Falter Kingdom (16 page)

The details are different. They don't add it up.

It's not just the details either. It's the perspective.

I'm seeing from somewhere else... and it's not until I'm walking up—that's me, walking up to Brad and Steve—that I get it.

I get it now.

I'm not really listening to them and I'm drinking and then it kind of just happens before I even realize it. I tell them that I'll do it.

Funny how one stupid thing can turn everything upside down.

Everything's upside down and I'm seeing it all happen.

I'm running down the tunnel like it's so damn easy. I'm running all drunk, almost tripping on my toes.

I'm running toward you.

And then I pass you by. It's like you're running after me. It's like you're the camera and I'm the main character, being filmed.

But this isn't anything like that. This is what you saw, right? This is what you're trying to tell me.

You leave me though. You let me run and you turn and look back at what happens when their timers go off. First it's Blaire, who says, “Oh no...”

And then it's Steve who says, “Hunter?” He sounds insincere, kind of worried but clearly doesn't care.

And then it's Brad who starts freaking out: “What the fuck?” But that doesn't stop him from shotgunning a can of beer.

Blaire tells him, “Something's wrong.”

“Shit,” Brad says, beer running down the sides of his mouth.

Steve starts backing away from the opening of the tunnel.

Brad notices. “Shit, how long's he been in there?”

Blaire doesn't have to check. She knows exactly how long.

But I don't hear that part. You decide to move on, back to me, running. You join me where you left me, and it's only at that point that I am able to move forward. I was running in place? I start grinding my teeth. I never grind my teeth in my sleep.

Back to Blaire, who's the only one left.

I know where Brad went. Like Steve, he was scared. He didn't want to be involved, thinking about himself first. When Blaire called him out on it, he shouted, “We'll get help!” They were both so scared they couldn't move.

I know because you know.

It's the only way I'm able to know.

You reach out to me and touch me, but I don't see your hand and I don't notice you when you do; but that gets me to stop. That sends the signal to go back. But you're with me the entire run back.

You're at my side when I walk the trail back to my car.

You're right there, in the front passenger seat, when I pull out of the Meadows parking lot.

You're right there.

My body and mind are telling me that this is bad. I'm starting to shake in my sleep, but something else, the fact that the dream keeps going... it keeps me from just pushing away. My curiosity makes me turn the next corner. But instead of driving home, I'm driving back.

It's three A.M.

I know because you know. It's three
A.M.
the previous night and I'm driving. I make that exit and I end up on that dirt road. I sit there for a while and you stand outside, watching me from the front of the car. At one point, I look right at you and I'm able to see what I look like. I look different somehow. I don't know.

Turn another corner, on foot, and I walk toward you.

I turn my attention to you.

It's the darkness of night and it's like that person standing at the opening of Falter Kingdom... it's like that person isn't really me.

You look at me and I look back.

I see what you see.

That person sits down. That person seems to be really patient, like he has nowhere else to go.

For a while, there's nothing, one watching the other.

But then there's the familiar voice: “H, you there?”

And then I hear you say, from deep within the tunnel...

Yes.

The word hangs there, and it's my voice. But it doesn't register as a real word. Like everything else, even in the context of a dream, you sound like me and you send everything in the only way that's possible. It makes complete sense but, at the same time, things don't seem to add up.

They don't need to add up.

They just are.

And then the words “How are you feeling?” they reach the very back of the tunnel. I can hear them in this dream, which means you could hear them when I said them.

I hear a rumbling noise, a low voice.

It seems like you're getting closer to that person, to me.

I'm sitting there, all deep in thought, totally not seeing you in the dark of the tunnel. You get closer and closer and closer.

When I move to leave and say, “See you around,” you're right there with me.

I see what you see and from where you stood: you could see my breath in the air, chilled, but I didn't seem to notice that night.

You watch me walk back.

You watch and I watch.

And then you say...

See you around.

Next thing I know I'm on the couch, awake.

8

I WAKE UP HAPPY AND IT'S WEIRD, YEAH. I REMEMBER
everything and it kind of, well, it gives me something to think about. It's all going to end at some point, right? Like, I could be like everyone else and just be like, “The exorcism is next week.” I could be like that but I think I'm way beyond that kind of stuff. It'll happen, yeah, I'm not forgetting that, but really, this is my chance to learn more. This is my one chance to explore. I mean, seriously, after what happened after the party, after that dream, I'm so excited.

I wake up refreshed, feeling like I have a ton of energy.

Also bizarre, but I'll take it. Can't wait to see what happens next.

I go to my room, looking at the time on my phone and, damn, it's early. But not early enough to see that H has changed some things around. I look in my closet and it's kind of like, “Um, I used to have more clothes than this...”

But the laptop's still there, on my desk. I walk over and look. I google some possession porn videos because maybe they'll give me some understanding, I don't know, and I end up watching this one that shows a before and after of someone's possession. It's mostly about the person's exorcism. They don't even go far enough to have
any of the dreams, any of the lapses in time and consciousness and shit. They get it done quick, and the fact that they did really makes me feel better.

I say, “This one's like all the others.”

And it's not like I'm talking to myself. It really isn't.

I don't realize that I'm shivering, goose bumps on my arms and everything. I'm wearing only boxers and a T-shirt that's been sweat through.

Again, I have to be like, “Um, I used to be wearing more clothes than this...” I scratch at my palms, some sort of rash maybe, but I push that to the side when I hear a car door close outside. I don't want that person to see me at the window, so I do that thing where you hide at the side of the window and take short glances, not even, like, ten seconds each. I see a white car. Not Mom's or Dad's...

Second time I look, I see a familiar man.

Then the doorbell.

“Who the hell is that?”

But then I know. It clicks—Father Albert. It's like the information was given to me.

You did that, didn't you?

I stand there a second, curious to see if I'll know... but nothing happens. The doorbell is pressed a second time.

Dammit. I put on some clothes, whatever I can find.

Running down the stairs, I say something like, “Does your kind actually get hurt by all that religious stuff?”

I'm in for a surprise when I open the door. One look at Father Albert and you tell me. No. It, like, holds there, as if right on Father Albert's forehead, the word “no” hanging there. Like it's you, trying to make me laugh.

“Greetings, Hunter,” Father Albert says.

The way he looks at me, I notice.

I can't help but get angry when I see his face, how he just kind of judges me and acts all fake. I know that he thinks I'm sick and falling apart because of what's happening. I know that it's his job
to be here, to help me, but the first thing he could do is just be real. Say it, man. Say it:
You look like shit.

I reply, “Hi,” and I feel like shit when I say it.

Funny how it all switches when someone like Father Albert shows up.

He walks into the foyer, hands folded, Bible pressed against his chest. He looks around, and I just know that he's trying to sense where H is.

“He's looking for you,” I whisper.

I think about what might happen. I really don't know what's going to happen. I wonder...

“How are you feeling on this fine morning, Hunter?”

What do you want me to say? I shrug and say the first thing that comes to mind: “I'm really tired but I'm, uh, fine. Just fine.”

Why is it so hard to speak? Like, it was really hard to just get that out. It's like I don't even want to keep up appearances. It's like, whatever.

Father Albert with his fake grin. “On this morn, we will begin our process. First, I'd like to bless the house. This will not take long.”

“Okay,” I say, and Father Albert leads the way.

I whisper, “What does this do?”

I kind of expect H to respond, but then Father Albert's like, “This will help cleanse your place of rest. A home should not be invaded. It is a sacred place, for it is where you have chosen to occupy and place meaning. This is the reason an unclean spirit will attach itself to a location. It will try to get your attention. Once it gets your attention, it will attempt to make contact. Once it does that, as we have discussed previously, during our meeting, it will begin the principles of infestation.”

“Infestation,” I mumble.

“Mm-hmm.” Father Albert nods, walking into the kitchen. “You will experience a variety of advanced symptoms. One of the most popular symptoms is a late-stage sense of lethargy. Additionally, cognitive dissonance.”

Father Albert stops, puts a hand on my shoulder, and I want to slap it off. I want to say something like,
Stop being so fake. Tell me how far gone I am. Just tell me and you'll still get that payday.

He leans forward. “Pray with me.”

I'm not praying with you.

He makes the sign of the cross, folds his hands together, and starts on some prayer that I really can't stand to listen.

I'm mumbling stuff like, “This really works, yeah, really?”

But when I hear a rumbling from deep within the house, I start thinking that maybe H is wrong. Father Albert really can hurt him. It's kind of like... a double take. I'm like,
Wait? What's happening?

Father Albert walks into the next room, the family room, and starts making hand gestures.

He doesn't stop praying.

I hear the same rumbling. It's getting louder.

I close my eyes and I don't know why. My bottom lip starts to quiver and I don't know why. A lot of things happen and I don't know why.

But the fact that I don't know doesn't seem to bother me.

Father Albert says my name, and I open my eyes. He wants me to follow him upstairs.

As we do, he continues the prayer. He blesses every room, but we step into only mine. Right as he walks in, he stops praying. Father Albert notices the drop in temperature but doesn't say anything. He kind of looks around my room in a weird way, and I can tell that this isn't normal. I watch from the hallway, completely separate from the fact that he is in
my
room, judging my things, and more than all of that, he's judging me.

It makes me feel like I'm the one who's at fault. Like this is my fault. Father Albert looks at my bed and it's like he's thinking that it's pathetic.

It makes me mad.

Really mad.

When he looks back at me, waving me in—“Dear son, please, be by my side”—I want to punch him. I want to push him to the ground. I come up with a dozen things I want to do to him and they all end the same way: he leaves and never comes back. I'm like,
Why do you get to judge me? Can I judge you? Can I tell you how fake you are? How you probably never had one single original thought in your head?
How you probably never did anything interesting in life? You just followed the same footsteps and ended up where you are, Father Albert.

But there I am, standing at his side.

He places a hand on my forehead and I'm surprised by how warm it is. It's like almost scalding hot.

He starts reciting another prayer.

In this moment, I start to feel a little sick.

“Hunter, stay with me, son,” Father Albert says.

I want this to end. That's what I'm thinking.

I want this to end.

I want this to end. I repeat it in my head, like some kind of message that won't send. I want this to end.

I start shaking.

I want this to end.

Father Albert says, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...”

I want this to end. Now.

Suddenly the bedroom door shuts.

Father Albert stops praying.

We start hearing the scratching sounds.

It gets colder. I remember the cold. I see my breath and Father Albert's too. I can still feel the heat on my forehead. I know that you never left, and then I also see what's about to happen.

I start to feel better.

Father Albert keeps telling me, “It will be okay, son.”

He holds on to my hand. The look on his face, the way his lips still move, he's reciting the rosary. I see the beaded necklace in his hand. Oh, so that's what it is. I didn't know until just now what that was.

Then we hear the rumbling again.

Father Albert closes his Bible, tells me, “It appears as though the situation is far more advanced than previously specified.”

Like that's my fault. Right? My fault?

“I told you what I knew.”

Father Albert nods.

I ask him, “What are you going to do now?”

Just because I'm curious.

Does a priest get afraid?

Father Albert keeps cool. Of course Father Albert always keeps his cool. I kind of want him to just be real. I want him to jump in fear. I want him to start praying for his own safety. I want him to be like, “Damn, man, this is bad.”

Something like that.

Instead he tells me, “Perhaps it's best to leave before we provoke the spirit any further.”

I know what's going to happen next.

He tries the door.

It doesn't budge.

Yeah, I've been there, man. I'm right here with you, but really, I'm just watching. I'm convinced that it's all an act and Father Albert's the star of this prank. Father Albert, come on—do you really think that's going to work? He keeps trying the door and then he starts ramming the door with his shoulder. He wants to break through the door. But he doesn't need to do all that.

The door. It'll open the moment I try turning the doorknob.

Father Albert stops and straightens his collar. Says to me, “My apologies, Hunter. Let us both pray and the activity will pass. The spirit only has so much energy at its expense. It shall soon tire.”

I shake my head. “Let me try the door.”

I walk over and it's like some planned stunt, I turn the doorknob like it wasn't ever a problem.

The door opens and, yeah, Father Albert looks at me different, a loaded look, because of course he's going to blame me. I'm at fault. And then he tells me that things need to speed up. He says that he'll be here tomorrow. And I'm all about pretending that I don't need any of this urgent care but that's not going to work. Of course it isn't going to work. So Father Albert says one last prayer and leaves, wishing me luck.

Right before he steps outside, he whispers to me, “Stay strong. You are in a battle for your soul.”

I watch him leave.

The house is quiet after he's gone.

I whisper, “All for show.”

It was all for show.

Back upstairs in my room, I feel more like myself.

I stand at my bed, looking straight ahead. Time seems to pass.

I busy myself with the thoughts that should come, but instead, I'm left standing, waiting for anything, anything at all, to pop up. It's like you know that you're supposed to be doing something but you forgot what. That's the way this feels. It feels like I was thinking about something but I misplaced that thought, or it was taken from me. I stand there, looking for it. Eventually it makes me tired. I find myself in bed, sheets up to my chin. I close my eyes, waiting for sleep to arrive. I can hear movement nearby, the air changing to the left of the bed. A knot forms in my throat. I feel like my heart is going to burst from my chest. Then I remember what it was that I was trying to think of, which really helps me settle down. There are more thoughts, but they keep their distance. I'm pretty calm, waiting.

I'll be asleep in no time. It's not like before, when I kept waking up. Now I just want to sleep through the entire day. Maybe I will.

H will be waiting.

This time I'm nobody. I'm nobody named. I'll probably yawn, shiver, and scream in my sleep... but something about seeing everything from your eyes makes it better. It keeps me going. I'd be lying if I didn't mention that the danger, the sheer worry that should be here, is misplaced and made into something that seems like another reason to have fun. Like watching horror movies back when I was a kid: I didn't want to keep watching, because everyone knew that it'd only get crazier and scarier, but I'd keep watching. Even if I needed to cover my eyes, I kept watching.

That's how I feel about this dream.

My dreams have become far more interesting than my days.

It starts like the others, which tells me that this one will be different. I just don't know how. Not yet.

You stay in one place, near the bedroom door, watching as I turn on all the lights in the house. I look like an idiot, all nervous, thinking random thoughts. I keep thinking that I'm going to be able to ignore you, thinking about how there's nothing in the attic, nothing going on that isn't just a symptom of the haunting.

Nothing is “just” a symptom though.

I am beginning to understand that.

You are everywhere I couldn't have imagined. It's like I'm part of a reality television show for demons or something. I watch what you saw, and I half expect to be graded like I just finished singing or dancing. How did I do?

It's only just begun.

I should be afraid but I was really afraid then—does that make up for now? I'm watching intently, and this feels kind of like how you watch your home movies later in life and critique how bad you were: Man, what was I thinking? Always better in the future, always better in the future.

So we're watching as I walk up to the attic. I'm so damn slow.

No, this isn't in slow motion, is it? Man, why am I hesitating? Just go!