In the House of Mirrors (6 page)

I entered Cameraland and spotted Little Chris behind the counter. Big Chris was the owner, Little Chris was his son. Big Chris was—well,
big
. He weighed probably close to three-hundred pounds. Little Chris was no small-fry, but he was nowhere near the size of his father. Probably got his mother's genes and good for him; his father was one ugly bastard. Nice man, but he looked like something out of a Universal Studios horror film from the 50's. Little Chris—whose last name was Pickens, same as his father's—was repairing someone's digital camera when I approached the counter. He looked up at me and nodded.

“
You again,” he said, grinning. He was a good kid, I could tell. My sense of character told me Chris Pickens Jr. was a gentle giant. “Need some pictures developed?”

“
Not today, young sir.”
Young sir.
I was probably only five years older than him. “I do need—however—five rolls of the good stuff.” I felt like a heroin addict going to get his fix. Taking pictures was highly addictive.

I told him I needed a specific film to capture action shots; people walking, talking, or maybe even running. Chris Pickens Jr. nodded, telling me that the quality of the pictures may be sacrificed. I told him that was okay and then he reached underneath the counter and grabbed the film I needed. I didn't ask him any questions or second guess him. Little Chris had never steered me wrong. I'll never forget the little lesson he gave me the very first time I came into his father's store, looking like a new homeowner in a hardware store. He showed me everything even though he never heard of Denlax before, and before I knew it, I was loading the 35mm film into the camera all by myself. I became used to the Denlax, figuring out its quirks in almost no time at all. I adjusted to the capture button (which I called “the trigger”), which sometimes got stuck if I pressed down too hard. I became comfortable with it and quite frankly; I liked the piece of shit camera. Furthermore, I enjoyed my brief trips to Cameraland and my conversations with Little Chris, who was always there anytime I stopped in. I only saw Chris Pickens Sr. there once, but it was on a weekend, and business was busier than normal.

I was really starting to dig the photography business, and I had the Denlax and Little Chris to thank for that.

But it would only be a matter of time before things started to go bad for me, before I'd find out about my camera's bizarre defect, which ended up being more like a curse.

6

I paid for my film and left Cameraland when there was still light left in the sky. I had an hour, maybe more, before darkness fell, and I'd have to take pictures with the flash on. I figured I'd head out west to Treebound, where a house burnt down earlier that day. Sheldon wanted a snapshot of the ruins for Sunday's edition. I planned to have it to him in plenty of time, before my stakeout began.

I glanced at the black-marble notebook Uncle Bernie gave me. There was a lot of information about Danica in there, but few notes were taken about her lover. There was one tidbit on a separate piece of paper, near the back of the book. It said:

Martin Olberstad

753 Conifer Street, Apartment G11

Red River, New Jersey.

I decided to start my mission there. It seemed like Uncle Bernie knew nothing about the man who was banging his wife. I wouldn't say I didn't believe my uncle's accusation, but I've always been a “seeing is believing” kind of guy. I needed some proof. And if there was any truth to my uncle's story, then it started with Marty Olberstad. Danica would be easy to tail, because I knew her routines, thanks to Bernie's keen observation of his wife's daily wanderings. It seemed he had already done a bit of reconnaissance himself, which further supported my decision to start with Marty.

CHAPTER SEVEN

My first stakeout began on a Saturday night, long after the sun had abandoned the sky and gave way to twilight. The streets were icy from the snow that melted during the fairly sunny afternoon. I pulled my blue Honda down Conifer Street, which to my surprise, was not far from my sister's house. I examined the parking lot of the apartment complex where Marty Olberstad lived.
The Banks
, it was called. It was much nicer than most of the apartments in Red River and the surrounding neighborhood seemed decent. There were probably million dollar homes within the area, but across the street from
The Banks,
the houses were probably worth a quarter of that, maybe even a little less.

I pulled into the complex and searched for apartment G11. It took me several minutes to locate it. His apartment was tucked away in the back of the complex. I found a guest parking spot and sat there for a good fifteen minutes while trying to figure out the parking arrangements for tenants. It didn't look like there were any designated spots. 

I turned my attention toward the door. G11. The lantern-like lights, which were mounted next to every apartment door, and the lampposts in the parking lot provided sufficient brightness. I thought I could snap a few photographs without using the flash, if he happened to be going out on this wickedly cold night. But there wasn't anything to capture unless that happened. It was just an apartment complex and I had seen enough of those in my time to know that if you've seen one, you've seen them all.

Private investigating is not nearly as exciting as Hollywood and paperback novelists make it out to be. I nearly fell asleep twice. I definitely nodded off once. I listened to the radio blare the same shitty pop tunes over and over again. I turned it off when I started memorizing the words to the new Miley Cyrus song. I was so bored that I started doodling in the black-marble notebook. I drew a picture of Lynne getting fucked from behind by a giant lizard monster. I'm an awful artist so it came out looking like a giant frog sodomizing a female stick figure with balloons for breasts. I froze my ass off in that parking lot for about two hours when finally—
finally
—something happened.

A man—Martin Olberstad, I hoped—opened G11's front door. He closed the door behind him, locked it, proceeded to travel down the walkway, and then trotted down the stairs, toward his car, which was conveniently parked in front of his apartment. It was a BMW, a black one, probably one of the most expensive cars in the entire lot. I could see his breath in the light that the overhead lamppost provided. He entered his car, and without giving it a minute to warm up, he threw it in reverse. I snapped three pictures of him with the flash off before he got in, so I couldn't guarantee they'd come out very good. The complex was covered in an orange glow that the overhead lights provided, so I was pretty sure they'd be okay. I had taken pictures in worse lighting conditions (flash off) and they came out fuzzy and dim, but still visible.

I waited for him to leave, then turned the key in the ignition and sped off after him.

2

He drove for a long time, at least a half hour. I was mad at myself for not gassing up before I went on my little stakeout. Thankfully, I had just enough to get me where Olberstad was going. I had no idea where I was, but I couldn't have been too far from the outskirts of Red River. As I followed him down the highway, I felt myself grow very nervous. Woods surrounded us on both sides, and the feeling you get when your completely lost began to sweep through me. I looked deep within the blackness the woods provided. I wondered if the ghost of Johnny McKinnley was in there. A chill tickled the back of my neck and I turned my attention back to Olberstad.

Up ahead, brake lights lit up. His car turned and disappeared off the highway, into the woods that appeared to stretch across Central Jersey forever.
What the hell?
I slowed my car to where Olberstad turned and I saw a slender dirt path that cut through the forest. It was only wide enough for traffic in one direction. I quickly assessed my options. I thought about turning back, calling it a night and returning to my private investigator gig sometime during the week, when Marty wasn't taking his BMW off-roading. Then a crazy thought popped into my head;
follow him
. Well, I was curious as all hell. Why a man takes his ritzy vehicle into the woods, in the middle of the night, confused the shit out of me. Secondly, I thought maybe there was a place within the woods where he could be meeting my aunt. Maybe a cabin, or even a small abandoned house. I didn't really think that would be their style; I assumed they'd be more of a “Comfort Inn” type of couple. But a place in the middle of the woods was private enough. No one would find them back there, that was for sure.

Except for me.

I briefly imagined a man emerging from the brush with a chainsaw raised above his head wearing a bloody tee shirt, screaming,
“I've come for you Ritchie-my-bitchie!”
It was a senseless, passing thought that did not linger in my head for more than a few seconds.

I quickly considered my options. I was far from tired, still had enough gas in my tank, and had a curiosity that would put most cats to shame.
What's the worst that could happen?
I didn't really want to know the answer to that question, but my wonderful brain did a helluva job conjuring up the ghastly scenarios that could be waiting for me down there.

You could run into the ghost of Johnny McKinley,
my brain said. Nonsense. There's no such thing as ghosts.

Well, Marty Olberstad is real. Suppose he finds out that you were following him. Sticking your shit-covered nose up his ass. I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate that!
I'm sure he wouldn't, but I was also pretty sure I could've talked my way out of it.

Suppose you can't. Suppose it's just you and him out there. You don't know this man. You don't know what he could do. Suppose he's capable of murder.
I read an article in a very reputable magazine once that every human being is capable of murder if pushed far enough, and they had scientific evidence to prove it. 

Suppose—

I turned the radio on to drown out the worst-case-scenario voice in my head. It was another song I heard a million times, but I didn't care. It was better than scaring the shit out of myself. My stomach had already become uneasy since I started following Olberstad. When I was driving down the dark, windy path the woods provided me, it got even worse. For a second I thought I was going to unload my bowels into my underwear. I began to see lights up ahead, and then thought I should turn around. I had come too far, and those lights were a warning sign that it was time to go back. But I couldn't. First of all, there was nowhere for me to turn around. The path was barely big enough for my Honda. Secondly, it felt like I had little control over my body. Fear had taken over, and the feeling refused to let me put my foot on the break.

As I got closer to the bright lights I noticed I was driving toward a house. A tall, two-story house with exterior lighting on all four corners, which lit up the surrounding area very well. Where the path ended, a dirt lot began, which also made up the front yard of this reclusive home. There were several other cars parked there. I counted six, but I looked to the left and there were a few more cars parked opposite of the ones to my right. I spotted Olberstad's BMW to the left so I pulled my Honda to the right and found a spot at the end of the row. I killed my engine. I was shaking. Not because I was cold, but because it was the most nervous I'd been in quite some time.
What are these people doing out in the middle of the woods?
I had no idea. A part of me wanted out of this. The other part ached to know why these people had congregated away from the rest of society. I'd seen enough horror movies in my time to know that they were most likely up to no good.

What was Marty Olberstad doing out here?

I watched him exit his BMW. I took the Denlax and snapped a few more pictures. Three to be exact. Then, something inside me beckoned me to get out of my car and follow him. Regretfully, I complied with that something.

3

The house that stood in the middle of the woods was not a run-down shack, which would've been very appropriate considering its surroundings. Instead, a two-story Gingerbread house, which may have been a church at one point in time, shadowed over me.

I crept beside the house and put my back against the vinyl siding. I glided toward the front yard feeling like a detective in an old black and white movie from the fifties. I hoped Olberstad wasn't inside yet. Luckily, I was quick enough. I caught Olberstad walking across the dirt lot, toward the front door.

I heard him knock. I turned the corner to catch a glimpse, but that position left me too open, so I stayed hidden behind the corner of the house. I listened. A man's voice answered the door.

“
What's the word?” the unidentified man asked.

“
The Veil,” Olberstad replied, then I heard the door creak as it opened. Olberstad stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.

I could've turned around right there. Hell, I probably should have. Never in a million years did I think I would have the balls to do what I did next. It was pure spontaneity that propelled me forward. I turned the corner and trotted up the steps that led to the front door. I let out a deep breath, then rapped my knuckles on the blood-red door.

A viewing slot, about eye level, slid open and two eyes appeared. They squinted at me, as if the eyes were expecting someone else. “What's the word?” he asked, sounding aggravated.

“
The Veil,” I responded.

At first the man did nothing. I thought maybe I had given the wrong word, but I heard Olberstad speak it with such clarity that there was no way I could have misunderstood. His eyes remained there, unblinking, for what seemed like forever. Finally, the peephole closed and the door squeaked open.

I stepped inside, clueless as to what I was about to witness.

4

The man behind the door observed me as I passed him, entering the lobby. His suspicious eyes combed me over, from head to toe. I was clearly out of my element. He was garbed in a long black robe; I was in jeans and a Carhartt sweatshirt. The man behind the door—who had long, scraggly black hair and was probably only a few years older than myself—scoffed and turned his back on me. I shrugged and continued down a long corridor, where I heard people talking in soft tones.

There were a few folks clinging against the walls, talking about things I didn't quite understand, mostly because they were holding conversations they obviously didn't want others to hear. Not everyone donned black robes like the doorman had. Most, however, wore dark clothing. A girl—she couldn't be any older than nineteen—was wearing a black cut-sleeve tee-shirt with some metal band's emblem on the front of it. She had one arm completely covered with tattoos. Her face contained more jewelry than Lynne owned in the entire four years I dated her. I tried to look away as I strolled by her and her friend, but I couldn't help it. She wrinkled her lips and rolled her eyes when she caught my gaze.

I moved away from the two drearily dressed individuals toward the end of the corridor. I could see it led to a much larger room. I passed through the doors and into the open area, and instantly knew what this place was when I entered it; a church. It had ten rows of pews, split down the middle by a long roll of red carpet which led to the altar. The altar was lavishly decorated in devil-worship memorabilia. A small statue of a goat-headed man rested on a table where sacrificial ceremonies were held. Behind the altar, a giant inverted pentagram was painted on the wall. Banners sporting images of hellfire and demons hung from the rafters. My knees suddenly felt weak, as I made my way down the aisle.

I quickly scanned the room, looking for any signs of Marty Olberstad. I didn't see any trace of him. There were a dozen people in the room, maybe more. Some of them were already seated in the pews, reading out of a small black book. The black books were randomly placed throughout the church, most of them resting on the pews. I saw people dressed in robes, and a few who weren't. I was the only one who looked like I didn't belong in a Marilyn Manson music video. I caught a few unwelcoming glances, wary eyes that almost made me run back to where I came. 

But I had to find Olberstad.

I had to find out what he was doing here.

I sat down in the last pew, and sunk in my seat. I wanted this to be over. I wanted to be back in my sister's basement, working on the
Tribune's
website. I certainly didn't put “devil worship” on my Saturday night to-do list.

A woman sat down in the last pew, on the other side of the small chapel. She wore a black sweatshirt with the hood over head, long black hair flowing out from it. She placed her book bag on the empty space next to her. She reached for the little black book, which rest on a little shelf that had been built onto the back of the pew. I noticed there was a little black book in front of me as well. I reached for it, noticing the same inverted pentagram scrawled above the altar, etched on the front cover. I opened it to the first page. It read: