The stairs rang under my feet. Up, up. I figured, do something unexpected. Windows flashed bright moonlight as I passed them. Occurred to me that when a person’s turns upside down, you can’t just do the same things you did before. The essential tasks of life are replaced. The essential turns irrelevant, and the meaningless day-to-day bullshit is a life-saver. I was suddenly glad I knew the layout of this whole apartment building.
Up and out a metal door, along an empty hall. Outside I could see the courtyard. Twenty feet to a side, but a long way down. Green grass far below like pale green light at the bottom of a pit.
The walls of the courtyard were an amplifier for the trains that roared over the complex. A fire escape made no sense because there was no ground-level exit, but there it was. From any window, it went up or down, then back into the building. Like a maze in one of those kids books. I caught my breath and leaned against a window frame. Then I undid the latch and pushed. A gust of wind pierced the gap and drove into the hallway. I slipped onto the window sill and stepped onto the fire escape. Wind ripped into me. I froze, and a dull metallic rattle trailed up and down. Clouds hung in the sky like wet sheets, bellying with rain. The moon lit them up from behind.
Grimacing, I climbed.
No shadowy figure stood on the balconies below. No hand closed around my mouth from behind. No face leered over the roof above. I looked up and down, and to the side as I drove one hand after the other, one foot, then the next, testing my traction as I went. I could not afford to slip.
One ladder hung down, but the bottom was broken off. Adjusting my pants I hiked my leg up onto the railing, and heaved myself up onto the lowest rung. The iron groaned under my weight and I felt my stomach lurch.
Cold wind whipped my shirt. I clung on. My backpack was hung heavy, threw my balance. Climb. I was almost there. Thunder overhead. Then a train roared past, and my stomach dropped. The wind was a weight and force tore me off the wall. I fell in open air. A dozen train cars flew by. I screamed, whipped my arm around. Nothing caught. Then I rammed into a balcony. My vision swam. I saw the moon, in a tear between the clouds, hanging in the stillness far above the storm. I blinked and looked again. Then I looked away, closed my eyes and stared at the red bricks under my hands. My heartbeat quicked. I tried to focus. But when I looked again, the moon had not changed back. It was green. Clear as a green apple, a patch of pale and shadow covered about a quarter of the moon, like a thin layer of moss, or a fungal infection.
With a last effort I dragged myself up and over the lip of the roof. There a nest of metal girders and stone columns lay under the train tracks. People stood on the cement platforms to either side. A man in a fur coat pointed down at me and yelled.
Rain plinked on the steel girders. I crawled to my knees, got my feet under me. Then I ran, hunched over, between the metal girders toward the landing. The harsh station lights cast a web of shadows around me.
A rumble shook the platform.
A crowd was gathering. “Look at her!” someone said. “Hey!” The rumbling grew to a metallic cacophony. “Oh my God!” With a last effort I darted through the last of the girders and jumped toward the cement landing. I landed with my arms and chest on the landing. The cement lip bit into my stomach.
A light like an alien sun appeared to my right. I felt it before I saw it. The matte silver, tens of tons of steel and wheels careened toward me. Someone grabbed the back of my jacket. The collar closed on my neck and stomach, and my armpits. I was lifted off the landing, and hung for a moment, before the cold cement connected with my knees. Gasping I whirled around, just as the train flew past with a gust of fear so stark I felt my stomach rise in an instant. Blood rushed to my vitals. Then I was pulled away, and someone held my arm tight. I whirled around my fist in the air.
“Elizabeth!”
Benji caught my fist and let my arm go. I swayed, confused and terrified. He stepped away and I stood there, breathing hard, the blood rushing to my face. For a moment, all was silent. No suitcase wheels rolled on the cement floor. Nobody shouting into their phones. Further off, people who hadn’t seen me were still milling about, and soon the crowd melted back into motion.
Benji was hot with fury. Pacing down the empty train car. “You’re in over your head, he hissed”
I was sitting on the bench, Benji’s outer-coat over my shoulders.
“Want to tell me why people are hunting for you? People who I’ve never met, and that tells me you’re involved in something… insane. Out of your league. Not your business.”
“I’m—who’s looking for me?”
“I was just coming to get you.”
“Get me? Since when do you come and get me?”
“Listen to me. When I was in LA, right after our last visit, somebody came to the office looking for you. They didn’t talk to me, but I overheard your name and had a listen.
I thought somebody might have read your work and wasn’t able to find your new adress since it had changed so recently, and because you’re so private about your personal life. You know I’m always looking out for opportunities. I thought I’d catch her on the way out, and put in a good word about you.”
“At the publishing house?” I cringed.
“I was going to walk away when I heard our old manager, and she sounded scared. ‘No, I can’t tell you that,’ she said. I’ll give her your email. That should be enough, and that’s all I can do for you anyway. No, I don’t know what state she’s in. She could be in Turkey for all I know. And I’ve got a meeting right now, so I’ll have to let you go.’ I saw the woman leave. Her face was tight, and I thought I saw her eye twitch from the intensity with which she held her gaze level, like she was fighting to keep composure. She was dressed in a gray pant-suit with a wide brown belt around her waist, and low heels. Her hair was pulled back, too in a military bun. And no earrings or jewelry of any kind.”
I shrugged. “That could be nothing.” I stared out the window. Looming evergreens flew past, and outcroppings of stone, hewn away by dynamite a long time ago.
“Could be nothing,” Benji agreed. “But if it is nothing, then explain to me why I find you crawling underneath the train tracks, escaping your own apartment. Like Kronos crawling out of tartarus. What happened last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Somebody was threatening me from outside my apartment. He was saying things that scared me, and I just needed to get out of there without anyone watching. So I climbed up to the top floor and used the fire escape to climb up to the roof, where the train tracks pass over.”
“Are you well?” Benji pursed his lips and looked at me.
I rolled my eyes. “How did he get into the courtyard anyway?”
“Maybe he went down the way you came up.”
I shuddered, “It’s possible. I guess I will keep my doors locked from now on.”
“Yes, and you should keep off the fire escape too. Jesus.”
Benji paced some more while I hung my head and sighed, stretching my neck. “Well anyway,” he said. “I looked the woman up. That woman who was asking for you. She’s a representative of the Shoemaker estate.”
“What is that?”
“Shoe Maker. Shoemaker. Far as I can tell, it’s a scientific journal. Maybe they need an editor. But I got a bad feeling. That’s why I decided to visit you. I can’t explain it but I had a feeling that your life was obstructed in some way. And you wouldn’t answer my calls.”
“I’m sorry. I should have called you. I know you were worried about me.”
“And rightly so, as I suspected. Get a grip, Eliza. No more rooftop escapes. If a crackhead starts yelling from your balcony, just call the police. No, fuck the police. Call me.”
Benji was out the next day but he left a plate of cookies from the local bakery I still hadn’t been to. I took a handful to the library.
“Begging your pardon. Excuse me, Liza?”
A small man in a suit and slicked back hair stood by my desk. His knuckle rapped softly on the table. I pulled my headphones half off and blinked at him.
Finally I said, “Can I help you?”
“I represent the Shoemaker estate. I wondered if I might have a word with you.”
With a single motion I gathered my papers into a loose stack and slid them into a folder. Then I stood up and slotted the folder into my bag.
“Interesting,” said the man, having seen a page or two. “What are you working on?”
I hesitated, weighing what reply might get my work into a magazine—a book, even. When the man leaned over the desk, his pot belly pressed against the creaky wooden desk.
“Nevermind. It’s you I came for anyway. A word?”
I followed him down the library’s main hall, and he took a leisurely path amid the old bookcases, so worn they appeared to be made of driftwood in some places. He walked with briskness and confidence in his step.
“Like I said before. I represent the Shoemaker estate. My name is Harold Alfonse if you want to know.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
He nodded, curtly. His chin was bumpy with stubble, and he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. His eyelashes were long and his glance lingered on my face in an inscrutable and observant way. “You’re a writer. I’ve seen your work, but you haven’t published in awhile. Have you come down with Writer’s Block, or is it research that pulled you off the keyboard?”
“Oh, publication is always spaced out. Stories take time.”
“But this is your longest gap yet.”
I shrugged. We passed into the reading room and my gaze wandered from desk to desk. A sudden chill seized me. A tall, fit man in bluejeans and a thin jacket sat reading at a desk. His gaze was steady. His posture was relaxed. But sweat glistened on his forehead, and there was a readiness. Something told me that, while his pupils gazed intently at the book in his hand, they weren’t moving. Something told me he was urgently and solely focused on his peripheral vision, on me. Violence lurked in his body. He was braced for a sudden move, a move toward me. But there was no threat in his eyes. Just a nervous preparation for extreme outcomes. The undercover man, I thought.
“Well. I won’t waste your time. I’m here because it has come to our attention that your research involves certain articles and topics which are of great interest to our estate. You borrowed electronic books from our library and have even requested some physical materials.”
“They were denied. I remember you.”
For a moment, I lost sight of the undercover man.
“Yes,” Harold went on. “I am a liaison of our library. I have come to offer you access to those materials in person, if you would like, but they are a part of our Special Collections and cannot leave Special Collections. They are objects of great sensitivity. They are not ordinary works of scientific documentation.”
“What are they?”
“Fictions, simply put. They contain fictional stories, well, a fictionalized memoir actually. But one that is dangerous to own outside of our special collections.”
My hand tightened on the strap of my bag.
“Dangerous how?”
“Put bluntly, it is bad luck. You may think it is foolish and superstitious to say so, but unfortunate and inexplicable events have occurred whenever someone owns a copy. For whatever reason our special collections seem to be safe. But we don’t dare send the books away, not even to so reputable a library as this.” He gestured vaguely with his hand.
“Well, you said it already. That’s superstition.”
“But our rules are rules, all the same.”
“What sort of inexplicable events?”
“Oh,” the man shrugged. “Storms, floods, fires. Unexpected visitors and unexplained injuries and medical conditions. Robberies. Nothing directly connected with the book except that every single owner met a bad end sooner or later. No one who has owned a copy ever died of natural causes.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
The man frowned. “I’ve upset you. That was not my intention. I only meant to impress upon you the serious nature of your request. I traveled here because my superiors believe your work is worth my time traveling here. Whatever you’re researching must be very interesting if it involves Two Atmospheric Phenomenons, but on behalf of the estate, I must urge you not to publish whatever it is you’re writing through the usual channels. Whatever they offer you, it will always be worth more to me.”
He’ll buy the rights and bury it, flashed through my mind.
“Well, thank you,” I said, forcing a real smile.
The man studied my face for a moment then smiled in return. “You’re most welcome,” he said. But his face said, good job Harold.
We had walked a full loop by now and stood under the lobby's marble archway. Harold gave a firm handshake then hurried toward the exit. Someone walked past me, also heading for the exit. My stomach rolled. It was him. As he passed me by, I held my breath and kept my face immovable. He was the same, his casual stride. But a faint spring in his step, the stillness of his shoulders, and the carefully molded expression he wore unnerved me. He is still watching me.
Watching me or not, Harold left.
I half-jogged to the bathroom, locked the door behind me, and climbed on the toilet. A narrow window by the ceiling looked over the parking lot. A narrow black car hummed on the curb. Harold climbed in. A moment later, the man in bluejeans and a thin jacket strode into view, slipped into the car beside Harold and the car pulled away.
“What do you make of that,” I said to myself.
----------------------------------------
I was slurping noodles when the phone rang that night. I sat on the living room floor with my knees tucked up to my chin and a bowl of ramen balanced on my knees. The radio was thumping with some new mix on KCRW.
“This is… Radio One,” said the DJ, a British guy, huh? I swallowed and got up to answer the phone.
“…” I picked up the receiver and blanched as if I’d seen a ghost. But I saw nothing. Heard nothing presently. But I felt as if I had suddenly opened a box containing a dangerous gas which now filled the room, seeping out of the receiver. I took a breath. There was no detectable poison of course, but my palm was sweating when I said, “Hello?”
“Yes. Who am I speaking to?” The voice was heavily distorted.
“Who’s calling, please?” I said.
“I shouldn’t say. Call me Tombstone.”
“OK. Tombstone. What an odd name.” I said it again. “Tombstone.”
“Yes. And your name?” His voice was heavy and mechanical.
“Maybe I shouldn’t say either.”
“Good. I would like to meet with you, regarding a matter of great importance to us both. My—the man I represent believes the mossmen may try something soon and we would like to lift you before that happens. You know about the mossmen of course.”
“Of course I don’t. The what?” My hand flew to the pad, pen ready. Well this will be interesting, I thought.
“I am calling because I believe some people may try to harm you in the near future. But not directly. Nothing like that yet. But they have a very long reach and can influence many aspects of your life without you sensing them.”
“I was threatened last night.” I set my pen down. “Now this.”
“Yes, you were encouraged to be discreet because I believed you were safe. But the mossmen already know about you. You are too close to the heart of things and they will not tolerate discovery. The mossmen will eliminate you if they can, and if you aren’t careful they will achieve that end. Your end. Which is why I am urging you to meet with me. Time is running out. Moss grows on the unmoving stone.”
My jaw hung open. It was all nonsense, but this man knew about last night. The apartment sprang into focus around me. A shadow wavered on the balcony. The long cream curtains swayed in a draft. A board creaked in the hallway.
“You want to meet with me?”
“It is imperative that I meet with you as soon as possible.”
“Where should I meet you?”
“On neutral ground. Someplace where I can’t influence you, and they can’t harm either of us. It’s only fair that way.”
“Influence me? In what way?”
“There’s an old, charred bridge on Harbor road. It passes over train tracks. The wood and iron are blackened, but the bridge is safe. I will meet you there tonight. Come as soon as possible. Step onto the bridge and I will reveal myself. Can I count on you to do that?”
I was breathing hard. “No! This is ridiculous! I’m staying where I am. No, I’m leaving right now.”
I hung up.
----------------------------------------
From inside a small bakery, I watched the bridge. It was empty, and black in the dark—no, not just in the dark. The wood was charred. I sipped my coffee thoughtfully and tried to watch the bridge without attracting the attention of the baker behind the counter.
“It’s unprecedented,” he was saying, not talking to me. “How cold you think it’ll get tonight?” Someone replied, muffled by the clatter of the kitchen out back. An oven door slammed and, “Damn.” Something sizzled and the odors of baked bread and hot tea fluttered through the bakery..
Somewhere outside a crow called. The stars had appeared in the night sky, but mountains, vast and dark, filled the lower half of my view in a blank void. Far away, cold wind blew off the sea, and billowed up the far side of those mountains, and blew out over the peaks, over me and over the harbor. I could feel its chill spiraling down through air currents to the level of the street, and seeping under the cracks of the door and pressing through the window panes.
‘Come as soon as possible,’ the man had said. Well, I’m here.
Stealing a last sip of coffee I zipped my coat and slipped out the front door.
“Night, miss!”
I waved over my shoulder, but my eyes were fixed on the bridge. I had seen something, or thought I saw something pass over it, like the shadow of a bird. Something about that shadow had clicked, and I strode toward the bridge. It wasn’t far–just a block away, but I was shivering and only halfway there. Overhead, the clouds passed like the hulls of galleons, viewed from fathoms below, distorted by the vast expanse of water between us.
The bridge was wide enough for two lanes, with a sidewalk on one side, and huge wooden pillars holding the roof aloft. As promised, the entire bridge was blackened with soot, which glistened with dew or mist. A pair of sawhorses and some dry police tape warded off traffic.
No cars were on the road that night. The sidewalk was my own. The only company were street lamps, which buzzed like bees flying from shadow to shadow to collect shadow pollen.
I found a gap in the wooden barrier and stepped over the police tape, which sagged under my touch and fell away. My boots stamped loudly on the pavement, and then clopped onto the wooden bridge. The wind did not follow me, and I stood in the silent street alone.
For a moment, I stood alone.
Then I saw him, a great heap of a man, hunched on the bridge in front of me, halfway between each side. His lopsided shoulders shrugged as he breathed, in and out, up and down they rose and fell like the flank of a slumbering bull. Next to him, I would dwindle into a willowy, formless thing like a candle flame. Even as I thought this I felt myself losing the thread, and I fell backwards onto the pavement.
In the dark, I pressed the walls of my mind outwards until I perceived great distances in the dark, and my mind moved in all directions, and when I did this my mind lost density and cohesion, but the dark fabric or water of the darkness expanded without loss of depth or potency. I expanded readily and grew, feeling I was fighting against something, some pressure behind my eyes, and as the dark water grew with me I realized it was alive. Terror filled me, knowing how much of this living deep water I have let into my mind. When my mind was cohesive and focussed, this water was a background thing, not more. Then I grew my boundaries and it grew too, expanding to fill the spaces. My mind grew thin and airy, and the water grew cold. This dark water did not follow the rules of physics. It did not expand and lose density. It expanded and intensified. This thing in my mind had not familiarized itself with the rules of my psychology. It had either entered me from the outside, or had sat asleep in my mind for who knows how long, never using my senses, lurking in the basin like a tidal pool that never drained, and old things lived there, and grew in it, nourished by it, the suffocated by isolation. Now they grew vast in the ocean of my mind. I turned my inner gaze downward. Dark shapes moved in the water.
Sharp pain covered my freezing palms. I sat up with alarm, felt I had woken up from a dream: I had stepped onto the bridge, seen the man, then… what? But he was still there, in the flesh. He began to walk toward me.
“You don’t make this easy,” he growled.
I pulled the Koch and Heckler as I staggered to my feet, but my hands were cold. I fumbled. The gun fell. The man slowed. I half lunged toward it, but I hesitated. His gaze fell to the gun. Then back to me.
“You’re the girl,” he said.
I was crouched, ready to lunge for the gun. My voice shook, but I almost shouted. “You’re Tombstone. I recognize your voice.”
He looked at me down his broad, flat nose. His eyes burned
“Try that again and I’ll shoot you.”
“Try?” Still he didn’t move, but his mind raced. The gun was loaded, surely. But the safety was on. If he moved quickly, he might—
“Don’t try it,” I almost whispered. “You think you’re faster. You try to hypnotize me again, or make a sudden move, and you’ll see what happens. I came here to listen. Talk to me.”
Tombstone moved his lips this way and that, flexing and stretching his lower face. Then he nodded, and took a slow step back.
I lurched forward. Tombstone lunged toward me, and froze, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. His two eyes were looking down the barrel.