knows he is seeing right. It is his younger son, and he has just stepped out of view and into one of the cabins. The character heads off towards it, as Frank stops and turns to see where the character is going. It is then and there that he feels something sharp in his back, a twinge of pain that starts to radiate from the lower spine, upward. He feels something warm and knows it is blood without even looking at it.

The Goodnight Killer pushes Frank off the blade and his body hits the ground like a limp rag doll, as the character reaches the cabin. He rips open the door; sure his son will be there, but instead he is tumbling, tumbling out of this story, and back to the spot where he was created.

The Goodnight Killer feels himself pulled and pushed back to the start of the story. Back to where this tale is supposed to begin. Re-played like it is supposed to be each time it is read and re read. He is home, and now he can kill until his heart is filled.

The character rolled back into the unlighted room, and once again, crashed hard into the wall. This time the crash was so hard that it sent both boots flying, jingling and jangling as they flew, landing somewhere in the dark with a loud thud. The character stayed where he stopped, flat on his back. He was tired, and he was frustrated. He had been tumbled into and out of so many different stories that his head was spinning. He wondered to himself if the audience this guy was writing for was feeling the same way. He just wanted to be home, and the character knew the audience wanted to see him there too. They were probably begging for it by now.

“Rough landing,” I wrote, words flashing on the wall

The character looked up at the wall as the words flashed out. He flipped the wall off and muttered a barely audible “fuck you” under his breath. He had no desire at the moment to talk to the author, the guy sitting at home, typing on his keys, comfortable, not having to dance from one horror story to the next.

“A little pissed at me, I guess.”

The character laughed and didn’t say anything, just lay there.

I let him lie there a moment so he could get his mind straight. He needed it.

After a few moments, the character sat up to a sitting position and shook the cobwebs free. He rubbed his eyes, stood up, and collected his cool. “I saw my other son again.” He took off the gun belt and dropped it onto the floor.

“Really?”

“Yep. He disappeared into one of the cabins, and just as I went to open it – guess what? I was back here.” Controlled rage ran across his voice as he said this, doing his best to keep the anger in. “You like jerking me around and the audience as well, right? I know what you are up to, they probably do as well. Using my son to get some audience sympathy or trying to push your little story forward with dramatic tension. It is shameful, it really is. It’s not even possible or probable for him to be in the same story as me. Don’t you realize that? Probably don’t, you just think it’s clever.”

I ignored him. “It appears he is lost, just like you. I guess you got lucky with your first son.” The words flashed on the wall, and then flashed out.

“Lucky,” he laughed. “Lucky he was caught by those blood suckers. Lucky that he almost got fed on. Lucky that those animals nearly tore him to shreds. Lucky that I don’t know where he is right now, if he is safe or not.” The character paused for a moment. “If that is luck, then mister author, I want no part of it.”

“Do you need a nap or a break?”

“I just need to be home, and I need to find the rest of my family.” The character studied the doors without light this time. He wondered if he would ever make it back.

“Are you sure?”

“Look. I am just ready to get done. The sooner we get this over with the better.”

I was sure he needed a break, but he didn’t want it. So I decided to push on.

“Okay, well, I’ve been given it some thought, and I think the Monster door is the one you should go into next.”

The character turned on the light and looked at the doors. If he went into Monster, then Alien would be ignored all together.

“Why not Alien? That’s the next one.”

The character was trying to get back into the rhythm of things. He knew that if he cooperated that the author would eventually get him home. He was trying not to think of his sons, one lost in the author’s twisted imagination, the other possibly back in his story. He was also trying not to think of his wife, and what she could be going through at this moment. He stopped that thought train; he just didn’t want to imagine the hell she could be in right now, if she wasn’t home in her own story.

“I just don’t think you need to be there just yet. It feels like to me that one will be needed later on, but for now you need to go into the Monster door. You’ll also need some new clothes.”

“That’s obvious.”

I ignored him and thought of some clothes he would need for the next story. As I write out this next description, these objects appear at his feet: a pair of shorts, tee shirt, socks, and good shoes for walking or running. “Those should be good beach clothes,” I wrote.

The character put the clothes on. “Not bad. I guess this isn’t just a simple beach story?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yeah, guess I do by now.”

“Think of it this way. You are closer now to home than you were when you first appeared in here.”

“That’s comforting, but not by much. By the way, kind of convenient having that Slasher door available, don’t you think?”

“I think some part of me knew it would be needed, and that’s why it was there, because I was pretty sure that wasn’t your home when I first created it.”

“At least that guy is home now, and I won’t have to worry about him anymore.” The character paused. “So, where am I going this time?”

“North Carolina. It’s where I live, not at the beach, but its close enough to drive to for a quick weekend getaway.”

“Keeping it close, huh,” the character replied.

“Yep, writing what I know.”

“Does it help?”

“Sometimes,” I wrote.

The character turned the light off, and set it down. He reached for the handle and turned it. The door opened, and warm light spilled in. The sounds of the ocean came into the room and bounced off the walls.

“Good luck,” I wrote.

“Sure,” the character replied, as he stepped through the door and into the next story. The door closed and I, the author, hit the save button. It was time to get the chores done for the day.