TO BREAK THE NOVEMBER SKY
by
Aaron Smith ©2015
I
thought it was over. As I walked across the lot, I breathed deeply of the cool
air. It hadn’t gone badly at all. I’d kept my nerves under control, hadn’t
sweated too much, held my voice at an even level, maintained eye contact with
the subject despite the nightmares I’d had after reading the files they’d given
me to prepare for the interview.
It was over. My talk with Arthur
Pennington Reese, the man who’d convinced sixteen people to kill, the fiend
who’d spilled gallons of innocent blood without ever raising a weapon himself.
My hands hadn’t shaken in his presence. I felt good, couldn’t wait to hand in
my report. I was a real agent now. I felt complete.
I drove out of the lot of the Hamilton
County Center for the Mentally Ill—a politically correct name for a place that
held, in tight security, some of the most vicious murderers, deviants, and
madmen of the modern age—and looked forward to the drive back to the Albany
field office.
The long winding roads were pleasant
in the late morning, with few cars to pass or be passed by, fall foliage
decorating both sides of the highway, and the hum of tires on smooth tar a fine
accompaniment to my mood. As I drove, I replayed the experience in my thoughts.
My verdict was what I’d expected: yes, Arthur Pennington Reese truly was insane
and belonged, without a shred of doubt, in exactly the sort of facility that
now housed him. I still didn’t have a clear picture of how he’d driven all
those people to insanity and homicide, but at least I’d seen what motivated
him. My glimpse into Reese’s dark mind had been disturbing—I’ll never deny that.
It was over now, but the words lingered in my mind.
*
I sat across from Reese at a steel
table that had been bolted to the floor. Reese’s hands were cuffed, though no
record existed of him ever having been physically violent. All his crimes were
of influence, foul deeds done by others who then credited Reese’s inspiration.
He was clean and calm, his thick
reddish hair neatly combed. The polish of his appearance was a far cry from the
looks of the disheveled, sometimes drooling troubled souls I’d seen on the way
to the interview room. The guard locked us in together, but kept watch through
the room’s single window. They hadn’t taken my weapon away—one of the
privileges of my badge—and that fact comforted me.
“Mr. Reese,” I began, “I’d like to ask
you about the things you supposedly did, the crimes for which you’ve been
convicted.”
No response.
“No further charges are to be filed,”
I assured him. “This interview is simply to assess your current situation.”
Again, he said nothing. He stared at
me for minute after minute, as if he
was the one who was there to analyze me.
Finally, his silent cycle of diagnostics complete, a cordial smile spread
across his wide face and he spoke in a polite Southern drawl.
“Tell me, Agent whatever-your-name-is,
are you a Christian?”
“I’m asking the questions,” I said in
my best FBI tough guy voice.
“And I,” Reese said, “will answer
yours if you answer mine, just that one.”
“All right, I’ll play, but if you’re
trying to push my buttons you’ll be disappointed.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’ve been thoroughly
trained in how to deal with the sort of man you think I am. So, are you a
Christian?”
“No. I was raised Catholic, but grew
up to be an atheist.”
“Excellent,” Reese said. “That greatly
increases your chance of understanding my motivations.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Only a man without religion,” Reese
continued, “can have any hope of truly understanding the gods.”
“But there are no gods.”
“You are so wrong, young friend. It is
not that there are no gods, but that there are no beings resembling the silly
ideas man has made up to explain the universe. My father was a Baptist
minister, but you knew that, of course, from my case file. When I was a young
man, I realized it was no true god Daddy urged his flock to worship, but a
cartoon character created to make people feel better, to give them some sort of
hope that this dirty, brutal world we live in is not the be all and end all our
existence.
“Only when he has discarded all
illusions can one begin to truly perceive the forces that form the universe in
which we live. Gods are not good or evil. They simply are. They are old, far older than any piece of poetry or art
weak-minded humans have devised to try to explain them. And, I think, they
rarely interfere in our mortal affairs. But when they do, when one of these
indescribable old ones allows a human mind to perceive its existence, there can
be no doubt in that mind.
“This is a world of illusions, a plane
of mirage, for we see what we expect to see, and so thick is this fog of
unreality that it takes a key to open the door, to let the great ancient powers
enter again and shift our perceptions. Now is the time they wish to come back
into our sight. I know this because they have told me so, and I recognize the
material of which the key must be formed. That material is life, that material
is blood.”
“So,” I asked Reese, whose words
sounded insane, but whose demeanor was calm, like that of a professor
confidently lecturing, “you claim theological reasons for instigating those homicides?”
“If
you must use that term,” he answered, “I suppose it’s as good as any. Blood has
to be spilled, at certain times, in certain places. The pattern forms a gate.”
“But why convince others to do the
killing?”
“I am far too squeamish to do such a
thing myself. Do these look like the hands of a butcher?”
As Reese held up his clean, soft
hands, I felt rage well up inside me. Gruesome images from the photos in his
file flashed through my mind.
“No!” I shouted. “But the people who
physically committed those atrocities weren’t supposed to be killers either! A
construction worker with no criminal record goes home and presses a chainsaw into
his wife’s skull, doesn’t stop until he’s split her in half. A third-grader
sneaks into his parents’ bedroom late at night and pokes pencils into their
eyes, with upward strokes to pierce the brains. Should I keep the list going, Reese?
There were others that were worse! Those people weren’t meant for those acts!”
“It was necessary,” Reese said. “Trust
me, boy, if you’d seen what I’ve seen, known what I’ve known, you’d understand.
When they call for blood, you give them blood. There can be no
hesitation.”
“Enough about your reasons,” I said.
I’d had it with his talk of gods and blood. “How did you do it? You worked as a
real estate agent, and twenty-nine people were killed by your clients. How do
you talk normal, responsible people into doing things like that?”
“Didn’t they explain it to you?”
“They can’t, you animal! Some of them
committed suicide, either while awaiting trial or after being sentenced. Two
were killed by police. And the rest are in mental hospitals, most of them
drugged out of the ability to talk rationally at all. What the hell did you say
to them?”
“I said exactly what they most wanted
to hear, and while they listened to that I told them other things as well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Reese?”
“I don’t think I wish to talk to you
any longer. Have a pleasant afternoon. Soon, the world will change.”
I stayed another ten minutes, tried to
coax more words from Reese, but he sat silently, smiling at me. I finally gave
up. He’d given me enough for a thorough report. I hoped it would result in him
being left in that hospital to rot for the rest of his life. I thanked the
guards and the director, and stepped out into the brisk autumn morning. It was
the first day of November. I had always loved this time of year.
*
As I drove away, I was struck by the
strange dual focus of my thoughts. The deeds inspired by Arthur Pennington
Reese flashed through my mind like a splatterpunk highlight reel. But at the
same time, the sensory delights of November gradually displaced the horror of
the case. I made a choice then, to focus on the season and its delights, the
coolness of the air and the colors of the trees, bursts of joy that pulled up
the sentimental side of my soul, making me smile. There was no reason to dwell
on Reese. All that could wait until I sat to write my report. Why not enjoy
what was left of my day?
Hamilton is one of the most sparsely
populated counties on the east coast, with only three people per square mile,
which leads to little crime. But knowing the geography of New York State quite
well was a requirement of my job, so I was familiar with many of the towns and
hamlets I passed. There was Indian Lake, Hope, Morehouse, and Spectator.
One sign, however, caught my
attention, for I couldn’t recall ever having heard of Cider Haven. It was a
wonderful name, I thought, and fitting for the way the appeal of autumn had
inched its way into my mind to supplant the darkness I’d felt during the Reese
interview. I had a craving for coffee and turned right at the road that was
indicated as leading to what I assumed had to be a very small village.
My assumption was wrong. Cider Haven
was no tiny settlement. Instead, to my shock and delight, I found a small but
thriving town, one main avenue with a series of blocks sprouting off to the
sides like the legs of a spider. It looked old-fashioned, peaceful, and even
quaint. I smiled. If I was going to stumble upon a previously unknown village
on a glorious autumn morning, this was the place I wanted to find.
I let the last shreds of thoughts
about the Reese case slip from my mind. I parked along a narrow side street,
got out of the car, and strolled onto the wider central avenue. The air was
slightly cooler than when I’d left the scene of the interview. Even better, I
thought, as I pulled my coat shut and buttoned it.
On both sides of the street were a mix
of residential houses and shops and other businesses. On lawns, piles of
leaves, recently gathered by rakes and consisting of myriad colors, stood
watch. A few stray leaves crunched under my shoes as I walked.
I paused for a moment, stared up at
the sky. It was gray. That was fine. The first day of November should never be
too sunny. When I lowered my eyes and took a step forward, I saw a gang of
children rushing toward me. I almost jumped aside onto the grass by the curb to
keep from being bowled over, but the wave parted down the middle as it reached
me, and some passed on the left, the others on the right. I could hear their
laughter echoing as they sped into the distance behind me. I envied them. What
a weekend! To have Halloween on a Friday so it’s followed by two days off from
school is one of those perfect circumstances of the calendar that kids don’t
consider, but embrace without realization.
I walked further down the street. My
stomach rumbled a bit as I remembered my coffee craving and decided a bite to
eat would be in order too. And it hit me then, that aroma. As if the town of
Cedar Haven could read my mind, the scent of bacon tickled my nostrils,
seducing me, urging me to walk faster, follow my nose.
I sped up, the cool wind whipping my
ears as I passed homes with pumpkins on their porches. The town was almost
unbelievable, too much like something out of a Rockwell painting. I passed a
whistling mailman, heard a train in the distance, watched an elderly couple
stop to stare in the window of a small bookstore, looking just as in love as
they must have been fifty years ago.
And then, as I reached the next
intersection, I found the treasure I’d smelled minutes earlier. A small diner
stood on the corner. Through the window, I could see a few booths along the
wall and stools at the counter. The scent was stronger now, the olfactory
magnet of bacon drawing me in.
I entered and saw I was the only customer.
I went to the counter, took a seat, and waited a moment. I could hear water
running and plates clanking in the kitchen.
The waitress appeared, walking slowly
out of the kitchen. I was amazed. She was beautiful. I felt my jaw drop open,
my eyes widen. I was immediately embarrassed, reined it in. I had fallen so
deeply into the spell cast by Cider Haven that I’d forgotten the calm, even
demeanor I’d so carefully cultivated for daily work with the bureau.
Control
yourself! I mentally scolded.
She
came closer, stood behind the counter, smiled at me.
Her hair was dark brown, almost black,
tied in a ponytail. She was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, close
enough to my age that I wondered if I had a chance. Instinctively, I glanced
down at her left hand. No ring. I raised my attention back to her face, pausing
on the way up for a look at the pocket of her blue uniform top, on which was
stitched, “Andrea.” Her smile was pleasant, her eyes deep, and her voice
musical.
“Let me guess,” she said, “you’re
passing through on business?”
“You don’t get many strangers in here,
do you?” I replied.
“Salesman?”
“Government employee,” I told her.
“Not a health inspector, I hope,” she
said, followed by a sly giggle. “Not that we have anything to hide.”
“Well,
if I was with the Board of Health, which I’m not, so relax, I’d give you a
passing grade just for the smell of that bacon.”
“All right, then,” Andrea said as she
flashed that magnificent smile again, “so what’ll you have with your heap of
bacon?”
I ordered scrambled eggs and toast, to
be preceded by coffee. Andrea shouted the order through the kitchen door, and
then turned her attention to a customer who was just entering, a middle-aged
woman in an overcoat.
Between her chatting with the new
arrival, who I heard her call Mrs. Clayton, Andrea poured my coffee. The first
sip proved I’d chosen the right place. This was true old-fashioned working
class American coffee, not the standardized Starbucks stuff or Dunkin Donuts’
watered-down brown juice, but strong, freshly brewed, kick-me-in-the-ass java,
the perfect thing to send my ecstasy at discovering Cider Haven into full
sentimental overdrive.
As I sipped slowly and waited for my
bacon and eggs, I watched Andrea while trying not to be too obvious. The phrase
“love at first sight” even occurred to me.
I had my food soon enough, and it was
delicious. As I ate, Andrea brought Mrs. Clayton’s food out too, in bags; it
was take out, which excited me even more, as it meant I’d have the waitress to
myself again.
When I was the only patron once more,
Andrea refilled my mug.
“How long are you in Cider Haven for?”
she asked.
I knew what I should have said. That
I’d have to leave as soon as I’d finished eating, that I had an assignment to
complete, that my work was important. But that’s not what came out.
“I’m not exactly sure yet.”
Andrea lit the diner up with that
smile again.
“Well if you’re still here at about
six, maybe we can have a drink.”
“I think I can stick around for that,”
I said without hesitation.
“Good,” Andrea said. “Just stop by.
I’ll be ready.” She put the check down, her hand lightly brushing against mine
as she deposited the slip of paper next to my fork.
I left the money on the counter, with
an embarrassingly big tip.
When I stepped back out onto the
street, it struck me how odd my behavior had been. I didn’t normally just leap
into plans like that, and I certainly wouldn’t shrug off work, FBI work no
less, for a drink with a waitress. But Andrea’s eyes, and her voice …
I walked faster now than I had before.
My senses were jumping all over the place. I was greedy for the sights and
sounds of Cider Haven. I felt like I’d found a perfect place, a nexus of
autumn, safety, beauty.
Most of all, Cider Haven filled me
with hope. That was what autumn had always done for me. The cooling of the
weather seemed to wash away the grimy tiredness of summer. The start of a new
school year seemed to bring a chance for new friendships and the abandonment of
the embarrassments of the past. Halloween made the gruesome aspects of life
seem fun. And the comfortable traditions of Thanksgiving were just around the
corner, to be followed by the excitement of Christmas.
I trotted through Cider Haven, feeling
like a kid coming home, and, at the same time, a man tingling with the potential
excitement of an evening with Andrea. I didn’t even think about calling the
Albany field office to ask for more time to file my report. I wasn’t an FBI
agent anymore, just a man on an adrenaline surge of nostalgia and hope.
I went a few more blocks, realized I
was panting. A bench conveniently appeared to give me a chance to catch my
breath. I sat.
I closed my eyes, let the breeze
caress my face. It was cold and sharp, stinging like aftershave, but not
unpleasant. I wondered what my night would be like. I imagined the streets of
Cider Haven after dusk, the storefronts lit, and a few cars with their
headlights on passing us as we walked. Andrea’s hand was in mine and her flesh
felt warm and soft in contrast to the harshness of the wind.
We strolled together until the town’s
small cemetery came into view. The stretch of grass, with its old-fashioned
gravestones sticking up like unevenly spaced teeth, looked eerie but inviting
in the darkness. I felt as if just an ounce of Halloween was left in the
atmosphere and the dead could still sing us their lullaby of invitation.
I tugged lightly on Andrea’s arm,
urging her in that direction. We passed from the sidewalk to the grass that
covered the beds of the lifeless. The names on the stones were shrouded by
shadows. We stopped in the middle of the cemetery, turned to face each other.
“Nobody can see us now,” Andrea said.
She reached up and put her hands on my face, pulling me toward her.
No!
My mind screamed. Too good! Too good!
Too good!
I opened my eyes. I was still on the
bench, still surrounded by Cedar Haven, with its clean streets, pumpkin-porched
Colonial houses, laughing children, and flawless coffee, but it didn’t feel the
same.
It couldn’t be true, I now knew. It
had to be a dream.
But if it was only a vision, the sort
of scenario I’d want to stumble into,
what was really going on? Had I had an accident after leaving the interview?
Was Cedar Haven a concussion-induced hallucination? Or was I dead and swimming
through some sort of limbo where thoughts manifest as virtual reality?
Had I driven at all, gone down those
winding, tree-lined roads?
The voice of Arthur Pennington Reese
came crashing back into my mind, a memory of words dipped in slime.
“I said exactly what they most wanted
to hear, and while they listened to that, I told them other things as well.”
That was what he’d told me.
Now I understood.
I pushed the autumn beauty out of my
mind. I rejected Cedar Haven as if it was poison. I resisted, with all my will,
the attraction of nostalgia and the lure of lust.
I looked up at the gray November sky
above the bench where I still perceived myself sitting, and I saw it split
apart, the clouds shoved aside to reveal a deep, starless darkness.
The infinite night vanished, replaced
by ceiling tiles. I looked down and straight ahead to find the face of Arthur
Pennington Reese still staring at me from across the table.
“Welcome back,” he said.
“Now I understand,” I said. I was
seething. “What was that? Some kind of hypnosis, a speech-induced trance? You lull
people into submission by making them imagine some wonderful scenario, trick them
into thinking they’re getting everything they want, and simultaneously put
other ideas in their heads, dark ideas of murder?”
“Something of the sort,” Reese said.
“Your simplified explanation will do.”
“But it didn’t work on me.”
“That doesn’t matter. It will work on
the next person.”
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t. Now I know
…”
“And how will you make sure? This
place can’t drug me into a coma. That would be considered cruel and unusual and
would never be allowed. And, FBI or not, you can’t get them to cut out my
tongue either. Freedom of speech is an essential American right, my boy, even
for prisoners, even for mental patients. Someone will listen to me. Someone
always does.”
As Reese boasted, I could see them:
the next deaths. Reese would talk to a guard, who would then go home and put
bullets in his children’s brains. Or he’d whisper to one of his doctors and the
mind-bent physician would operate on his own wife, slicing and amputating and
mutilating until the bed was drenched with blood and he was married to a
carved-up corpse. Reese would say exactly what his victims needed to hear to be
convinced to turn others into their victims.
I couldn’t allow that.
I stood, pulled my gun from its
shoulder holster, and fired. The shot hit Reese in the chest. His chair rocked
back and forth but didn’t fall over. Blood welled up from the wound, soaked his
shirt.
I could hear the guard calling for
backup, then fumbling with his keys, unnerved just enough to have trouble
getting in.
I kept my eyes on Reese, watched him
bleed. I wouldn’t spend another bullet on him. He didn’t deserve the mercy of a
quick death.
He started laughing. Blood trickled
from his mouth, but he managed to form words.
“Thank you.”
“What?” Was he so insane he’d be
grateful to his executioner?
“Don’t you understand? You didn’t
break free,” he said. “You followed the path I set for you. Certain blood at
certain times; it was all about the pattern. The last of the necessary blood is
that which flows in my veins. You
have just turned the key.”
Arthur Pennington Reese died then. He
slumped to his right as life left his body. His weight pulled the chair over.
The door opened. I put my gun on the
table, held my hands up, wondering if I’d end up in prison or soon be a
resident in the very place I’d come to close the Reese case. Either way, my FBI
days were over.
*
I expected them to come for me
quickly, either the state police or my fellow agents. They’d haul me off to
await trial. But they never came. I sat locked in a small room at the mental
hospital for hours. They just left me there.
It was quiet. The walls were padded,
which kept out the noise. But I could swear there was something there, some
weird sound in the background, like distant screams, and maybe a hint of
thunder.
Finally, when I had almost dozed off,
the door opened. A lone doctor stood there.
“We need your help,” he said. He took
his hand from his pocket, offered me my gun back.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Some kind of weird storm … I think,”
the doctor said. His voice was shaking. “The sky’s gone all different colors,
the power’s gone out and we’re running on generator now, and something’s
seriously spooked the patients. I’m worried they may try to break out of here
all at once. They’re screaming, all at the same time, all in the same words,
about the end of the world and old gods rising from the sea and crashing down from
the stars.”
GIVEAWAY
THREE SIGNED PRINT COPIES
of Aaron Smith’s SEASON OF MADNESS!!! Because
these are print copies, winners are limited to U.S. and Canada!
To win: go to the Official FB Event
Page; find the post announcing today’s giveaway; and comment, “I WANT
TO WIN” in that post and you just might!!!
AUTHOR BIO
Aaron's other work includes many short stories for the Airship 27
line of pulp anthologies, including stories featuring characters like the Black
Bat, Dan Fowler:G-Man, Ki-Gor, and others. His two original pulp characters,
Hound-Dog Harker and the Red Veil also debuted in Airship 27 books.
Outside the world of new pulp, Aaron has written stories for comic
books, science fiction anthologies, detective magazines, flash fiction websites,
and young adult anthologies
Smith's vampire novel 100,000 MIDNIGHTS, was released as an e-book by Musa Publishing in 2012, and the
sequel, ACROSS THE MIDNIGHT SEA, in August of
2013.
In July of 2013, Smith's lifelong dream of writing a spy novel was
realized with the release of NOBODY DIES FOR FREE.
Smith's series of Lovecraftian horror/fantasy short stories, SHADOWS
OVER AMERICA, began publication in March of 2015 with its first installment, AN EXODUS
OF WORMS.
He can be followed on Twitter as @AaronSmith377
SEASON OF
MADNESS
A Doctor Watson Adventure
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