E/N: To read the prior installments in this series, please visit The Duxbury Chronicles tag. Thank you!
THE DUXBURY CHRONICLES
“NIGHTTIME ROAD CONSTRUCTION”
Duxbury MA, September 22nd, 2017, 10:05 PM.
“Me an lil’ shorty in the back (back)! Talkn’ ’bout dis (dis)! Talkn’ ’bout dat (dat)! Talkn’ ’bout ah-!”
“Aargh!” Brooks Parker emitted a primal sound somewhere between a shout and a growl.
He ripped his I-Phone 6 from his pocket. Struggling to stop the God awful song that was his current ringtone from playing. Sarah Howard his “ex” girlfriend as of six hours ago had insisted relentlessly that he put her “like, totally favorite song” on his phone as a ringtone.
He’d been barely tolerating it for the last four months of his life. Finding himself unconsciously grinding his teeth every time his phone rang. Sarah loved this kind of music. In Brooks’s opinion “Pop” in all it’s generic, evil forms, was one of the major contributors to the steady decline of American Society today. And also a genuine reason why they as a couple would “never” work out.
After another twenty seconds of frustrated button pushing and The Dream polluting the night air with IQ dropping lyrics, he finally managed to silence the damn thing. The phone continued to vibrate in his hand as he looked at who was calling. Well speak of the Devil! He pushed “ignore”, one of the buttons he actually did know how to find.
He felt a small boost in his ego ignoring Sarah’s call. After all she was the one who’d dumped him. He’d seen it coming a mile away. The steady decline in affection. The distant timbre in her voice when they talked.
He felt that all too familiar lump form in the back of his throat. If Brooks was being honest with himself (which he rarely was) he would have acknowledged that he was in love with Sarah. Despite his denial, the long drawn out death of their relationship had been agonizing. Especially toward the end…
Pushing the painful jumble of thoughts to the back of his mind he continued down Mayflower Street. His destination the East Bay Pub. Where he planned to drown his sorrows in cheap whiskey. Off in the distance to his right could be seen the dark beginnings of the Knapp Town Forest.
This section of Mayflower was pretty poorly lit on account of the surrounding area being rural as fuck. Over the years more than a few pedestrians had lost their lives to careless (oftentimes drunk) drivers on this particular stretch of road. Brooks knew this of course, but at the moment he was filled with that youth fueled “I ain’t scared of shit!’’ mentality.
Strolling down the middle of the dark street he listened to the sound of crickets singing their faint, end of the season songs as he fished the silver metal flask from inside his jacket. His breath coming out in white puffs.
It wasn’t cold really. The temperature was hovering just around sixty. But the Autumn New England humidity had already rolled in at the beginning of September. Blanketing the land and marking the true end of summer.
He was already pretty buzzed, and it took him a frustratingly long time to get the flask out. Once freed he instantly dropped the damned thing. The metal clinked loudly off the asphalt. The sound disturbing the peaceful quiet of the night. He cursed. Bending in the dark and groping around.
Even though it was a clear night the Moon had begun a new cycle only two days ago. The Waxing Crescent was little more than a sliver in the sky. It’s faint yellow glow offering up little in the way of illumination. After a few angry moments of fumbling around he finally spotted the small shadow of the flask, and wrapped his hand around it.
He practically ripped the cap off, and soon fiery liquid was rolling down his throat. After more than a few healthy swigs he pulled the flask back from his lips. Coughing as he screwed the cap back on. He tucked it back in it’s place, and went for his pack of American Spirits. A task that went somewhat smoother than the retrieval of the booze.
He lit a smoke with his Zippo and inhaled deeply. Exhaling slowly through his nose. The distant swishing of grass drew his attention to the field between the street and the woods. His eyes roamed lazily over the dark land.
The field was large, and it’s shadows deep, but he could still make out the general shape of the landscape. He thought that he caught the distant swaying of grass way out near where the field met the edge of the Knapp.
Something flew by in the darkness overhead. He didn’t look up, but a moment later he heard the distant hoot of an Owl. In all his buzz fueled anger he’d forgotten how creepy this area was after dark. He started walking again.
Faster this time. His shoes crunching on the dead leaves. It was the first round of foliage to succumb to the season. And as such still had their bright autumn yellows, and reds. Soon though there would be more dead leaves. Many more. And they would blanket the streets in varying shades of drab wet brown.
East Bay Pub was about a mile South from where he was. The neighborhood the business resided in marked where civilization began once again. For about two miles both East and West was nothing but marshland.
To the South was Island Creek Pond, and beyond that the muddy waters of Cranberry Bog. About a mile to the North situated between Knapp Town Forest, and North Hill Pond was Henry McDuff’s Apple Farm, but that was pretty much about it. A lot of space. A lot of darkness.
Brooks was afraid of the dark. Even his raging, drug induced haze was not enough to dampen that fact. He picked up his pace even more.
“Well at least she had the fucking decency to dump me on a Friday.” He muttered to himself.
Brooks had been working for the State doing Road Construction for going on a little more than a year now. It was hard work. But the money sure beat the shit out of cooking in a kitchen. And unless there was an emergency they always had the weekends off.
He was twenty-six years old and all things considered, was doing pretty well for himself financially. It hadn’t come easily though. After high school he’d sort of blundered his way through life for a length of time that lasted far longer than his four years of schooling.
He’d gone through a series of dead end jobs. And two failed attempts at Community College. Finances were definitely a major reason for his “two” College dropout moments. But not the sole cause. Brooks by nature (much like his Father) was a lazy American. But all that had changed when Bartlett Consolidated Inc. had offered him a job.
He’d started off as a Flag Waver. A job for some reason he’d thought only women were given. He’d quickly learned his ignorance. His Foreman, after all, was a Woman. Helen Jives was her name. When it came to Hard Labor the Woman was a literal force of nature.
She possessed the same vulgar language skills of her male counterparts. But ran a tighter ship than most of the other Crews. Strict, but fair. The safety of her Crew was paramount in her eyes. And so she was a true zealot when it came to organization, and code adherence.
He’d gotten the customary jibes that came with the territory of being a newbie. But in his work Brooks had found a motivation he’d never known before. And after only a month he’d been promoted to shoveling and hauling. A promotion that had come with a dollar an hour raise.
The Hard Labor had been a boon for his flabby physique as well. Brooks had never been fit, even as a teen. And the healthy drinking habit he’d developed after high school had nearly turned him into a sloth. But after the first eight weeks of work he’d started to notice his body changing.
Fat started being replaced with lean muscle. Amy even noticed. And for a little while their sex life had improved dramatically. By the eighth month he was looking pretty shredded, and getting quite a bit of “friendly” attention from the ladies.
More so than he’d ever imagined possible. But he never cheated. Not once. Even as their sex life inevitably died back down he was never tempted. Not really.
And then just three weeks ago he’d started operating some of the heavy equipment. That’s what he didn’t get! For as long as he could remember Sarah had been harping on him to get a “decent” job. As she so reverently, ambiguously called it.
He suddenly found himself fumbling for the flask as his thoughts turned sour once more. This time retrieving it with little trouble. A few seconds later and the rest of the liquor had been drained. He choked and coughed on the last bit as it went down.
“Fuck!” He shouted at the darkness. His childish fears momentarily forgotten once again. “Fuuuck!”
He thought about flinging the flask out into the night. But that wouldn’t do. His Grandfather had given it to him before he’d passed away. And besides he figured that it would come in handy later.
He threw the half smoked cigarette instead. The orange cherry bouncing a few times through the darkness before rolling to a stop. A few seconds later he lit up another one as he continued down Mayflower…
Twenty minutes later and Brooks was on a stool in front of the bar at the East Bay Pub. With two shots of Jack already down, and another on the counter. Nursing a Guinness in his hands.
He was getting pretty wobbly. His vision having hit that telltale mark of periodically going in and out of focus. Already he’d had two close calls with knocking his glass off the table.
The atmosphere of the Pub was typical for a Friday night. A mixed crowd. Both young and old. Country music playing on the jukebox. The occasional “Crack!” of pool balls striking one another echoing out from the back room.
He was grateful for the background noise. For as he grew progressively intoxicated his mood only darkened. And he’d started swearing to himself under his breath.
“What’s goin’ on bro?”
A voice to his right cut through his drunken brooding. Despite his growing inebriation he instantly recognized who it belonged to. He didn’t turn to look.
Eric Stalvei. The local “Whiteboy” Gangster of Duxbury. Brooks had unfortunately known him since high school. At the ripe old age of fifteen they’d met, and Brooks had instantly become one of Eric’s objects of torment.
For four years it had been the typical shit you’d see in a movie. Wedgies. Sudden shoves into lockers. And the occasional man handling in the Boys Locker Room after Gym Class. Those had always been the worst.
Getting surrounded by Eric and his thugs behind closed doors. Away from the watchful eyes of any adults. That was the truly shitty thing about it. It hadn’t ended like a movie where the “Good Guy” wins, and gets his vindication.
Life had just played out in all it’s mediocre, unscripted glory. They’d all just graduated. Eric like Brooks had never left Duxbury. And they’d occasionally see one another at the local watering holes. Now Eric wasn’t a high school bully though.
Now he was a broad chested, muscle bound wannabe Thug. And all his loser friends had likewise grown in stature since they were teens.
“I said hey bro! What’s goin’ on?” Eric said again. A little more forcefully this time.
Brooks hadn’t even seen him come into the bar. Maybe he’d been in the back playing pool. At any rate it didn’t seem like he was going to be able to avoid his former classmate’s company.
He turned. Burping as he did so. Eric was facing him from the stool to his right. One arm leaning lazily on the bar counter. His Yankees hat on sideways, and a shit eating grin on his face. Four of his “homies” were standing behind him.
Brooks had always been mortally afraid of Eric. And for good reason. He’d gotten his ass kicked a few times by his Crew, Who thought it was “manly” to jump a person when it was five on one.
Strangely though, in that moment the only emotion he felt was the boiling anger in him quiet down to a simmer. Like that calm moment before a geyser explodes scalding water high up into the air. He just stared blankly at Eric’s ugly face.
“What’s up hombre?” He asked. Still wearing a smug grin.
“Just hanging out Eric.” Brooks answered. “Having a few drinks.”
“Yeah? Where’s your bitch?”
In a daze, Brooks pondered his answer for a moment. Finally. He settled on throwing the remainder of his glass into Eric’s unsuspecting face.
Then in one fluid motion of drunken luck that could never again be replicated, he leapt from his stool, and threw a perfect Isshinryu Yellow Belt level front kick. Catching Eric squarely in the solar plexus just as he was staggering to his feet.
Eric flew back. Landing at the feet of his shocked Posse. It was amazing. Not that Brooks had any time to admire his handiwork. Almost instantly the Bartender started cursing, and shouting for the Bouncer.
“Butch! Butch!” She screamed.
Three heartbeats later and the Bouncer was bellowing and barreling toward them from across the room. Butch was a great Ogre of a Man. Clad in leather, complete with matching fingerless gloves. His large cueball head gleaming beneath the dim lighting. The disparity between the Bouncer and the Group was the stark contrast between man and boy.
Butch looked like a character straight out of Mad Max. Eric and his Crew looked like just what they were, spoiled children playing pretend. In this case most of them were playing “Gangster”. Butch clearly wasn’t impressed.
At any rate Brook’s wasn’t waiting around to see how the Road Warrior was planning on addressing the crowd. He spun on his heels (somewhat less gracefully than his previous motions) and high tailed it for the exit.
Shouts from behind. Breaking glass. The sound of bar stools grating across linoleum. He burst out the door and onto the unpaved parking lot. His sneakers crunching across gravel.
He ran passed the last row of cars in the parking lot and out into the middle of South Street. Then turned right and sprinted East. He was already running out of steam by the time his drunken half-run took him across the last fifty feet to the intersection of Parkers Grove Lane.
Upon reaching the dimly lit crossroads, he doubled over. Gasping for air. Jesus he really needed to quit smoking. Despite a year of full time hard labor his endurance still sucked. From this vantage point the East Bay Pub could not be seen.
It was just as well. Whatever was going down back there couldn’t be pretty. He was no doubt eighty-sixed from the Establishment.
He stood there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night. Had he really just taken a cheap shot at Eric Stalvei?! He laughed. God he really needed to stop drinking.
The distant squeal of tires suddenly broke the tranquility. Accompanied by an angry shout made unintelligible by distance. Brooks knew without even having to see it. Eric, and his goon squad were packed into one of their vehicles like a clown car. Jonesing for some retribution.
“Oh fuck that.” He said. Willing himself into motion again.
Even in so inebriated a state, Brooks had an escape route in mind. After all, he’d grown up in Duxbury. He took a right onto Parker’s Grove Lane, and then veered quickly to the left. Running across the front yard, and then around the side of the first house on the street.
Halfway across the backyard a porch light flicked on. Casting him in it’s golden glow. The sudden illumination spurring him to greater feets of speed. Brooks had no desire to see if the source of the light was automated, or an overzealous homeowner with a gun.
He clambered over the five foot chain link fence that divided the home from the adjacent property. Everything was going smoothly until he reached the apex of the barrier. As he shifted his weight to make his descent over the other side, the damned thing began to wobble.
Brooks completely unprepared for the sudden unexpected motion lost his battle with gravity, and rolled over the side. He landed flat on his back. The impact knocking the wind out of him. A dog began barking from within the darkened home in front of him.
“Where are you, you fucker?!” He heard the distant, but enraged voice of Eric as he peeled around somewhere nearby.
Brooks rolled onto his chest and slowly rose. Struggling to regain his breath, he climbed to his knees.
How the fuck did these assholes know which direction he went? He wondered to himself as he began to move toward the side of the house with the barking dog.
Another squeal of tires in the distance. This time noticeably farther away. Brooks let out a heavy breath. Maybe those idiots weren’t so sure which direction he’d gone after all. Either way he wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
He reached the side of the house and his destination came into view up ahead. Elm Street. The last road before Old Meeting House Swamp. From there he’d use the swampland as cover until he reached Pilgrim’s Highway. And then he’d be home free.
He crouched in the darkness by the corner of the house for a moment. Surveying the quiet road, and the dark tree line that stood beyond that. The dog in the house was barking up a storm now. Brooks guessed the owner’s must not be home.
He listened hard for the telltale signs of his would-be pursuers. Jesus this night had really gone from zero to crazy in a short time. He saw no sign of headlights in either direction. But the infernal barking was keeping from effectively listening for any signs of danger.
Finally he decided to make a move. He sprung into motion. Bolting across the driveway of the home and out into the street. Moving notably slower than before. He’d regained his breath, but was hurting all over from the fall.
He was just crossing the center line when off in the distance a car came squealing around the corner of Stagecoach Road, and onto Elm. The engine roared as the driver pounded the gas. Brooks bolted the rest of the way. Practically diving headlong into the tree line.
He ran straight. Stumbling through the darkness as fast as his legs could carry him. Heart pounding, as adrenaline surged throughout his body. He heard the rumble of the racing car as it drew closer.
“Oh fuck!! Oh fuck!!” Suddenly he didn’t feel like such a bad ass. Confronting the Thug Life Posse in Public was one thing. But out on a dark road…
Brooks stumbled, and fell. The dampness of the ground making itself known as it quickly soaked through the knees of his pants. Then the roaring car was in the street behind him. Then it was passing by.
Brooks remained there on all fours for a moment. Trying to steady his breath. Listening to the Car roar down the road. The tires squealed loudly as the driver took another corner at breakneck speed.
He let out a deep sigh. Fuck that was close! Eventually he staggered to his feet. He needed to get home. And he needed to stay off the streets until he got there.
He didn’t know how this was going to resolve itself later on. But for right now he just needed to get back to home base. Fortunately Eric didn’t know where Brooks lived. He ran over his half thought out escape root as he started walking.
“Trudge through this bullshit right here. Get to Pilgrim’s Highway, then head East to Pine Lake Road. Take Pine to Tinker’s Ledge Road. Get home. Smoke a bowl. Perfect…”
Except he had to do that without getting caught out on the road and receiving a beat down. He was going to have to be careful. Brooks patted himself on the back for his ability to think so rationally in such an inebriated state. Sarah had always said he was an idiot when he got drunk.
“Fuck does she know?” He asked the darkness.
Brooks realized something in that moment. In his haste to get out of harm’s way, he really hadn’t considered the implications of this first part in his journey. His fear of the dark temporarily forgotten in the face of more tangible dangers now came back in full force.
Ever since he was a child he’d been afraid of the dark. Granted as he’d grown into a (semi) rational adult he’d overcome this fear to a degree. But now that he was all alone in a nighted swamp, an unease he hadn’t felt since his early days came over him.
He reached down to the knife hanging on his belt. It wasn’t much. A four inch Buck. But it’s presence was reassuring nonetheless.
He moved as quietly as he could. Lest he attract the attention of some nocturnal denizen of the swamp. He continued on like that for awhile. Feeling an increasing sense of unease that he’d gotten himself turned around somehow.
He continued on in this worrisome fashion for another fifteen minutes or so. Trying his best to stay on dry land. Every sound in the darkness making him jump. His adrenaline had ebbed and his muscles felt fatigued.
Finally after what felt like an eternity he heard the telltale burbling sounds of Island Creek and knew he was still on the right track. Though he’d never been out here he, knew that the River ran through the Southern end of the swamp and had been counting on it for a landmark. As he moved closer he started to hear something else as well. An occasional rumbling, only barely audible over the babbling brook.
As he came up on the dark river, the sounds became clearer. Construction. Someone must be working out on the highway up ahead. By the time he’d reached Island Creek he could see distant lights shining through the trees.
Crossing the River whilst staying dry proved problematic. It was too dark to spot any stones to jump across. Eventually he settled on getting a running start, and leaping. After all the river was pretty narrow here.
He almost made it. His sneakers plunging into the cold water about eight inches shy of the shore. As soon as he hit the water he reflexively leapt again, making it to dry land on the second try. Successfully taking advantage of that mystical split second one gets before their submerged shoes completely soak through. Or at least in his drunken state it seemed like he’d succeeded.
He started moving forward again. Up ahead passed the edge of the treeline was a scene of light and bustling activity. A stark contrast to the cold stillness of the Swamp. As he drew nearer the lights from (what he assumed was a Road Construction Crew) began to illuminate the surrounding trees .
The telltale sounds of hard labor had grown in volume as well. He heard the grating noise of concrete grinding against steel. The whir and release of Pistons.
“Good.” He thought. He probably knew at least a few of these guys. He’d be able to get one of them to give him a lift home for sure.
He popped out of the woods on the grassy shoulder of Pilgrim’s Highway. A Backhoe Loader sitting idle about five yards directly in front of him. Blocking his view. It’s engine rumbling loudly.
He walked about eight feet forward and then turned left, giving the Machine a wide berth as he made his way around it. It was a CAT 420F, he realized as he continued to walk across the damp grass.
Brooks had driven one of these baby’s just the other day. But who were these guys? Brooks didn’t know about any night time Road Construction going on around Duxbury this month. Maybe a gas line had ruptured or something.
This part of Pilgrim’s Highway was pretty old. And had seen some pretty bad weather these past few years. Still, something seemed… Off.
He passed the frame of the CAT and got a full view of the Construction Site. The Pilgrim was pretty sizable in this area. Six lanes wide on this side. And then across the Median another four.
The Worksite itself was startlingly large. And caused Brooks to give a start when he beheld it. More than a half dozen floodlights lit a massive hole that started somewhere around the fourth lane. It’s width spanned nearly all the way to the median. And it’s length was around twenty feet!
“What the fuck?” He said out loud.
Whatever it was, it was definitely a “Big” Project. About Twenty Yards down the Highway he spotted what he assumed was the Foreman’s Truck. The bleed off from the floodlights around the dig site illuminating it in pale artificial light. There dimly illuminated, stood a tall man with his back to him. Scrutinizing a large Blueprint.
Even at this distance Brooks could tell that He was a mountain of a man. Possessing a shoulder width rivaling that of ol’ Butch. But the way his Carhartt Overalls hugged his frame clearly showed that the Man possessed a much higher muscle to body fat ratio than the Bouncer of East Bay.
He started off in the Dude’s direction. Taking in the details of the Worksite as he walked. There were two more CATS digging away in the shadows. The Floodlights struggling against the darkness that the vehicles’ bulk cast.
Several Crewmen were hard at work. Their outlines black against the intense lighting. A couple Workers had Jackhammers, and were “KLAKAKAKING!” away. Busting apart concrete.
Several others had shovels, and were manually loading up chunks of debris into wheelbarrows. That’s when Brooks noticed the three Dumpsters. Two Six’s and a Fifteen Yarder.
“Jesus three dumpsters?” He said to himself as he walked along the edge of the Construction Zone. “How deep are these guys digging?”
The night air was filled with the typical work zone cacophony. The sounds of heavy equipment moving to and fro. The hiss of air brakes. The crunching of tires over rubble. And the loud beeping of vehicles as gears were thrown into reverse.
But still, he had the strong sensation that something was missing. Though he couldn’t quite put his finger on just what it was. He felt it in his bones. Something… Something was off. He continued to move down the road. Watching the dark outlines of the Crewmen as they toiled away beneath the floodlights.
He was about six yards from the Foreman now. His back was still turned to him. The myriad of distant floodlights bathing the man in a dusk-like twilight.
“Well time to be a gigantic bitch.” He let out a sigh. As he crossed the remaining distance between them.
For a moment he considered just turning around and making his way back home. Surely he’d lost Stalvei and his Crew at this point. But a second’s more reflection and he decided to follow through with his new plan to get some help. Lest he be caught out on a deserted road and no be so lucky the next time.
He was about ten feet away from the guy when he realized what was missing. Nobody was talking! With Teams like this you almost always had a constant stream of “Cro-Magnon Speak.” Especially Night Crews.
“Wow this guy really runs a tight ship!” Brooks thought to himself as he drew nearer. But deep down He knew the thought was intended to bolster his confidence against the inexplicable sense of apprehension growing in the pit of his stomach.
As he drew closer he realized that the guy was a lot taller than he’d initially guessed,. Like a lot taller. The dude had to be any least six foot six! Even in the dim light Brooks could see that the man’s bright yellow construction jacket was stained and muddy.
Brooks admired a Boss who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty with his crew. Though he was feeling anything but admiration at that moment. He couldn’t explain it. But some vague primal instinct was urging him to turn around and get the Hell out of there.
He did his best to ignore it. Chalking up his frazzled nerves to almost getting beaten down, or worse. That motherfucker… He didn’t know how. But he was going to make Stalvei pay. Him and his loser fr-.
Brooks’s mind froze in mid-thought. And he stopped dead in his tracks. It wasn’t a feeling of fear. Just utter confusion that made him pause.
He realized that the Foreman wasn’t holding a blueprint at. All. He was holding what appeared to be some kind of parchment with strange symbols drawn all over it. Even in the dim lighting it was plainly obvious that It was very old.
Stranger still was that the Paper seemed to have some sort of slight luminescence to it that was independent of the distant flood lights. He stood there in silence for a long moment. Gazing over the Tall Man’s shoulder at the portion that he could see.
Were the images drawn in red ink? It was impossible to tell in the dark. But for some undefinable reason he instinctively thought the image, if out in proper lighting would be in red.
Amongst the myriad of indiscernible shapes, two stood out that his mind could put a certain logic to. Though said logic didn’t really make much sense.
Near the center was this image of what looked like a human with a pig’s head, wearing a chef’s hat, and apron. Above and to the right of that was a crude drawing of a Waxing Crescent Moon. There were splotches on the Beast’s apron that Brooks guessed were meant to be blood.
And then the image turned and looked at him…
It happened so suddenly. So subtly that it took Brook’s mind a few seconds to register what had happened. The Pig Demon Chef Thing turned and looked directly at him from the dimly lit parchment!
Brooks blinked, and shook his head. Was the man holding some kind of gigantic Smart Tablet? Was he just fucking around with some bizarre app, and it was too dark for Brooks to see the frame of the device? That explanation of course fell way too short of making any sense, and he knew it.
The Pig Demon’s eyes widened as it continued staring at Brooks. They continued to widen, and the beast’s jaw dropped open. Not in menacing hunger. It was an odd but far more unsettling expression. And he found himself afraid to define it. Brooks found himself unconsciously stepping backward.
“This… This can’t’ be real.” The voice in his head sounding impressively calm, and rational.
The Foreman’s back straightened. Brooks found his eyes trailing upward as the man gained an astonishing height. Clearly he had been hunched over somewhat. The vague, primal instinct to get the fuck out of there was not so vague anymore.
But from what should he run from? He was in the middle of a construction site! Though the idea still seemed relatively absurd, his legs had apparently already decided for him.
Then the Bloody Pig Chef Thing lifted a gnarled hand. A four fingered hand that had been previously hidden from Brooks’s view. And it pointed. It pointed directly at him!
At that Brook’s body apparently decided that it was done waiting for his brain to get on board with the new plan. He found himself backpedaling faster than he thought humanly possible. Unfortunately, instinct without the refined guidance of the mind can oftentimes be a blundering thing.
After only three quick steps backward Brooks tripped and fell on his ass. In that same instant the Foreman whirled around in a blur. Pain shot up Brooks’s tailbone as he felt and heard the “Swoosh!” of something pass over his head.
Brooks looked up and realized that the man was now facing toward him. The guy had a large shovel in one hand. The digging tool seeming to have appeared out of thin air. The parchment paper lay discarded on the ground, fluttering in the wind.
“Jesus had the dude just taken a swing at him with a shovel?!”
The towering Foreman just stared down at him in silence for a long moment. He wore a pair of dark work goggles, and had a bandana tied around his face. Between that and his helmet he had no distinguishing facial features. Brook’s heart pounded out a drumbeat beneath his ribs.
“Hey man I didn’t mean to sn-”
His words caught in his throat as the Man suddenly began to advance on him. Brooks was quick to his feet. Faster than he would have been had he not already been warmed up from running for his life just a little while ago.
Spinning on his heels he took off back toward the tree line. Not bothering to waste another second with words. He’d seen enough horror movies to know what was going to happen if he stuck around any longer.
He flew back down the street like a Gazelle being chased by a Cougar. Passing the 420-F. The sounds of construction had not ceased. Indeed the cacophony seemed to have increased in volume. Taking on a nightmarish quality.
After another moment of frantic sprinting Brooks was rocketing through the darkness of the Old Meeting House Swamp once again. Headed back the way he’d come. Or at least in relatively the same direction. It would have been near impossible to tell even if he hadn’t been sprinting in blind panic.
After about ten yards he quickly ducked around the base of a large Red Pine, and crouched down low in the darkness. Panting as he struggled to catch his breath as quietly as possible, he listened hard for the sounds of pursuit. But all that could be heard was the chirp of crickets, and the distant rumblings of road work.
He stayed there in the darkness for what felt like hours. But in reality it was only about three minutes before he heard the distinct “Snap!” Of a branch somewhere off in the darkness between himself and the Highway.
“Oh fuck me.” He whimpered.
Brooks quietly got up on his knees and peered around the trunk of the tree. At this distance the lights from the construction site could still be seen, but did virtually nothing to illuminate the woods around him. His eyes roamed slowly across the darkness. He was sweating profusely despite the temperature.
His eyes told him that nothing was out there. But his instincts told him a different story. Something “was” searching for him. Hunting in the darkness. His legs were shaking bad. And he was still breathing hard.
He crouched even lower as he continued to scan the darkness. Pulse pounding in his ears. Shit. Shit. He needed to make a move. Needed to make it now.
Shaky thigh muscles tensed up. Preparing to spring into action. He began a mental count off. One. Two… Thr-.
“Me an lil’ shorty in the back (back)! Talkn’ ’bout dis (dis)! Talkn’ ’bout dat (dat)! Talkn’ ’bout ah-!”
“AHHH!” At the sudden sound of his blaring ringtone Brooks shrieked in terror, and exploded into motion.
Practically flying through the darkness. As he moved he ripped his IPhone from his cargo pants pocket, and flung the God Damned thing off into the darkness of the forest.
Trees whizzed by in a shadowy blur. Twice he almost ran smack dab into a gnarled trunk. That would have been the end of him. He was convinced of that.
He hit a hill and leapt off. Soaring out into the darkness like some kind of Parkour Ninja. Hitting the ground, and rolling with the momentum. In one fluid motion he rolled back to his feet, and continuing his frantic flight without missing a beat.
He was definitely off course now. Even through the darkness and terror he could tell that much. If he’d been going in relatively the same direction surely he would have crossed Island Creek by now. Not that it fucking mattered. The only thing that “did” matter was that he put as much distance between himself and that Highway as possible.
A few more minutes of frantic sprinting later and he burst into a clearing he hadn’t seen before. Under the light of the crescent moon he could tell it was a big one. A grassy field stretching North and South as far as his limited vision could see.
He was gasping for air now. God dammit if he didn’t need to quit smoking. His Adrenal Gland was still going strong, but his leg muscles were threatening to give out. Still he ran.
The tree line of the forest loomed darkly about ten yards ahead. Willing himself to cross the remaining distance, he made it to the edge in less than ten seconds. But just as he was about to re-enter the cover of the forest he slammed into something. Stifling a scream as he fell hard on the ground, his eyes shot up to the obstacle.
It was a Man! He let out a shout, and lept to his feet. Drawing his knife. Flight had failed. It was time for the alternative. But then he stopped. And just stared in horror at the obstacle before him.
“Oh Jesus…” He said to himself.
The Man was dead. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was hanging from a rope tied around his neck. And he had… He had… A plastic bag wrapped around his head!
“What in God’s name?” He asked the darkness. But no answer was forthcoming.
Brooks stood there in silence. Just watching the man slowly swing back and forth in the cool breeze. Taking in the dead Man’s details. His need for flight momentarily forgotten.
Even in the darkness he could tell that he was a big dude. His fat belly sagging over his pants where the weight of the noose had pulled his black and plaid red jacket up. Rough cut jeans swaying in the wind.
And what was that? It looked like the Man’s right arm had been removed, and then reattached. Even in the darkness he could see crude twine sewn through his jacket and into the forearm of his flesh.
Then a sound. A loud breaking of branches from somewhere off in the distance behind. Brooks whirled around. Scanning the darkness across the field. His knife gripped tightly in a shaky hand.
He stood there in silence for moment. Listening to the gentle sounds of the forest, and watching the grass sway gently. Nothing. He let out a deep breath.
Then suddenly – “FWAP!”, without warning strong arms wrapped around his chest like a Venus Fly Trap. Almost knocking the wind out of him. An instant later and Brooks was moving in an impossible direction. Upward. Rocketing through the canopy up, and up. Branches snapping, and gouging into his flesh. It was all he could to to raise his hands to shield his face from the worst of it.
He flailed. He kicked, and screamed. But to no avail. Whatever had him in it’s grasp had a terrifying strength. It was the Man! He realized. The Dead Man had him!
With near blinding speed they broke through the canopy, and flew up into the night sky. The dark outline of the Forest rapidly coming into view below. He screamed then. Shrieking against the icy wind that buffeted him. The cold belying the reality of the heights he was attaining.
A myriad of distant lights began coming into view as he rose higher, and higher over the land. Lights from homes, and the few buildings that still had people pulling late nights could be seen.
The North Hill Country Club came into view. Rich people drinking, and working on their swing in the late evening hours. And to the West of the Club, what looked like a lone Cyclist racing across the darkness of the North Hill Marsh Trail. Their headlamp bobbing up and down as the rider pedaled furiously.
Brooks had no idea why he fixated on this particular detail. Maybe it was because he’d decided that this was all a dream. He’d drank too much somewhere along the way to or from the bar. And was now sleeping on the side of the road somewhere.
He glanced up at the Hanging Man. The plastic covered face looked down upon him in terrible silence. The rushing air causing the bag to flutter wildly. Yes. This was definitely a dream.
His eyes went to the noose around the Man’s neck. The rope stretching up and up into the clouds. He looked passed the Hangman. Struggling to see what the rope could possibly be attached to.
Then, by complete happenstance the clouds above shifted slightly. A small opening in the fluffy fog opened up where the rope of the noose stretched to impossible heights. And Brooks caught a glimpse. He froze. Feeling warm liquid rolling down his legs.
Then suddenly the Hangman released him, and He was falling. Plummeting down through the darkness he’d so recently risen up through. His body cartwheeling through the air.
Down, down, down he went. The lights of the surrounding countryside disappearing from view as he fell to lower altitudes. The icy wind which had been loud on the way up, was now deafening. So much so that he couldn’t be sure if he was screaming or not.
He wasn’t falling back to his original spot on the ground however. Now he was over another desolate part Pilgrim’s Highway. A truck passed by underneath him.
Headlights piercing the darkness below. Then passing by. The driver blissfully unaware of the young man plummeting to the ground overhead.
His rational mind tried to reassure him that this was indeed a “very” lucid dream. But the ice cold wind screaming in his eardrums threatened to shatter that illusion.
At sixty feet he could make out the tiny details of the street below. Even in the darkness he could see the cracks, and potholes that marred this stretch of road. He plummeted the rest of the way in the blink of an eye. The last thing that Brooks Parker ever saw was the concrete rushing up to meet him…
“A TRIP TO REMEMBER”
“… It used to be that to speak out against the Church got you executed.” Caleb De’Marco said to the Crowd of students above him that occupied the rows of Lecture Hall C, at Bridgewater State University. “Then that changed to being excommunicated. Then that changed to being viewed as a Dissenter.”
“And now, in 2016 in America to debate the merits of the Cult of Christianity is to do so as an Equal. If not more so because Dissenters are now coming armed with logic, science, and history. So in that respect I think Society is making real Progress.”
“So this is an Atheist’s perspective then?” A student from the upper rows challenged.
Caleb looked up to see who it was. Interrupting during Lectures was considered rude. But when it came to questioning matters of faith, etiquette usually was the first thing to go out the window.
Sure enough, it was Myles Deets. The younger brother of his good friend David. David was a party animal. His brother however was a Born Again Christian. One of those pro-active types who organized public bible studies and flag pole prayer meetings.
He wasn’t alone either. Those types never seemed to be. Always needing a fellow Cultist nearby to help maintain their perpetual state of mania.
“Sweet.” Caleb thought to himself, as he pushed his glasses back up. He was hoping to get some adversity for his mid-semester dissertation. And having it be Myles was just icing on the cake.
Caleb smiled graciously. Meeting the Sophomore’s angry, indignant eyes. Then shook his head.
“No, no… I wouldn’t call myself an Atheist. Since we’re all on a little blue ball spinning through Infinity I don’t think that it’s wrong at all to speculate, or entertain the idea of their being a Higher Power. Or Powers. But to claim to know the Mind of God is absolutely ludicrous. If not outright madness.”
Myles recoiled dramatically. As if Caleb’s words had physically struck him. Rumbles came from within the ranks of the Crowd. Especially in the group around Myles.
He recognized some of them. After all, it was hard not to forget the face of a person who goes out of their way to make fervent public displays of their Religious beliefs.
“Madness?” Myles did his best to sound righteously indignant. “Is it not a fact that on their deathbeds Atheists and other non-believers have been known to repent? And accept Jesus into their hearts. How then do you then explain that?”
“Unbelievable.” Caleb thought to himself, and sighed heavily.
“If the basis of your argument concerning a sudden change of faith for those who you refer to as non-believers is predicated on it happening in their most desperate moments, then your argument is fatuous.”
At this Myles and his cohorts looked confused. Caleb sighed again.
“In other words. When a person is dying they’re understandably desperate. Most times the individual is also in incredible physical and mental pain. Be it from cancer or hemorrhaging out after a car crash.”
“When a Human Being senses the end approaching they’ll reach out to anyone or anything that could possibly help them. And honestly to take that as a preverbal point on the Biblical Scorecard is reprehensible, and amoral.”
“Amoral?” Mark Shoereman, the Cultist to Myles’s right repeated the word almost as soon as it left Caleb’s lips.
The third year Religious Philosophy Major having been feeling woefully outgunned since the moment Caleb had started using big words. The second he heard one (he sort of recognized) he pounced on it like a starving tiger running down a gazelle.
“Yes absolutely.” Caleb answered unperturbed. “And again. To claim to offer salvation through one’s personal superstitions is borderline lunacy.”
This came with a mixture of angry rumbles, and genuine amused laughter.
“Especially in the case of the Christian God.” Caleb continued on. “Native American’s and Buddhists, and Religions that actually focus on Spirituality and Harmony with Nature, not Dominance and Conformity are probably onto something. But Christianity is a Conqueror’s Religion. It is a Religion of War, and Exploitation that masquerades as a benevolent Cult. But it is not. It is the stuff of Warmongers.”
As if to prove his point Myles, Mark and the others in their group looked ready to storm the stage. Staring righteous holes through him. Apparently he wasn’t eligible for “Salvation”.
“But don’t take my word for it.” He smiled. Raising his hands up in the way a Priest might do as he emphasizes something of import to his flock. “In this miraculous Information Age one does not have to look far to see the truth of these words. You can look backward into the past, or right now at the present day. Every time a Politician tells our Troops they’re fighting for God they’re militarizing Jesus.”
“Personally, and no offense intended to anyone here, but I don’t really know how else to put it, I’ve never actually met a “real” Christian. Supposedly about seventy-one percent of the Nation claims to be Christian. Including our fearless Leaders. But they’re not.”
“If the Christian’s of this Nation actually followed the Doctrines laid down by Jesus Christ of Nazareth than the United States would be a Country of Peace and Progress. Since we’re definitely not those things. And since most of the Citizens of this Country claim to be Christian. It’s easy to see that the Christians of the United States aren’t very Christian at all.”
At these words someone in the middle rows let out a “Whoop! Whoop!”, that was followed by a brief raucous round of applause.
“But do not be dismayed my brothers and sisters.” Caleb said melodramatically.
“For there is a silver lining to all of this. A beacon of hope shining through this otherwise blinding shitstorm that the Upper Echelon has created for Humanity. And that is the miracle of the Internet.”
“Since time immemorial the self appointed political and spiritual leaders of the Human Race have relied on the People, who greatly outnumber them, being unable to unite. Unable to come together and observe, and speak objectively on how those in power choose to conduct themselves.”
“But now when a Politician breaks the law the entire World hears about it five minutes later. So many people have Cameras now that even Law Enforcement Officers in their own clumsy dim-witted way are slowly realizing that they have to be more careful about where they choose to murder people.”
That brought another round of laughter from the crowd.
“We are the first Generation to be connected like this. The Internet is the next Euphrates. Where once Humanity was all in one place, and could look out across the cool waters and behold one another, we at long last find ourselves reconvening. Seeing the rest of humanity for the first time.”
“Where distance once separated us, now we find that we can once again reconnect across these digital waters. Now we can communicate, and speak on the topic of how crooked those that rule humanity and claim to know the word of God truly are. And it is there that we will come to a tipping point.”
“A paradigm shift where the majority comes to see the terrible truth of what American Culture has conditioned us to aspire to. The reality of how our Celebrities live in lavish extravagance, while their fellow Americans sleep in the alleyways between their mansions. Whilst they pat themselves on the backs for being such good Christians.”
“A shift where we come to see that our spiritual leaders. Those that don holy robes and claim to be the mouthpiece of God, are in fact pederasts. And use their undeserved power for the purposes of amoral carnal pursuits.”
“The terrible facts are now making themselves known. More and more, every day. And to quote the Great Bob Dillon. The Times, they are a changin’… Thank you…”
Righteous applause from the hippies. Less enthused clapping from the Hipsters. Laser beams from the Cultists.
“Success!” Caleb thought with glee.
And without another word left the Podium. Walking calmly to the side exit. He opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Holding it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly.
“Fuck.” He said in an exasperated tone to the empty corridor.
“Yo dog! That was a great speech!” Came an approaching voice from down the hall.
Caleb knew who it was before he even turned to look. David Deets.
“How about we celebrate with some Peyote?”
His eyes widened and he practically spun around on his heels.
“Yeah way bro.” David said. His grin threatening to engulf his head.
David was a small guy. Standing a full five foot six. Timid by nature, but by God did the Kid love his drugs. And they’d been talking about trying Peyote for literally years! But they’d never been able to find any…
It only took a second for Caleb to read the sincerity behind David’s thick rimmed glasses. He’d “actually” gotten ahold of the famous Cactus! What the fuck?!
“Hol-ee shit man! Where’d you get it?!”
“Doel.” David said. Beaming with pride.
“Of course.” Caleb thought to himself.
Doel Barrios was not a student of Bridgewater University. He was a drug dealer. A pretty big one actually. And as Gangster as they come, as far as Caleb could tell from the few interactions they’d had.
How Doel and David had become friends was beyond Caleb. But they were. And though David didn’t outwardly say it. He took no small measure of pride being cool with a guy like him.
“Yeah man he texted a couple hours ago. The eagle has landed bro!”
“Did you tell the gang?”
The “Gang” as it were, consisted of five people. Caleb, David, Rylan Jackson, Sarah Howard and Amy Thompson. All of them were third year students, and had been inseparable since they’d meant in their first Semester.
“Hell yeah I told them! Everyone’s free tomorrow. Are you down?
“Absolutely.” He felt giddy.
“Amy’s all about doing her seance.” David added. Still smiling.
“That’s cool with me.”
They’d all been fascinated by the concept of Native American Cultures’ use of Peyote in Spirit Journeys. Amy most of all. She was a History Major with a predisposition for partying. And after reading about some Native American Ritual a few Semesters back she’d convinced them that if they ever “did” find Peyote they totally had to try this Seance out. Caleb (having a massive crush on Amy) was up for doing anything she suggested.
“I thought you’d be.” David said. Shaking his head.
He just didn’t get what Caleb saw in Amy. Sure she was attractive. But she was weird. Like “Super” weird. And she’d never expressed any interest in Caleb. Though it wasn’t like he’d actually ever attempted to make a move.
“Where are we gonna trip?”
“My house.” David answered.
“You’re house? Why? Everyone but you has an apartment.” Caleb chided.
David smiled despite himself. It was definitely a sore subject. He felt like a kid still living with his parents. Not to mention his psychotic Born Again Brother.
“Amy says it’s the best place to do the seance. The basement that is.”
Caleb dimly recalled the conversation now. On one black-lit, bong filled night last Fall they’d been partying in David’s basement when his folks had been out of town. And Amy had declared that if they were ever going to do a “legitimate” Ritual on peyote it would absolutely “have” to be in David’s basement.
Truth be told it really was a pimp ass basement. David’s parents were very well to do. And like all “true Patriots” with disposable income. They’d spent it on upgrading their property.
Having re-finished the basement a few years back when David’s folks had taken out a second mortgage on the house. They’d spent a pretty penny on it. It spanned the entire frame of the large home. Wide, open, and dry.
Complete with a second living room, bathroom, fully stocked bar,and a pool table. A beautiful teal green fuzzy carpet spanned the width and breadth of the expansive room. A true testament to the self-centered use of disposable income.
But that wasn’t why Amy wanted it for tripping purposes. The reason was because of the unfinished floor on the Eastern end of the basement. While the rest of the floor was concrete there was a ten foot by ten foot space on the far end that was bare dirt.
It was there, Amy claimed that the necessary symbols could be drawn. And the Ritual performed. That was all well and good. But the problem was-…
“My folks are going out of town tomorrow. They’ll be gone for the week.” David said. Reading his friend’s thoughts.
“What about Myles?”
His smile grew wider still.
“It’s like destiny…”
10 A.M. The next morning found Caleb and David sitting in Doel Giovanni’s living room, ready to procure their party supplies. They sat around for awhile making small talk over a blunt. Doel sitting on a plush couch. His Chocolate Lab “Valentina” snuggled up against her owner’s leg. The Canine clearly not yet ready for the morning, or the chill that had come with it.
Caleb and David sat in two love seats across from their host. A glass coffee table between them. As they chatted Caleb took in the decor.
Two posters hung on the wall above the couch Doel sat upon. One of Pablo Escobar. The other of Gucci Mane. Across the room on the opposite side hung an impressively large mural of the Virgin Mary.
“Of course.” Caleb thought with mild amusement.
The coffee table that sat between them was a true testament to the kind of trade that was plied here. A forty-five caliber ACP, and two extra clips rested upon the glass. Beside that stood a bong of exquisite design. Caleb guessed that it had to cost at least a grand. And near the center of the table sat a mirror with a razor, and the telltale residue of substances much harder than Ganja.
Doel didn’t look particularly gangster. To Caleb he looked like you’re average East Coast mid-twenties Puerto Rican. On the rare occasion Caleb had seen him he’d been dressed like your average joe. Jeans and a white tee shirt seemed to be his staple.
And at this particular moment he looked even more benign. Still donned in his morning attire of pajama pants and a bathrobe. Complete with fuzzy slippers in the shape of big yellow ducks. But Caleb was a guy who had his “ear to the ground” when it came to the going’s on in and around Duxbury. And he’d heard stories…
As it were the two friends could hardly contain themselves. Barely holding back the excitement that threatened to explode out of them. This had not gone unnoticed by Doel. Who purposefully took his time. Savoring the moment. Finally though, He produced a Tupperware.
“Alrighty white boys, here’s da goods.” A sharkish grin on his face. The diamond stud in his left ear glinting in the small rays of sunlight that shone through the drawn curtains of the living room windows.
Pulling the top off revealed a dozen Peyote Buttons. Their color was uncanny. Almost a Federal Standard Air Superiority Blue. A truly exotic sight to behold.
Caleb whistled loudly. And Doel beamed.
“What are you whistling for Calebs?” Doel asked, still grinning. “I told you before that I can get you anythings you needs. Especially for my homie Davids.”
David beamed. Though he tried to hide it.
It was true. The few occasions that the two had interacted had always revolved around the sale of one narcotic or another. And the Guy had never been shy about advertising his ability to obtain virtually “anythings you needs.”
“You wanna trip with us?” David asked. Genuinely meaning it.
“Hell no!’ Doel laughed. “I don’t do white people drugs. You honkey’s are crasy.”
Caleb thought about informing Him that Peyote had it’s roots in Native North American Culture, but quickly decided otherwise.
“And don’t go doing all those yourselves either.” Doel added. “That’s waaay too much for you cracker’s.”
“It won’t just be us.” Answered David. “We’re doing it with Sarah, Rylan, and Amy.”
“Rylan?!” Doel said. “Fuck that hippie white boy.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot you don’t like him.” David responded.
“It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s that Rylan is a bitch. Like an litteral bitch. On second thought, don’t be too careful with those buttons. Like you guys should each use one, and give Rylan like five.”
They all laughed.
Caleb wasn’t surprised. Rylan was a bit of a character. Well everyone in “The Gang” was really. But appreciating the company of Rylan was sort of an acquired taste.
He was one of those new age beatnik types. Not quite a Hipster. Not quite a Hippie. Sort of a unique, pretentious blend of both. A lot of flash. Not much substance.
“Right Mima da Pipa?!” Doel said. Suddenly plunging his face into his dog’s midsection.
“Oooh! Mima da Pipa Wrinkleskin Savage! Rylan’s a little hippie bitch, and those are crasy white people drugs mum mum mum mum mummm!” His words dissolving into kissing noises as he smooched the animal all over.
Valentina, appearing indignant to her Owner’s affections let out a deep sigh and farted…
A short while later when Caleb and David were walking down the street, Caleb felt the urge to ask.
“Dude. What the Hell does Mima the Pipa wrinkleskin savage even mean?’
“Well Mima means Grandma. And Pipa means belly.”
Caleb mulled this over for moment, as they walked. Dead leaves crunching beneath their feet. The blue sky, and the brisk air providing an invigorating ambience.
“So… When Doel calls Valentina that long ass name, he’s saying Grandma the belly wrinkleskin savage?” He asked incredulously.
And the two erupted into uncontrollable laughter, as they continued down the street…
Thunder rumbled behind the overcast sky. Thunder but still no rain. Caleb, Rylan, Sarah and Amy were just passing Manhasset Gardens on Congress Street. The day had been brisk but comfortable, and so the four had elected to walk from Sarah’s apartment to David’s parents house.
Killing time before his folks left. Caleb and David having split up after leaving Doel’s, so that he could go and see his parents off. Caleb was grateful for the extra company. Addressing a crowd of peers with a controversial topic was one thing. But striking up a conversation with a girl he had a major crush on was entirely another.
Luckily Rylan’s propensity to make an ass out of himself greatly overshadowed Caleb’s conversational shortcomings. Plus it was just plain funny to watch. Rylan bore a striking resemblance to Tormund from Game of Thrones.
You give the Wildling a big red Afro to go with the beard. Swap out the animal pelts with tie-dye shirts two sizes too small. And exchange about twenty percent of the muscle mass with body fat, and boom. That was Rylan’s mien in a nutshell.
He was one of those “husky” types. The kind of person who’s body fat takes on the shape of pseudo muscle in great quantities around the upper torso. He had these big high shoulders that made him kind of look like he was a football player wearing shoulder pads.
After only five minutes the big hippie had already failed twice in his attempts to flirt with Sarah. Having gotten wind of her split with Brooks Parker only yesterday he (in a classy Rylan way) decided to try his luck. But to no avail.
“You ever wonder why they built this nice sidewalk all the way out here?” Amy asked.
Caleb couldn’t be sure if she was deliberately trying to ignore Rylan, or if she was just talking randomly. Which was something she often did.
Caleb shrugged. “It is kind of weird. It’s not like this area sees any kind of real foot traffic.”
“It’s the freakin’ fat cats in City Hall man.” Rylan said in a scholarly tone. Turning his attention from Sarah. “They spend all this money on these revitalization projects instead of putting that cash back where it needs to go. Into the hands of the people man.”
“Whoever did it knew what they were doing. It’s got high class marks.” Amy continued. Gazing down at the ground as they walked.
“High class marks?” Caleb asked.
“See that divot right there?” She said. Pointing to the ground.
Caleb looked at the weather worn sidewalk. Even though it was only a few years old the concrete bore the unmistakeable mark of New England weather. Cracks, and pockmarks abound.
“Uh… I see a lot of divots.”
Amy heaved a sigh. Like a parent trying to be patient with a slow child. She lowered the tip of her unopened umbrella. Pointing out a particularly deep cleft in the concrete.
“This one. This isn’t just some random dent.”
“Nope. It’s for people to stick their umbrellas. A person can put the pointy end in a hole , and balance the umbrella on their body while they do something else without having having to worry about it falling on the ground.”
“Watch.” She said. And inserted the tip of the umbrella into the hole.
From what he could tell the umbrella sank about an inch down, and seemed to almost fit… Perfectly?
Caleb laughed again. Unsure how to respond.
“It’s an umbrella divot.” Amy stated with finality.
“Jesus. She really is crazy.” Caleb thought to himself. Though it didn’t diminish his attraction to her in the least.
Sarah and Rylan seeming to not have heard Amy’s final conclusion. By that point they were just coming up on Garside Bogs, and Rylan produced a doobie. Stating that “They needed a warm up”.
This section of Congress Street was pretty heavily wooded. In fact there were only four houses on this stretch of road. So despite ganja still being illegal in Massachusetts it wasn’t really a big risk.
Once the smoke had begun filling their lungs and heads Rylan had begun his customary beat-boxing. He actually was exceptionally talented at it. Caleb was pretty sure that if he posted himself on YouTube he’d potentially do pretty well.
And Rylan like a lone hipster with an acoustic guitar, believed that his talents should be shared (whenever humanly possible) with the rest of the world. And was similarly under the false impression that every female on the planet was enamored by his abilities.
“Oonse oonse oonse pa-pa-rah! Oonse oonse-!” He went. The cadence echoing out into the gloom of the trees.
They reached King Phillip’s Path and hooked a left. Caleb turned his gaze to the tree line to the East. Catching occasional glimpses of the icy waters of the South River Reservoir through the orange, and yellow foliage.
Amy rolled her eyes as Rylan passed the joint to her. His big Afro bobbing up and down as he did so.
“… Rah BubbaRahBubba wookiewookiewookiewookie!”
“I tried calling him last night. But he didn’t pick up.” Sarah was saying to Amy.
“He’s probably just being a bitter deush.”
“Still. I thought he’d have called me back by today at least…”
“You should probably give him some space.” Rylan ceasing his beat making to offer up this deep insight.
“Yeah… I guess…”
They fell into silence for awhile after that. Well everyone except for Rylan’s “Funky Beats” that is. Each lost in their own thoughts. Wondering what Peyote was going to feel like.
After another ten minutes they reached Eric’s street. Taking another left. This time onto Indian Cove Road. Their destination coming into view as they did so.
It was a ritzy neighborhood. Every house looking like it’s own mini-estate. Eric’s Parents house being no exception. It sat at the end of the street. Overlooking the Reservoir.
“Dude I can’t believe we’re about to trip on Peyote man!” Caleb shouted out loud. Feeling giddy.
At this Rylan hooted, and the girls jumped up and down. Squealing as they did.
“So what’s the plan with this ceremony?” Sarah asked.
“Well it’s going to take a minute to prepare.” Amy answered. “I think we should dose up about a half hour before we do it.”
“Sounds good to me!” Rylan said with a toothy grin.
A few excited minutes later and they were standing on David’s doorstep.
“Velcome! To zee trip house!” David said in his best Dracula voice as he answered the door.
Everyone shouted and hooted as He bowed dramatically and bid them enter. They made their way through the massive living room to the equally excessively large kitchen. To Caleb the house was a testament to classic American wage disparity. Four people living in a gigantic home whilst people right here in this very community slept in the streets. But at that particular moment economic assholery was the farthest thing from his mind.
“Alrighty. Here’s da goods.” David said excitedly. Repeating Doel’s words as he produced the twelve Peyote Buttons.
“Holy shit.” Rylan said breathlessly. “I can’t believe you guys actually scored these.”
“Believe it.” David said. Feeling a juvenile swell of pride as he did so.
His eyes darted across the table to Sarah, her eyes glued to the Buttons. Hopeful thoughts bubbling in the back of his mind.
“So how exactly is this going down?” Rylan asked.
“I’ll get started on the Ceremony Part.” Amy said. Rising from her seat at the table. “The preparations will take a little bit.”
She opened the door to the basement. Flicking the light on and descending the stairs.
“I’ll get started on the tea.” David clapped his hands together enthusiastically.
He’d taken it upon himself to research the recipe. And was pretty confident that he could pull it off. God bless YouTube.
“So your’e going to take drugs in the house while Mom and Dad are gone?” Myles’s voice suddenly came from the doorway that led to the Living Room.
Everyone turned. The diminutive young man stood their with his arms crossed. Like a parent ready to give his children a stern lecture.
“And we’re going to hold a Pagan Ceremony!” Amy’s voice echoed up from the basement.
Everyone laughed at this. Everyone except Myle’s of course. His scowl only deepening at the words.
“What you’re planning on doing is a sin against God!”
“Yeah? Well I have my doubts about that.” Rylan said. “But I’m going to be getting so high tonight that I plan on meeting him. So I’ll be sure to ask him myself when I see him.”
More laughter at Rylan’s unexpectedly clever retort. Myle’s glowered at them for another couple seconds before turning on his heel and storming off.
The next hour passed by in an excited blur. A cooler was filled with beer and wine. And set beside the pool table. There was a refrigerator down there. But for some reason a cooler full of ice seemed more appealing.
Several trip toys from past hallucinatory excursions were brought. To name a few there was Betsy, which was a stuffed purple raccoon. Brew Dog, a lime colored, six hose porcelain hookah in the shape of a big smiling mushroom man.
And Petey the Wonder Lizard. A small rubber lizard that one could get in a bag of a hundred for a buck at the Dollar Tree. But nonetheless a trip toy of such epic significance that Caleb had a small tattoo of Petey on his right forearm.
Eventually everyone made it down and got comfortable in the basement. David having completed the tea after about thirty minutes. Now it sat cooling on the black walnut bar counter. A steaming glass pitcher, and five empty cups.
Amy had been on her knees in the dirt of the unfinished section of the basement pretty much since she’d first gone down. Busy with the drawing of the symbols deemed necessary for a “proper” ceremony.
At one point someone had plugged in their iPod to the surround sound system. It wasn’t enough to stop Rylan’s sporadic bouts of beat boxing. But It at least gave everyone a musical alternative.
“Alright this should be done in about thirty minutes.” Amy announced from her position in the dirt corner. “I think it’d be a good idea to dose up.”
Everyone hooted and hollered at this. And soon each member of the Gang had a mug full of dark Amber tea.
“Alright.” David said. “What should we toast our first peyote trip to?”
For a few moments no one responded. Then Caleb spoke up.
“How about, here’s to friendship? And new experiences?”
That sat well with the others. They all raised their glasses. Clinking them together, the friends as one took their first swigs.
It was a pleasant flavor. Milder than expected. You couldn’t really taste anything out of the ordinary at all. It really just tasted like semi-sweet tea with a hint of lemon.
“Are you sure there’s peyote in this?” Sarah asked.
“Oh yeah.” David beamed. And drained the rest of his cup.
“Yeah it really doesn’t taste bad at all.” Rylan said. “Great job dude.”
“Thanks. I think it turned out pretty good for a first try if I do say so myself.”
The group was silent for a moment as they finished their drinks.
“Oh ya’know what?” Sarah said, setting her cup back down on the counter. “I left my backpack upstairs. I brought some glow sticks!”
“Nice!” Rylan said. As Sarah skipped back across the basement toward the staircase.
“So how long does this stuff take to kick in?” Caleb asked.
“We should be already feeling the beginning stages of the trip as I’m finishing up the symbol for the ritual. So about thirty minutes.”
“And remind me what this ritual is for?” Caleb asked.
“It’s to commence the beginning of our spirit journey maaan!” Rylan laughed. “It’s going to connect us to the ethereal and open our soul’s up to forbidden knowledge!”
Amy laughed, and nodded. “Exactly.”
“Uh… Guys.” Sarah’s voice came floating down from the staircase. “The door’s locked.”
Everyone turned as one.
“What?” David asked in an incredulous tone.
The group exchanged tense looks as they listened to Sarah’s footfalls squeak back down the stairs. She got to the bottom and made her way back toward the bar. A piece of paper in her hand.
“And there’s this.” She said grimly. Holding up the sheet for them all to see.
It was a single bible verse. Printed in the center of the paper. It read-
“If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life crippled, than, having your two hands, to go into hell, into the unquenchable fire.” Mark 9:43.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Amy said flatly.
“What a creepy ass quote.” Said Sarah.
“Myle’s is a creepy ass dude.” Answered Caleb. Still looking at the paper.
Then the lights went out. Myles apparently planning on taking this little prank (If you could really call it that) to the extreme. Fortunately the Group had already lit several candles in perpetration for their ceremony. So it wasn’t a complete panic when the basement went dark.
In fact it was quite impressive just how well lit the basement remained as the lights were extinguished. The vast room taking on a soft flickering ambiance.
“This motherfucker.” David said through gritted teeth. His eyes staring up at the ceiling.
“Dave.” Amy said in the shadows to his right. “When we get out of here I’m going to beat your brother to death.”
“Not if I get to him first.” Rylan growled.
The big hippie sounding comical to Caleb in that moment. The role of the tough guy just didn’t fit his Muppet like appearance. The Group just stood their in tense silence. Each of them trying not to panic over the fact that they were locked in a basement after just having dosed Peyote for the first time.
Tense that is, save for Caleb. He didn’t know if he was already feeling the effects of the Cactus kicking in, but he found himself fixated on the big Hippy’s excessive hair. In that moment the shadows dancing across his massive curly beard and Afro made him look like a chunky King Leonidis.
An image flashed through Caleb’s mind of Rylan bursting through the basement door, and charging Myles with a pool cue. Shrieking “Spataaah!” As he charged the wide eyed Born Again.
He suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter. The sudden break in the silence causing everyone to jump. All eyes turning on him.
“Shit Caleb.” Sarah said grinning slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re losing it already.”
Caleb shook his head.
“Fuck it you guys.” He said, and began walking through the darkness toward the pool table. “If that’s how Myles wants to be then fine. Let him have his hollow victory. He’ll live to regret it.”
“Damn right.” Rylan growled again.
Caleb nearly doubled over with laughter at Rylan’s tough guy impression. He made it over to the pool table. He felt an incredible confidence in his motions. It “must” be the Peyote.
Bending down he retrieved a candle from one of the boxes. He lit it with his zippo, and raised the bougie to his face. The small light of the dancing flame reflecting off his pearly white teeth.
“We came here to have a Ceremony right? That’s the whole point to all this preparation isn’t it Amy?” He asked.
“We’re here. We’re about to be tripping balls. And you’re brother’s an asshole Dave. But that shouldn’t stop us from having a good time right? And besides when we really feel like getting out we can just kick the door down, and then kick the shit out of Myles.” Caleb said with a grin.
“Fuckn’ aye’ right!” Rylan shouted excitedly. Waking over to the cooler by Caleb, and fishing out a couple of bottles.
He popped a top and tilted the bottle back. Taking a few hearty swigs.
“Let’s get this party started!”
That got everyone’s spirits back up. The small Group gave a collective rallying shout. And a few minutes later music was playing from the MP3 Player, and refreshments were flowing as they prepared for the Ceremony to come.
Well really it was mostly Amy doing the preparation. Whilst the others drank, and gabbed about how they “thought they were already feeling it.”
More candles were lit and placed all about the basement. Now long shadows danced across the walls. After the group’s initial rally no one bothered trying the lights. The reason (though no one wanted to say it out loud) was because no one wanted to see if the religious zealot lurking somewhere over their heads maliciously planned on leaving them in the dark as well.
It wasn’t like they needed it anyway. The two dozen currently flickering candles, and the two battery powered lamps were a testament to that. The shadows of the basement now lingering only in the corners and remote crevices of the room. Even the Inherent creepiness of the section that comprised the dirt floor had been banished by the music and light.
Things did get progressively harder to focus on as the Peyote began to take hold though. Amy had been knelt in the dirt for what seemed like an eternity. Painstakingly making a Large intricate pattern with the copious amounts of salt she’d brought with her. An open beer, two more candles and another lamp set up around her worksite.
At one point Caleb walked over to watch her progress. And try his luck. Wondering if she was really going to be able to finish what she was doing before this Trip took hold. Once up close he saw that it was indeed quite the project.
Two books lay just outside of the workspace. The first was clearly a modern day print. The second was visibly much older. In fact it was not a book at all. But a Tome of great proportion. Both Volumes lay open. Various archaic images printed upon their respective pages.
Sarah had been replicating some of the pictures from both books. Incorporating them together into a Salt Mosaic. The Image she was creating was incredibly intricate, and unlike anything he’d ever seen before.
The perimeter of the design was in the shape of a nearly perfect circle, roughly four feet in circumference. But it was the shapes within that drew the eye. Two identical Waxing Crescent Moons hung opposite one another in the upper left and right of the Circle.
The one on the left had a spider dangling from a strand of web attached to the satellite. The insect’s eight legs stretched out wide. Under the Moon on the right was drawn a Coyote. It’s face turned upward in a howl.
Below all this was drawn a lone Mountain. It’s jagged peaks stretching up toward the twin satellites. And at the very heart of the Mountain drawn in a black sand that stood out in stark contrast to the white, was an odd looking eight pointed star. Barbed, rough arrows pointing out in all directions.
For some reason Caleb found the Star unsettling. But he chalked it up to the (not so slow) onset of the Peyote. And quickly pushed it from his mind.
“Wow! That’s amazing!” Caleb said. Genuinely meaning it. But more importantly trying to break the ice with small talk.
“Parts of it incorporate the traditional markings, and characters of the Wampanoag Spirit Hobbomock. But that is only part of what I’m making.” She said. Not looking up from her work.
“The Wampanoag’s believed that during certain parts of the lunar cycle, symbols and ceremonies, if put to use correctly and under the right circumstances could act as a direct line of sorts to the ethereal during mind altering spirit journeys.”
“Hobbomock?” Caleb gave the awkward sounding word a try. Letting it fumble about his tongue, and out into the basement air.
“Sort of a boogeyman in Wampanoag lore.”
Someone hooted in the background. But neither paid it any mind. Both were enwrapped in the evolving pattern on the floor. A floor that was starting to wave slightly…
“Almost done.” Amy said, as she completed another small circle within the eight pointed star.
“Why are there two identical moons?” He asked. The words having a peculiar wavy pattern as they left his lips.
“Some within the Wampanoag believed that a summoning of Hobbomock must be conducted when the Moon is Waxing. And when performed correctly a great, and sacred Cycle would begin. Concluding when the Moon once again enters the phase of waxing crescent.”
Caleb barely comprehended Amy’s words. Realizing that his ability for cognitive thought was rapidly dwindling.
“So you want to summon an ancient Indian Boogeyman for you first peyote trip?”
“Actually the politically correct term would be Native American.” Amy answered. A hint of annoyance in her voice.
“And the United State’s first victims of genocide were not ancient by any stretch of the imagination. But to answer your question, the reason why I would summon Hobbomock is for knowledge.”
She said that last part with an undeniable hint of excitement.
“And the Cycle takes a month to complete?”
“It is said that once Hobbomock begins his tutelage, it lasts for a full month. Concluding after a full Lunar Cycle.”
“Oh.” Was all Caleb had for a response, as he watched the wall behind them breathe. Jesus. This stuff was no joke!
He glanced around at the basement. It seemed larger than when they’d first come down those fancy wooden stairs. Shadows danced across the concrete. Morphing in and out of strange, enticing shapes. Yup. He was tripping alright.
He turned his gaze back to the large tome. Inspecting it more closely. The thing was huge. Bound in what looked like leather stained a dark admiral blue. It had to weigh nearly half as much as it’s owner. He wondered what the title of such a work of literature could be.
“You got this book out of the school library?” He asked.
Amy shook her head, as she continued her work.
“I got it from Saint John’s Evangelist Church.” She said matter-of-factly.
“The Church? Did you borrow it from the Pastor? What’s his name? Father Jim? Father James?”
“It’s Father John.” She said. Reaching over and grabbing up a small shaker of what looked to be filled with juniper green sand. “And no. I stole it.”
Behind them came more laughter, and the clink of bottles. The sounds of revelry competing for dominance over MXPX’s “Chick Magnet”.
“That’s weird that there would be this kind of book in a Church.” He said as he absently watched the walls take another breath. “It’s a Native American Book?”
Amy shook her head again.
“No. I honestly have no idea what the origins of this Tome are. It’s got some trippy guides, and references for Ceremonies that seems to span across several different Native American Tribes.
She began methodically shaking the salt shaker over the Crescent Moon with the Spider hanging over it. The dark green adding interesting highlights to the image.
“Weird.” Caleb said. It seemed to be his go to word at the moment. “You seriously stole it?”
“Yup. I snuck into the Study one day when I was doing community service for my DUI last summer. There were all kinds of weird books, and other… Things… Anyway this baby really caught my eye, so I took it.”
She finished with the shaker and returned it to it’s original place.
“I doubt Father John will ever notice that it’s even gone. I’m pretty sure he’s a one book kind of guy. If you know what I mean.”
It took Caleb’s inebriated mind a moment to catch the joke. Jesus stealing from a Priest. “God” this chick was hot…
A trippy ten minutes later, and the five of them were sitting around the completed salt pattern. Several more candles had been lit, and the music turned down low. Everyone was tripping pretty good at this point.
“Okay everyone.” Amy said. Her voice coming out in a glittery wavy pattern. “Let’s begin.”
“Before we’re tripping too hard.” Rylan laughed. Bringing a round of chuckles.
“What’s first?” David asked. To Caleb the sound of his voice had an Amber color to it.
“First I want you all to think of something that you want to know.”
“What?” Asked Rylan. His Afro and beard beginning to take on a life of their own.
“According to Wampanoag Lore Hobbomock is a Spirit that possesses great knowledge. In some lesser known accounts he is known as the Keeper of Secrets. To start off this ritual you must all think of something that you yearn to know.”
The Group exchanged looks.
“Don’t say it out loud. Just focus on it in your mind for a moment. And don’t make it some trivial bullshit either.”
Everyone was silent for a few moments. Considering Amy’s words. It was a fantastic novelty, Caleb thought to himself. That even as young adults they could get together and whole heartedly be caught up in such a fantastical moment.
So what exactly “did” he want to know if he could have any question he desired answered? He drew his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his legs. Rocking back and forth, and staring up at the wavy ceiling as he considered this. Just then the ancient furnace in the far end of the basement kicked on. The low rumble echoing gently throughout the cavernous room.
Hm. What would he want to know? He would want to know… If… If there really was any truth to the supernatural? Yes. Is there truly anything beyond the set rules of reality that Humanity has established for itself? That’s what he truly yearned to know.
“Everybody set?” Amy asked after another few moments of quiet. “Okay then. Let’s join hands and close our eyes.”
Closing his eyes was a whole different experience altogether. A myriad of colors that were somehow at once both dull and bright, danced against the back’s of his eyelids. He focused on the abyss before him. The amorphous blobs of color began to resemble the overcast sky of an alien planet.
And behind the beautiful rolling clouds… Stars… At least he was almost sure that he could see the faint, distant winking of vast celestial bodies.
“Kókkinos Pnévma.” Amy’s strange words echoed from outside the world behind Caleb’s eyes. “Kókkinos Pnévma…”
Caleb was surprised. He’d taken Greek 101 as an Elective a few semesters ago. And though he couldn’t speak a fluent sentence of it to save his life, he’d retained enough to be able to recognize the language when he heard it. This really was a Hybrid Ceremony.
“Chorígisi hmón theía gnósi.” She continued. And the prismatic clouds shifted slightly. As if an ethereal wind had begun to blow.
“We humbly ask the Great Spirit Hobbomock to hear our words. And to grant us divine knowledge beyond that of our mortal kin. With open hearts we offer up our mind’s and soul’s to your tutelage.”
“Now everyone. With your eyes closed, and your thoughts bent toward the knowledge you desire, repeat after me. Prosféroume ta myalá mas.”
“Prosféroume ta myalá mas.” The Group said in unison. Struggling to pronounce the words.
The wind in his mind’s eye grew in strength. The Clouds beginning to swirl, and twirl about.
“Prosféroume tin kardiá mas.”
The myriad overcast sky began whirling about intensely. Offering up glimpses of what lay beyond. Sure enough. There were stars…
“Prosféroume tis psychés mas.”
As the group repeated these last words the clouds parted, and the Endless Abyss revealed itself in all it’s unblinking glory. Impossibly distant stars winking out across the endless gulfs. Caleb let out an awed breath. Hearing similar sounds from his companions. But it would be crazy to think they were all having a similar vision.
Then suddenly there came the soft, melodic sound of a flute. Caleb smiled without opening his eyes. Lest he lose the amazing vision playing out behind them. Amy (who for awhile had played in the Bridgewater University Student Orchestra) was really going all out for this.
It was a song he’d never heard before. But making an educated guess he decided that it was Native American in origin. The melody was beautiful. The notes flowed out, and across the basement.
He gazed on at the twinkling stars behind his eyes. Occasionally a variegated cloud of vibrant color blew across the endless sky. As he looked, and listened the colors of the stars shifted between hues of white, yellow, and blue. And in the beautiful melancholy of the vision and music he silently wondered… Is there really anything beyond?
The minutes stretched on in this harmonious fashion. Never had Caleb felt so content to simply sit with his eyes closed, and listen. “Hobbomock.” Caleb said the name in his mind. “If there was more to this reality would you show me?”
As he gazed on, Caleb became aware of one star near the center of his vision that stood out against the rest. It took him a moment to notice the celestial body as it’s hue had started out a very faint scarlet. But as the moments ticked by, and the melody went on the glow of this Great Red Giant grew in strength.
“That’s where it is.” Caleb said to himself. “That’s where true knowledge resides. Hobbomock’s home.”
What an odd thought. But as it crossed his mind the Scarlet Star pulsed brightly once. Then twice. On the second time the Star retained a significantly brighter glow than before.
As he focused on it the rest of the Stars began to fade into the background. In the world outside of his vision Caleb was dimly aware that Amy’s song was reaching the peak of a crescendo. The Scarlet Star seemed to draw closer as the Melody increased in volume.
He began to make out the details of the burning Star. Deep red bolts of electricity arched across the vast sun. Dancing, and leaping across it’s colossal surface. And beneath the nuclear pandemonium something dark and vast shook, and undulated.
He couldn’t make out it’s details. Only that it was there. A great lightless spot in an otherwise blinding landscape.
The rest passed like a dream. The vision stretched on and on. The crimson flames leapt, and the flute played on in the background. Eventually the sun faded, and the scene once again returned to the infinite abyss.
He couldn’t even recall the scene shifting. One moment he was looking at the flames. The next he beheld an expanse of darkness that took the breath away. Way, way out across the void, stars winked and shimmered. It was at once unsettling and serene.
“This is where we came from.” He mused. “We are but visitors to this place…”
He sighed contentedly. Contemplating this newfound knowledge. Staring out into infinity. The view unobscured by an atmosphere.
“Yo homeslice you still dreaming?” David’s voice echoed across infinity.”
“Wha-?” He asked the void.
“Hey man.” David’s jovial laugh rolled across the cosmos. “Where are you?”
“I… Where… Am I?”
He felt hands on his shoulders. The feeling was like an electric shock. He’d all but forgotten he possessed a corporeal form. His eyes snapped open, and he found himself once again in the dimly lit basement.
David was kneeling in front of him. Smiling.
“God damn man!” David laughed again. “You’ve been there for like… A million hours!”
Caleb laughed heartily. His senses reeling in a pleasant way.
“Holy shit dude! This shizl is amazing! You wouldn’t believe the visuals I just had!”
“Dude me too!” David said. “You wanna get down on some peyote pool?”
He asked, gesturing toward the bar. Caleb saw that the others were gathered around the widescreen. Laughing hysterically at Eric Andre as he went through his usual ceremony of destroying the set at the beginning of his show.
Time went on in a good-humored blur for awhile after that. The group staying easily entertained between the flat screen, the pool table, and themselves. It wasn’t until they all started having the same hallucination that things started getting out of hand.
The Group had been milling about the pool table. Occasionally taking shots, but no real coherent game happening, when the ground around the Salt Pattern slowly began to sink. Not much initially. It was so subtle at first that every time someone looked at it they chalked up the slight anomaly to their own individual high. Which was growing in intensity by the minute for the entire Group.
As the little party progressed everyone just sort of avoided the area. Not wanting to be the first to mention it.
Caleb was the first to investigate. He meandered over in the general direction of the dirt floor. Glancing down at the slowly sinking ground. He cocked his head to the side, and furrowed his eyebrows.
“Man this stuff is amazing.” He thought to himself.
He bent down to get a closer look. Nearly touching his nose to the ground. Scrutinizing the anomaly. He could have sworn that even as he watched, the ground sank ever so slightly.
He righted himself and shrugged. Making his way back to the group he attempted to ignore the growing sense of apprehension in his belly. But after about fifteen more minutes the growing indentation was becoming a serious “Elephant in the Room.”
“So… I don’t want to make anyone panic or anything…” Rylan started hesitantly. Bouncing a pool stick between his hands.
“But the fucking floor is sinking?” Amy asked. Looking over at the hole that had now reached a depth of a half foot. The ground around it had started to slope with the sinking Symbol.
“I… I see it too.” Amy said. A breathless, awed quality to her voice.
Everyone was quiet for a few minutes after that. The gravity of the realization that they were all seeing the same thing weighing heavily on each of their minds.
David wanted to break the tension. Say something like “Daaamn this is some good shit!” But he knew it wouldn’t alleviate the growing sense of apprehension. This wasn’t part of the trip.
The pit began to grow more quickly. As if it knew they were now watching it. The center of the dirt floor fell out of site. A dark hole taking it’s place. As one the Group wordlessly took a few steps backward. All thinking the same thing. The Basement was going to fucking eat them!
Everyone kept their eyes on the deepening hole as they continued backward toward the basement stairs. There came a strange echoing, grinding sound from all around. The noise was somehow both frightening, and sickening. They had backed up about twenty feet, and the pit had reached nearly two yards in circumference before this new spacial anomaly was noticed.
“Holy shit you guys!” Rylan said. “Look at the stairs!”
The others turned to look. The Basement had grown along with the pit! The stairs were more than ten yards away now! The opposite ends of the Cellar rapidly receding into the deepening gloom. Candles now flickering in the distance like faint beacons.
The five Friends just stood their in awed silence for a moment. Listening to the nauseating sounds of the basement as it grew, and stretched it’s corporeal limits. It was a sickening, revolting sound. It’s unnatural timbre somehow eliciting such feelings.
Caleb chanced to look up. Instantly wishing he hadn’t. Sure enough, the ceiling was getting higher. Or the ground was getting lower… Or maybe. Please God. Maybe they were all just tripping way too hard.
And then came the chanting. Very faint, it came echoing up from the deepening pit. Resonating up from a distance impossibly far away. The Group exchanged looks of horror, and disbelief. Their expressions wordlessly confirming that they were all indeed hearing it.
They stood there, frozen, listening to the voice as it drew closer. Wood, and concrete popped, and squealed. A macabre background cacophony to compliment the approaching monotone droning from the Chasm below.
The air began to vibrate with the power of the nightmare droning as it drew closer. Without warning David and Rylan lost it. Both sprung into motion as the same thought ran through both their minds. Escape! They went sprinting for the horrifically distant stairs.
Caleb tore his eyes from the Nightmare Pit to look at the rapidly shrinking forms of his two Friends.
“You guys! What the fu-?! But his words caught in his throat as Sarah let out a terrible shriek.
Caleb whirled back around. He felt a sudden warmth running down his leg. Oh God! He had to wake up! Oh please Jesus Fuck! He had to fucking wake up!
The Chanting was close now. The Source slowly rising up out of the Pit. A vast nightmare form. A Giant! Caleb’s legs felt weak, and he knew he was going to puke.
Oh God… It was ten feet tall at least! Cloaked in a great scarlet robe. The vast hood pulled up. Partially obscuring it’s mottled green countenance. The all too large head dotted with dark splotches that reminded Caleb of his alcoholic Grandfather’s liver spots before he’d died of cirrhosis.
Taking great, majestic strides the nightmarish Giant slowly stepped up, and out of the Chasm. In one gargantuan hand It bore aloft a massive, dripping Tome the same color as It’s robes. A dark, thick liquid dribbled out from between the yellowed pages.
And The Giant read from the Book. It’s terrible voice booming out in a strange nightmare language that made the skin itch, and crawl. Though the Thing didn’t look at the Caleb and the others as It spoke. But rather raised it’s voice up to the now cathedral like ceiling, and addressed the growing darkness. Like a Priest before a congregation.
And from beneath the Red Giant’s robes fell an assortment of Arthropods. Chitin clacking, and clattering onto the ground as segmented bodies struck stone. The noise competing, but failing against the cries of the growing Basement, and the chants of the Monstrosity.
For his two remaining companions the spell broke. They cried out, and ran off in two different directions. But not Caleb. He just stood there, pissing himself. Pissing and screaming that is. Pissing and screaming…