Day 6: The Occurrence Eve

…And Wolfman Patrick’s journal, extra scratchy bold like a kid scribbling on his desk. I think last night’s haul was a little light. Ron read my journal and was becoming sick of my apathetic fight against his journalistic integrity. No details too small, and if there’s some kind of prize money for this find, he’ll split it with me down the middle. I won’t talk—yet. It’s not the stringing him along, but in the case of an F.B.I. raid before the sacrifices start, that I may, with escape time, be a waste of a charge. Protection is cheap when everyone is desperate. Something I discovered holy while shitting off the boat's side.

I’ll get back to Ron in a minute….I didn’t sleep. More like Shroom Zombie walks abouts in a poorly rendered waking state. Waking, not woke, not sleep. Awake enough to push the dinghy to the back of the two front pier posts, but 75% of the trip was done without a light, only the reflective shimmer from the island's shine losing influence in the dark. I kept the light off to draw less attention when I finally cranked it with the pull start. I narrated then, trying to cope with the lack of reason, control, or sight in a task I may understand if I make it through. My thoughts and therefore my focus drifted to the frequency—the squeal or whine of a female chipmunk sped up. Hearing it was so new, no comparison. Was it playing on a loop inside my head still? Was it fading in the distance, but the wind wisped silence, proving to be an intense conductor through the trees? Yet, *putter, putter, putter* Speaking of trees with their branches, shallow spots, alligators, I hadn’t seen a one; then, in a fear of having to resort to drowning after all in a lake with a current seaward, I flicker of the D-cell torch, I almost hit a low-hanging branch or high root. A little splash, some wobbly wake, it could have been worse. No moonlight breaking through the continuous summer foliage parasol, it should’ve been. 20 feet or so, I exited, greeted by a couple of lights glowing in protest of the dark.

Can’t tell you why. It’s the first time a Terror Walk (a sleepwalking incident that is unrememberable but not as absent perception as a fugue state) was this determined, even picking the right potted plants to avoid the alarm traps. Something Ron failed on the previous night. Damn nightmares, maybe later. So Ron….

Shitting off the side of the boat later that morning with all my mental faculties returned to me, sloshed on the shores of what I believe is my sanity, I pondered what I could have eaten for this round of bubble guts. I guessed some over-saturated dish that rhymed with bumbo, which may have been the beverage to complement it, and had me sweating booze. Blue Moon June wanted an explanation for the used fuel and what could be so god damn important for starters. I respected her not staring until after throwing me some wipes, then she waited.

“I call them Terror Walks. I see my dream—nightmare, but I can not act against whatever my body wants.”

“Not body. Didn’t take you for a sycophant.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Fanatic. Where? How far?”

“If I can recall, I was sailing in the lotus lake of the infinite drowning. These inches below the surface could never tread water effectively enough, but the relief of a breath burns their heads like acid-oxygen. Most are much younger than me. On the other side was Crowley’s back shed. Some need to witness some gimped man eating their daughter's body, chilled in the morgue, making them watch... Some punishment for making her do it, I think—hell if I know.”

“What the fuck—”

“You get why I’m here yet?”

“I—you—” I also respected having hand sanitizer when I joined her. It could have nothing to do with me, but she gave me extra wipes, I pocketed the alcohol napkins. “How often? Where are your meds? You types have pills, right?”

“Daily, with no treatment in existence. I don’t care what this is.”

“Doing for a specific obituary, I take it? Why not just pow?”

“I was on a very high bridge with no water at the bottom when I felt the pull of the pamphlet,” I said with the enthusiasm I believed it deserved.

“Wasn’t hard to figure us out?”

“Thanks, Sha—Snow-woman Shawna.”

“She was just an unsuccessful artist working retail, not the best judge, but whatever. Then what?”

“Seeing my psychosis demonstrates beyond a reasonable doubt about what my subconscious truly wants—”

“—What an opportunity. You’re both the best and worst for this. Sucks that they are just geeks, right?”

“You never heard the term Mad Scientist. I inadvertently made a lateral move. Life halted to cope with this worsening brain matter.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Sure, it’ll be nice working with you. A real test subject, sort of speak.”

“Can’t see that, but I’ll try to imagine it.”

“Who knows, the way Professor Patrick looks, like he’s running out of patients with the urge to bow before you.”

“Probably best after I’m hanged—hung.” I didn’t need the disapproving inverted gasp as she started walking off. “Oh, by the way, what are you doing about Ron?”

“Ron,” she said as she paused.

“You’re puzzled with that high of a Detec-appreitio-guide in the Hell’s Mouth.”

“Jesus, what are you. *exhales harshly* “He’s handled.”

“Sending packing peanuts would be a great boost to your Slith Fate.”

“You remember a lot.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“Wanna know what’s the best you can do?”

“Now that you’ve gotten to your point—”

“We like to read people. The old dare of a stare down and lick a bit of soul. You’ve got your terms, the dissection is almost their ruin, their undoing. They blame themselves in the note.”

“Stop.”

“What?”

“I hate that fucking letter.”

“Probably for the response you received.”

“Well, just page six. I wanted to cut it, but the page count was—”

“We have him handled.”

Discussing it at the bar would vibe well on a bench after recently surviving a weir shipwreck from 40,000 feet. As long as I can skip the corny outfit and childish hair, it’s fine. After breakfast, timed an hour early, I became the highest-ranked on the ground floor. The walkways could take a little maintenance, but the threat of a cluttered stampede while carrying equipment to the Shelf is unlikely. A smoothed rock passage above their hand-built walkway. The 6-foot ladder to the ledge that put you in front of the chest-high wall was at the back end, buried in a carved-out slot. A short, fourteen-inch-wide sloped trail up, and you have a view of the shore between both piers that has a picturesque mystique now haunted by heat waves. There was a strong railing, like more than one falling accident, not on record. And the sound thing that nearly deafened me, yeah, weighs 61 pounds. Anyway, they, and that’s Mead-woman Mary, Coldman Jason, Storm-man Winters, Blue Moon June, cleared their space blocking their equipment. Makes the day easy, I hear, working two pairs at a time.

I warn him in a way. Much like how she confirmed her allegations with vagueness, my utter lack of enthusiasm meant the communication breakdown was imminent. And he couldn’t just read the journal yet, here I am staring at Blue Moon June being right about one thing.

“Something’s off.”

“What?” Cornman Ron asked.

“I don’t—you see this as a documentary, not—”

“It’s a job.”

“It’s a gig, right? An out-of-nowhere report looking—seeking with years, maybe a decade of bias from freaks. There'll be all these debates, the disputes.”

“These aren’t scary people here. I'm getting Stockholm.” He said disappointedly.

“Sure, you see a nose ring and think mouthy San Fran trash—especially with the red around it. A decade of secrecy here,” I whispered.

“I don’t understand you. This place is an asylum, self-built.” He leaned in, prompting me to spin on my stool. “Take a sec to unwedge yourself from this glittery eye view, White Bread.”

“Ah-huh,” I responded.

“Your guy Patrick isn’t just any trust fund lunatic. Doctor, sure, but three of his graduate students were last seen leaving for a camping trip three days before graduation—the end of his tenure. The authorities have been looking for him for 7 years. June? If the picture I got isn’t fake, 6 strange cases have followed her wake. Was she refining the word? Practicing in a bunch of cities across the country?”

“She’s a big woman. What’s your angle? The one you’re willing to go crazy for? Have you read the Brochure?”

“How are you this—have you been sneaking liquor?” He asked rudely.

“Yes, I know what they’re looking for, and it’s strange properties. It’s what they're looking for, I think you should consider that first. Not that they've explained it to me and they like me.”

He leaned in a little closer. “Have you heard of The Turquoise Classroom? No!? One year ago, there was a house call in Memphis over a sudden foul odor spreading through the Hillcrest neighborhood. No one complained about it until June 21st. The police arrived at 2894 Oak Ridge in gas masks, and when they opened the door, they bore witness to the worst array of corpses sprawled all over the first floor. Some were there weeks based on composition, others, only days. One examiner swore at least one rotted to a skeleton in one spot—never moved from where they fell.”

“Nice.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he rightfully asked.

“You know why I’m here. Keep going.”

“You—” I think the silence was contemplation of what I said and how serious he may have to accept that I am, but really, really wanted to get to the crescendo. It was probably down to thought momentum. “This hum draws them where, despite the council’s floor plans (blueprints) saying it had only one floor, to the set of stairs. They pushed open the one door to a blind shade of creamy-looking green. Desks, 5 rows, 4 columns facing a chalkboard. Teacher’s desk, walls lined with books on bookshelves, the works. Something about the smell--it wasn't the bodies, just foulness--and the sights—one of the officers who called it in is dead. Went nuts screaming about the plains--realms closing in, green fire, and eye devours, the other….”

“If you expect me to answer—”

“Former Officer, Sergeant Jerith McCurdy. No one knows who the victims are or where they come from. The house was cleaned two days prior, paid for by the realtor company. And no one reports seeing any vehicles or people besides the cleaning company, according to the Security of the gated community. Yet all the deceased had in common a yellow/blue or green brochure on or near their person. The Brochure.”

“How did you find—”

“His journal. His accounts line up with the police reports—the story. It wasn’t the bodies he was worried about; it was his sanity. You know, no matter what dream he describes, they involve that Turquoise Classroom. He managed to acquire the deed and flip the house with Patrick’s help; cleaned out, of course. 27 John and Jane Does, in a known spotless house. That's a cover-up deep in the making.”

“Causes of death?” I asked.

“Varies, experts all of them involved self-defense and some kind of weapon. I’m talking blades, arrows, guns, shotgun pellets, or ball bearings in the chest; coroners believe they weren’t murdered together. Later, the house burned down a day before the new owner was set to move in. This shit isn't lining up.”

“But I tell you what June said, and you scoff? Welcome to the deep end. Don’t get too drunk. Growing woman Gwen is coming down, it’s you or me on the first draft picks.”

With her was Snow-woman Shawnna. At this point I was sure I had did or done something. Better still for chances of stopping her from second before Wolfman Patrick realizes I wasn’t on Cornman Ron’s heels with the books he asked for. I caught her amid everyone’s trench shift change, about to duck into the kitchen.

“We’ve got a lot to do—”

“I know, I know, I wanted to catch you and Kieth—sorry, Hare-man Kieth to thank you. This is such a great opportunity, and I wouldn’t have found this wildly awakening place without you. Thanks—thank you.”

“Are you done?”

“If you see Keith, let him know too. Yes.”

“Okay.” That was it. She reopened the swinging door and left, not once looking at me. That’s it, better get the 6 notebooks of Wolfman Patrick’s igniting passages to The Shelf. He had begun calling me the next potential promoter, which was pissing off the Corn people. I’m still shocked we don’t pick those names.

"Everyone raves about sunset and sunrise,” Wolfman Patrick started. He placed the spiral notebook down in the order I screw up when I dropped them trying to sprint up the steps. Although his tone carried that British pompousness, it felt racist as an American, pointing out, but the way he felt the need to forgive my tardiness is all too telling. Didn’t seem concerned enough to speak when the darkness at my feet nearly constituted the need for a new railing. "High noon brings me clarity. If you wondered where I go before lunch, it’s the walk to the peak to gaze over the emitting swamp.”

“Emitting, Wolfman Patrick?”

“Everything and everyone that survives can communicate with themselves and the outside themselves as much as you can let in. Whether their words come in different sentence types, to translate isn’t our right, no matter how much they scream at us. We ask.”

“So are we communing with nature to get a warning?”

“Good thinking. However, they know more than their silence suggests. You may think fungi can become as affected as we are by psilocybin?”

“If it's an alien form of life. We get adrenochrome from humans, the price is unfortunate?”

“Ha, Ha, you’re an odd one,” Wolfman Patrick chuckled.

“All the same, that gives me two questions. It evolved to keep insects from coming back—suppressing the appetite, so can mushrooms lick themselves? And what are they curious about? Do they have that knowledge—the consciousness to do so?”

“Decently expressed, but invite yourself to breathe freer. Text that we’ve found says not only is it possible, planets growing in and around them also share endorphins, or rather the designs and the chemical makeup for the drug.”

“Reverse engineering to give earth plants new sight? The fauna can create the fungi’s vision in their best environment.”

“Communication is how we discuss the process of peace. Why wouldn’t a jungle? We’re going to ask Gaia, if you’re the spiritual type or Greek, what else is out there? Who else?”

“But not X-Files,” I joked.

“Baby steps, soon-to-be Harvest man Neilson. Ironically, we’re thinking further than Mars.”

“I know this may not be the time, but I’ve got to ask. That island fire….”

“Of course, the Collins brothers. Our former reclusive neighbors with that horrid business.”

“I didn’t see any flames until I saw bodies where your local legends live—lived.”

“What else did you notice?” That was different. A quick snap from the instructor to coach, demanding to know where my gym clothes are. If I knew better, I’d say he switched from posh to cockney. It was quick, with a get your shit together instance that wouldn’t get picked up on a record.

“If they sailed to the hanging island or fled that way, I didn’t see it. Add the fact the island that burned still had all of its boats, and we didn’t take one—”

“But your adventure last night involved a boat, correct?”

“Careful, your tuning is off.”

“No accusation here. I simply mean to explain that while certain vessels are claimed, boat exchanges are common practice to prevent people without experience from getting stranded.”

“Evil doesn’t always prevail as long as it makes sense to someone. Tomorrow is a test run?”

“Not the first, although for years, the manipulating attempts leave varied reasons buried in the plethora of variables. Tomorrow, we will introduce a solidifier. What we know and how you articulate it.”

“The part I’ve been trying to squeeze out of you—”

“What?” Wolfman Patrick answered his walkie-talkie. It sounded like Growing-woman Gwen, but could’ve been June. Every 4th or 6th word was clear from where Wolfman Patrick walked on The Shelf to see what she was talking about. “Cornman Nealson, you’re needed in Jason's office. When you’re done, rest up. Mead-woman Mary and her people will be installing lights; if she doesn’t need you, you’re done for today.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thank you for your help.” Coldman Jason is the excitable type. Blue Moon June had told him about my night as well. I expected a bit more passive scolding. At the library, Growing-woman Gwen whistled, then waved me down to the D.C.S. Atrium. Things always line up here, subtly, intuitively, with a small collection of ants, not questioning the pheromones in the hill that gives out wordless orders. She wasted no time pushing me in. There was a quick whisper to Cornman Demetri, who now blocked the entrance. I knew he seemed like one of Harvestman Jerith’s. We stopped at Coldman Jason, who stood gleefully that the magazine was saved from having its pages stuck together.

“Step by step, walk me through your night,” he said, rushing the words out as fast as they formed.

“The dream. We mean what you saw,” Growing-woman Gwen added.

“How much of—”

“Until June found you.”

“First off, I perceived the flower pots as glowing under the surface, so departing was a breeze, and that’s when I… ceased. The engine kicked on in one pull I didn’t feel. Drifted through the vacuous waters, basing the orientation of the sounds of the cove’s generators. I continued with the dream. The house of the coastline, the greeting received at the door. Like a general central to committing the last act of a war. House is bigger on the inside, base can’t be near a swamp. Tied up victims and last of the bloodline. Got my notes on the scene, handed some earplugs for the scream. Who’s wearing me knows the charges and what lives lost are sharing. The rage wasn’t mine, and I don’t know who I punched. Enter the room with the chump in the eyes shut gimp mask.’

“Starved to death and handed a plate of sauteed meat cut into tiny chunks. Plate 2 and 3 to the muffled screams from the chains on the wall. A pistol whip shut her up, then the surgeon took her out. Buzz saw split the forehead until there was a skin hinge. Inner contents removed for the Cook to get the recipe underway. His chair was turned to face the wall while he waited in pleading whimpers for his next meal. End of the bloodline, I taunted, but suddenly the gimp regained some vigor to back talk, loved saying ginger. Not sure who that was meant for; not sure which one of us they heard speak to spark the response. The name is always censored; their chin seemed to suggest it was longer than mine, deformed, or nowhere near human. They spoke:'

‘No death accepted by the Rav—Kade name. Say your magic words, you wicked turds, the last of me is not the last at all. I die, my fate to save a word to seek the power we deserve to right the wrong you monstrous hag, indecent Slags. I call upon my peace.’

"For some reason, I—they can’t take no more. I spoke and heard myself through a voice distorter. I can’t see or explain. "We got everyone; you’re my last loose ends.'”

“Good.” ‘The gimp replied.’

"The Cook, with their flair, served the plate without reluctance, spit in the center on the paisley. Last meal, then we can end.'

"Stuffed, the Cook forced it down around 3-and-a-half pounds, then they asked for another serving. I was given the honors, and I unzipped his pants and gave him time to adjust to the fluorescently lit cellar. A torso with its head popped open like a top. No legs, no arms, and the second half of her brain on his plate—"

“Stop! I mean—just…” Growing-woman Gwen said.

Coldman Jason couldn’t contain his excitement, his sole motivation behind trying to calm Growing-woman Gwen. When she took second to herself, he spoke to me. “Down here, that story is played out with portions missing until now. We know it was a punishment; this is the last of a destructive race. Hell, your quotes fill in the German bits in the rock. You dreamt an ethereal action. Has this happened before?” Coldman Jason asked.

“All-the fucking-time.”