Tales of the Absurd

You wake in a cold sweat, the thunder of gunshots echoing in your ears, the ghost of pressure in your hands from the kick back of the gun. Hands shaking, you slip out of bed and notice the clock. Shit! You fly through the messy house, grab clothes, badge, and gun. You know that the chief is worried. If you come in late, who knows when you’ll see your next real case. In your car, you shout unheard expletives at the driver in front of you- moving slowly, steadily down the road- and you swerve around them. You glance at your watch as you stride through the doors of the precinct and sigh out in relief-

“Henderson!!” You hear the chief shout your name, see him stride towards you, a look of pity and annoyance on his face- you’re not sure which makes you madder. “Did you forget to set your clocks? You’re an hour late!”

“What?!” You feel the blood drain from your face, disbelief being replaced almost immediately by dread. You just finished working that stupid run around case for the granny who ‘didn’t know what that noise was but was pretty sure someone was on the roof!’ Of course, after two weeks of sitting in a stakeout, you realized she wore hearing aids and was accidentally leaving them in at night.

“Yep. Spring forward! We need to talk.” You follow the chief into his office, trying not to wince as the door slams shut behind you, but he clearly sees the way your face tightens and your hand drifts towards your holster. “Maybe you should take some time off. I can schedule an appointment for you with the department psychiatrist-”

“I’m fine-”

“Bullshit, it took you two weeks to solve that simple case with the old lady.” He slams his hand on his desk, but stays sitting so you know he isn’t angry, just concerned. Damn his concern!

“Chief, please, I just want to work.” You see the doubt in his face as he shakes his head and picks up a stack of files from his desk. After a few minutes of scanning through them, he sighs and sits back.

“Fine. I think I have a case for you.” He seems to relent and hands you a file. “Missing persons- or cat, technically-”

“You can’t be serious! This isn’t even a real-”

“Henderson. It’s either this case or a month’s leave and a couple psychiatrist appointments, your choice.”

“Fine. I’ll take the case.” You grumble, then turn and leave the office, trying to ignore the barrage of concerned glances flitting towards you. In your car, you look through the file, glaring at the report, there’s not even a picture of the cat. Better go talk to who called it in- maybe get a real picture. Down the road again, you slam your hand into your horn, wishing deadly things on the driver in front of you as they slam their breaks at the light that only just turned yellow. It only really takes you about ten minutes to get to the house. Almost completely hidden from the road, it sits back, yellowed face peering out of a barrage of strange things and wild foliage: statues of varying sizes missing appendages or faces, garden pots stacked in haphazard leaning towers, broken instruments hanging like skeletons in the trees, elephant grass and bamboo wildly springing from the gaping fish mouth of a long dried out fountain, one extremely large half-dead weeping willow, and through it all, choking and ensnaring it, thick greenish vines with a tinge of orange in their leaves. You stare at it for a while, questioning whether you should really even get out of the car or just call the chief and accept the psychiatrist visits.

Someone taps against your passenger window and your hand shoots to your Glock as you turn to see a small child covered so fully in dirt and filth you can’t even tell the gender. All you see are two luminous eyes peering in at you. You feel a deep sense of unease, but also concern towards this child and annoyance at their parents. You roll down the window to talk to them.

“Hi there little…person. Where are your parents?” The child shrugs and you breath deep, try again. “Where do you live, exactly?” The child smiles, bright white teeth glaring against the dark of the mud smeared all over their face, and points toward the house. You sigh. Roll up the window. Try to ignore the peering glance of the child. Think about leaving again. Then you open your door and climb out of the car.

“Okay, how about we go over there together. I’m here about your cat.” At that, the child runs around the car and grabs your hand, practically heaving you through the maze of strange yard décor and into the funny little house. Nothing- there is absolutely nothing in the house, it is completely bare. Well, almost. There is a single telephone sitting on the ground in the middle of the room, cords stretched across the floor. You scratch your head and turn to ask the child about the cat, but the child is gone. The telephone begins to ring, and ring, and ring. You don’t answer. You walk through the house, opening every door. Going in when there is actually a room behind them. Lots are wallpapered shut. How did that happen? The telephone rings again. It rings. And rings. And Rings.

You walk over in annoyance and pick it up.

“The cat is behind you.” The voice on the other line says, as though you are dumb. You turn and look, and sure enough, a filthy cat is sitting there, staring at you with strange luminous eyes. You realize you hate cats, they creep you out.

“Who is this?” You ask, the only response is the buzzing of a dial tone in your ear, they already hung up. You turn back towards the cat and see it disappear into another room. You drop the phone, ignore it clattering, breaking on the floor, and run after the cat. There is only one other door in the room. It is wallpapered shut. How? You know the cat absolutely did not pass back through the door you just came through. Somehow, they had to have gone through the wallpaper. Rolling your eyes, you step forward and push your way through. The wallpaper doesn’t rip, it doesn’t tear. You just seem to melt right through it. You look around in shock, you are standing in the middle of a wild meadow. Not possible. Crouching down, you touch the dirt, the grass. It’s all real, moist from a recent rain shower. A small breeze brushes against you and you know- you're really outside. You turn back around and see the doorframe standing there alone, wallpaper stretched across it. You walk around it, to the blank side, and push against it. A terrible shredding, ripping noise follows as the paper gives under your hand. Shit. You realize you don’t know how to get back. In fact, you don’t even know where you are. Angry, you grab the remaining wallpaper and rip it out of the frame, cursing under your breath, then shouting. There’s no one around to hear you, anyway.

“Why are you shouting?” Someone says through the empty frame and you look through to the other side. There is the child, sitting on the ground, looking quietly up at you as you stand shrouded in wallpaper. You drop it and it falls around your feet like Lazarus’s wrappings.

“What is this place?” You ask the child. Is this even real? You slap your face, pinch your forearms. The child just smiles, stands up and runs toward the edge of the meadow. This has gotta be a dream. You don’t really want to follow. You decide to walk the other way. About ten minutes pass by, you’re pretty sure you’re lost. Damn it! You turn back around and head towards where the child disappeared. An hour passes. Then two. In the trees beyond you think you see a pair of eyes refract light back toward you. You quicken your pace. Two gleaming eyes swivel to hold you in place. A barn owl? The owl fluffs its feathers and leans, diving off the branch and spreading wings in one smooth motion. You turn, captivated by the owl, following its flight, and see an old dirt path in the distance. Skeptical, you follow it anyway down and around through the wooded grove until it becomes paved and leads to a tall spired building. Ravens perch along it like a scene out of Hitchcock, they are a black patchy blanket over the stone front and the peaked roof. As you approach, they begin to caw. Your spine shivers and your limbs feel numb, hair standing up all over your body but you feel like you need to get into that building so you keep on going.

Then you see the building doesn’t have any doors. Where doors would normally stand are some very large mirrors. You walk up to the mirror, there is no reflection of you. You look down at yourself in shock, but there you are, whole and sturdy. Looking back up, you reach to touch the glass, but there is nothing there. It is an empty door frame. All that is behind is empty space inside the building. You walk in and realize a mural is painted on the back wall which gives the illusion of mirrors, shine and everything. You walk up to it, touch it lightly, and shake your head. Amazing. It seems the only use of this room, this building, is to create this illusion. You walk around there for a while, stare up at the sky ceiling and realize the illusion can only work during the day.

“You coming?” You turn and see the child, standing in the doorway, not looking very happy. “There isn’t time.” You stand up and child the walks away again. You run to the door; you don’t want to lose them again. To your consternation, the child is gone. Instead, the cat is there, walking the same direction the child just left in. Nope. You switch your thoughts to the wallpaper portal and the open countryside, but you follow the cat anyway. The sun begins to fall in the sky and you hope that you haven’t been a fool to follow the cat. Then, the cat is gone. You stop dead. Peer all around. It is too dark for you to see very far; the shadows keep tricking you. They work with the breeze to create illusions of moving things on the ground. You turn around, walk backwards a few steps, looking back the way you came. Suddenly, there is nothing under your feet. You are falling. Smashing into a floor of hard marble. You blink into the sudden light, your eyes stinging, watering.

“Come forward.” You hear a strange voice, gargle-y yet old. You stand up, dust off, and roll your shoulders- trying to work out the stiff pain that is growing there from landing hard. “Now.” The voice is very impatient. You peer around, but all you see in the room is a baby basinet. You scratch your head, confused, looking for the speaker.

“You idiot! Here! Come here!” A little hand shoots out of the crib. You tip toe forward, unsure of what you are about to see, and peer into the cradle. Wrapped in fuzzy blankets, wearing a tie, face screwed up as though he is going to cry, sits a little baby boy. You relax a little. There must be a recorder or something- like the illusion with the mirrors…

“What are you looking at me like that for? What are you doing here? I thought I said I didn’t want any adults in this room!” The baby snaps and you swear, its mouth is moving. You don’t believe it. “Get out- ofjegdjghedg.” As the baby begins to speak again you cover its mouth. Sure enough, the baby was speaking. You let go. Wipe a drooly hand on your pants and as the baby begins to scream, beat a hasty retreat towards the door. Finally, a normal door! You burst through it and look around to find yourself in a room filled with tiny trees that are walking around and chatting, waving at one another. That’s it! It’s gotta be drugs! You turn back to the door, but it is gone. Gone, just gone! Carefully, slowly, you step between the tiny trees, who gaze up at you and gasp as you walk by. The gasping turns to frightened grumbling, and then, in a single instant, they are jumping onto you, climbing you with their roots and branches. You throw caution to the wind, begin to fling your arms about in giant windmills, hop around, and wildly search for a way out of this strange room. To no avail. The trees may be small, but they are very heavy. They tackle you to the ground and stand all over you till you think that you look like a wooded hill. One peers down into your face and shakes his head.

“You aren’t supposed to be moving.” He grumbles, “How are you moving?”

“Me? How are you moving?” You exclaim and try to wiggle out from under them. It only seems to provoke them and they jump up and down all over you. Then, when they are satisfied you won’t move around, they hold a little whisper conference on your stomach. It is quite uncomfortable and the pressure makes you need to pee. There aren’t as many of them on your arms now, maybe you could lift them, but you don’t, remembering how it felt to be jumped on the last time. You lay still, waiting for their hushed meeting to be over.

Eventually, they drag you across the floor, so tangled in their roots you can barely breathe let alone move. Yet you hear a groaning, scraping, heaving, as the floor tilts and tilts and then the little trees are shouting around you, shuffling forward in an awkward run as your body slithers over the floor. You gain momentum, sliding faster and faster, headfirst along the ground as it tilts farther and farther down.

As you rocket forward and down the sloping floor, you feel the roots

untangle and withdraw, all but one, tangled into a knot about itself struggling, pulling, frantic in its attempts. You take the hint and look beyond your head, see a gaping chasm of black in front of you and fear clenches your gut. You swing your now free body forward and grab onto the root as it unfurls from your thigh, wrapping it forcefully around your hand. Gravity flings your feet around as your body momentarily jerks to a standstill, your eyes meeting the gaze of the small tree before you both continue moving and shoot out into the air, into a freefall. Plummeting towards the ground, spinning, a terrible shrieking filling the air, the lit room shrinks into the black, quickly becoming lost in the void.

Air whooshes from your lungs as you slam into the unforgiving ground, your lungs filling with pain, forgetting how to work. You lay there gasping for air until you regain your breath, lose your temporary paralysis and roll stiffly to your feet. You drop the root, grumble at its lack of helpfulness and turn to walk away, but you have forgotten. Forgotten that the root is attached to the little tree, the living, speaking little tree. The root twists round your ankles, tripping you to the ground.

“What the hell?!” You turn around, rip the roots off of your legs in a struggle that lasts for about a minute, and stand back up to face the tree.

“Who or what are you and what do you want?” The tree glares at you.

“Me?!” Your voice is incredulous, “you’re the one who ejected me out of some air hatch forty feet in the air!”

“Feet?” The little tree lilts to the side, almost as if it is cocking its head inquisitively, you shake your head and rub your eyes. Trees don’t talk, and they sure as hell aren’t curious! You shake your head.

“Where I’m from, that’s a measurement of distance-” You stop, try something else. “I’m trying to find my way home to reality- or earth on the off chance that this is actually happening- cuz this sure as hell ain’t it.”

“I am a Lyx, and this is definitely earth.” The lyx says, and you roll your eyes.

“Great.” Your voice is laced with sarcasm, and you turn to go again, calling over your shoulder. “You haven’t seen a little boy or a cat around, have you?”

“A cat with glowing eyes?” The lyx asks suspiciously and you stop dead.

“Covered in dirt?” You turn back towards the lyx, and its branches seem to rumble in agreement. “What way did it go?” But the lyx sways and turns away from you.

“Why should I help you? You yanked me from my home. Got me stuck in the middle of this forested area in the middle of the night- it’s not safe…”

“Wait just a minute, you’re not a tree but you have forests? Also, last I remember, you’re the one who- never mind. I can help us get out of the forest if you just tell me what way the cat went.” You plead. The lyx turns back towards you.

“Okay, creature. We will try things your way, but first I need a drink of water. Follow me.” The lyx begins to shuffle away and you follow.

“It’s Henderson.” You say, “what about you, what are you called- or do lyx’s even have names?”

“We have names, Henderson. Better names than Henderson. My name is Xucvtyprifshuicelduirt.” The lyx’s rustling branches become part of its speech.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna call you Xuc- is that okay?” You roll your eyes. Of course the tiny tree creature has an impossible name… You stoop down as you reach a little brook and scoop some water into your mouth, swallowing greedily, handful after handful.

“That is fine.” The tree says, facing you, its roots dangling into the water. Suddenly, the lyx is growing- or rather, you realize you are shrinking as your clothes become baggy around you. In a moment of desperation, you jump into the small stream. The stream is suddenly not a stream, but an ocean, tossing and turning you wildly. You churn under the waves, around and about, unsure of which way is up and which way is down, then you resurface and you are in a shimmery white walled ravine, tumbling through the current of a river. A roaring, echoing, frothing grows in volume as you spin around, swimming towards the slippery, water park slide edges of the ravine. You begin to panic, realizing that you are heading towards a large waterfall and you can find no purchase. Then it dawns on you- this is plastic. By some unbelievable turn of events, you are spinning through a rain gutter. You realize that the fall should, hopefully, be more like going down a huge slide-not fatal at all- and let the current carry you, keeping your head above the water until you reach the drop shaft.

A huge gulp of air and suddenly you are plunging through the water, falling, sliding, and jetting out with the spray into an already full puddle. Where is all this water coming from? You realize that there is no reason for this water to be here, it isn’t even raining. Then, you realize that you have definitely lost your not so friendly lyx. You shrug, try to ring out the edge of your shirt and squelch out of the muddy waist high grass. You look up and recognize the yard you are in, more frightening now that everything towers above you, leaning flower pot towers, mutilated statues- you are back where this stupid case began. Never should have gone into this house in the first place. You see the door is still cracked open and pick your way over with caution, remembering the cat. Sidle in through the door, it looks almost the same, but not quite. The phone is no longer shattered on the floor. In fact, there is a new phone there. A touchscreen smartphone. You walk over as it begins to ring and lean over it, stretching to press the answer button and the speaker phone button.

“I see you shrunk yourself. If you want to grow up right, listen for the woodpecker at the door.”

“What-” Annoyance fills you as the call ends. He hung up on you again. You walk around looking through all the doors and listening closely at all the wallpapered ones. About to give up, you climb back down the mountain of stairs and are passing by the back door when you hear the tell-tale pecking of a woodpecker. The door is locked with a big old lock. The key is probably half your size, not to mention, the house is completely empty, there is no telling where it might be. Well… Instinct kicks in, and you make your way back through the house to the front yard, weave through the towering elephant grass until you see it. A rock about your size sits here next to the fountain, well-hidden and fake as they come. It takes a great amount of effort, but luckily you keep yourself fit and are able to flip it over and spring open the hatch on the bottom. There it is, large and well worn, the key sits there imposingly. You breathe deep, heft it up and then over your shoulder, resting it there as you weave back through the leering maze of a yard.

In the house, your shoulder aching, your back feeling the load, you see the cat watching you with those luminous eyes, tail flicking unpredictably. You swallow, trying to gulp down your fears, keep them out of your head- they rise to fruition anyway. Just the right size for a snack. It seems your thoughts cue the cat into action as it leaps towards you. Swinging the key off of your shoulder, you manage to swat the cat with it, drop it, and buy some time. Sprint to the door and whip around the corner, you pull out your gun, then ready it nice and low. The cat sprints into the room after you, just like clockwork. But then, something surprises you- the cat shivers, shakes, seems to become a fluid substance, and morphs in a painful crackling into the crouching, filthy form of the little child.

The child scans the room and you hide your gun back in its holster, more cautious now, right before its eyes light upon you. The child claps excitedly and springs over to where you are, snatching you up in one filthy paw.

“Now I can add you to my collection!!” The child carries you up the stairs again and down the hall to where a grated vent hangs crookedly about a foot off the ground. The grate swings open at the touch of a hand, then you are squished uncomfortably as the kiddo crawls through the passageway to a little hidden room filled with glass jars. You blink in disbelief, look again, sure enough all the jars have a person in them. One empty jar sits there with the lid off, and into this you are unceremoniously dropped. Then the lid goes on again, above your reach, little air holes poked in and one that looks like it might be large enough for crumbs of food to be shoved through. The child checks on all its collection, counting them off, then slips back out through the vent.

An urge to panic presses at the back of your mind but instead you sit down and survey this new space. A lot of unexplainable stuff has happened to you and you aren’t about to start freaking out now. You realize that you recognize a lot of the faces around, then it dawns on you- they are missing persons. Escape. It fills your mind and you begin to strategize. You shrug, stand back up and leap into the side a few times. Guess I can’t tip it. You try to leap to grab the holes in the lid- not really sure what you would do then, but it is much too high. Then your hand slips to grip your Glock. The other people seem disinterested in your progress until they see the gun in your hand. A quiet whispering fills the room and you decide you might not want to make too much noise. You take off your still slightly damp tee-shirt, wrap it around the barrel of your gun, point the gun at the glass and take a round of shots. With the first, the glass cracks, the second completely shatters it and you drop to your stomach as the lid falls, the glass folding out in a cascade of refracted light. It lands in a circle around you, broken glass teeth the rim that holds it off the ground and off of you. Rolling onto your back, you shove it to the side, shoot a few more of the jars, now that the people in them are all on their feet, waving at you in a frantic ‘now me!’ way.

Eventually, enough people are free that you can team up to free the others without using bullets and shattering glass. Everyone works frantically, quickly. Within a half hour, everyone is free. Around five dozen people stand around you, waiting for instruction. You shrug, a little annoyed, but really, how can you be- who knows how long some of them have been in those jars. Finger to your lips, you heft yourself into the vent, sneak down it and peer out. Then, knowing the coast is clear, you keep your gun to your side, go back for the hostages and usher them down the passage with you. Carefully, you lead them back down the stairs. Your anxiety builds with every tic of the clock. The stair clamber seems to take ages. Finally, you pass through the empty rooms to the room with the back door. You peer around the corner, Glock in hand, and breathe out in relief- the coast is clear and there sits the key. Herd the crowd of shrunken people around the corner, organize a group to pass the key up, up, up a stack of people and into the lock on the door. Then you sit on the doorknob and wait. You hear their angry murmuring, impatience spurred by fear, but still you wait. Then it comes. The knock, knock, knocking of the woodpecker. You turn the knob, leap through the door as everyone shoves against it and it swings open. Out into the yard pile five dozen, normal, real sized people, laughing with the sheer relief of it, gazing at their limbs.

They come up and shake your hand and you just say, ‘please, just go down to the station and let them know you are okay, maybe mention my name- detective Henderson’. You finally see the last of them walk off down the sidewalk, go around back to the front door- no way you are about to risk going back through the back door, who knows what could happen. You make your way to the cell phone, snatch it up- a souvenir, clue, and maybe key to finding some answers- when it begins to ring. Lips pressed together, you stare at the screen for a moment, then answer it again.

“Have you figured it out yet?” The voice on the other end says. You know that voice, not just because you heard it over the phone in this house the other times, but because you’ve really known it for years. A sad smile pulls at your mouth, you can hear the grin in the man’s voice over the phone. You pocket the phone, walk back out of the house, back to your car, back down the road again. This time, you don’t get angry- well not much- as a car in front of you drives ten miles under the speed limit. You just slow down and make your way to the peaceful yet unwelcoming expanse of green, only broken by trees and the stones that protrude like broken teeth. You make your way between them to where you know that stone is, and kneel down, taking the phone out of your pocket and leaning it against the cold grey rock.

“Thanks partner.” You hear a throat clear behind you and turn around.

“You do know, after all of this, that there is more than just ‘death’ right?” You turn and there he is, your partner for the past five years, unbelievably standing there, one hand holding a little boy’s shoulder. He seems to be ephemeral, here and yet not.

“You look good for a man shot dead.” You say, forcing emotion out. He nods, understanding. You nod to the kid. “This the troublemaker?”

“Yep. I decided someone needs to keep him in line.” They smile at you, wave, and a breeze picks up, whisking them away. You shrug, and head back down to the station, sure it was a fever dream till the captain strides up to you, a grin on his face.

“You son of a gun- five dozen missing persons cases! I don’t know how you pulled this one, but you’ve convinced me you’re back in the game. Here’s your next case.” He slaps the file into your hand and you feel a small grin pull at the corner of your mouth. Here we go again.