Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (39 page)

At first, Samuel thought it was a mirror.
Ages of dust covered the surface, hiding its identity. An ornately carved frame
encapsulated the piece, seemingly out of place with the other basic furniture.
Samuel approached it and wiped the length of the frame several times until he
stood in front of a portrait.

The darkness and age made it difficult to
determine whether it was a painting or a photograph. He could make out the
profile of a woman, but not much else. Samuel walked to the desk and pulled the
chair out from underneath it. Four dark circles sat on the floor where the dust
could not settle. He wondered how many years it would take for the dust to fill
those spaces. Samuel placed the chair on the floor in front of the wall and put
his right foot on it. He pushed down. Other than a slight creak of the
floorboard underneath, the chair felt sturdy. Standing on it brought him
eye-level with the fastener and cable holding the portrait on the wall. He
reached out and lifted the cable off the nail until the full weight of the
portrait rested in both hands. He stepped back down to the ground. Something
flickered deep within the recesses of his mind. Something stirred. Something
familiar, yet just beyond his reach. Samuel walked toward the lone window and
the ambient glow of the anemic sun filtered through the grime. He wiped off
more of the age covering the portrait until his eyes met those in the
photograph—eyes he knew almost as well as his own.

***

The woman in the photograph stood,
positioned in the lower-right corner of the frame. Dark, long curls spilled
about her shoulders and rested on her arms. She wore a black top, which
combined with her dark hair to frame a pristine, youthful face. Her makeup
and eyeliner made her look trendy and hip rather than cheap. Ruby lips pressed
together into a thin smile that radiated warmth and good-natured teasing. But
it was her eyes that ensnared Samuel, the way they had many years earlier. The
woman’s green eyes called to him, made him forget his name. They sat evenly
spread on her face, and the eyeliner around them accentuated the contrast
between her porcelain skin and emerald irises. Samuel used his finger to remove
the dust from her cheekbones to her neck, as if he would somehow feel the
warmth of her skin under his touch. He smiled and looked to her long, thin
fingers cradled around a set of keys. With her head tilted to the side, he
could almost remember what she was saying when the photograph was taken.
Almost.

His eyes moved toward the top-right
corner of the frame, where another figure stood. The man stood behind her angelic
form. He wore his hair slicked back without the creep of a widow’s peak, a
white T-shirt beneath a black jacket, and his waist disappeared into the black
background of the photo. He appeared to be leaning against a wall, his body
behind her but his face turned toward the photographer. The man wore a fuzzy
beard, spotty and uneven. Like the woman, he too sealed his lips into a slight
smile, as if the photographer told a joke at the moment the camera shutter
opened, capturing them before the remark forced them into open laughter.
The man’s left arm disappeared behind the woman, while his right hung at his
side.

Samuel placed the frame on the ground,
leaning it against the wall underneath the window. He sat on the floor and
stared at it again. His mind raced, sifting through logic that no longer
computed in a world that did not follow the rules of the one he knew.

He shook his head. In one moment, one
brief observation of one photograph, a significant portion of his memory
returned. That did not bother Samuel. What shook him to his core was how an old
photograph of him and his wife made it inside a desolate cabin,
abandoned for decades, in a dead world. That troubled him more than not knowing
why he descended into this hell in the first place.

***

“She was gorgeous.”

Samuel jumped at the sound of the voice.
Even though their conversation wasn’t extensive, he recognized it.

“She still is,” Samuel said. “I didn’t
hear the door open.”

He turned from his spot on the floor in
front of the photograph to see Major sitting on the chair now pushed back
against the far wall. His silvery mane sprawled over his shoulders like the
spider webs inside the cabin. The black headband he wore to hold it back
was no longer in place, neither was the ponytail. Major’s receding hairline
held firm against the encroaching inevitability, even though the man was
clearly within his sunset years.

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean?” Samuel asked.

“I mean, maybe. She was gorgeous, she is
gorgeous, and she is no longer gorgeous. All of that.”

Samuel stood and approached Major. The
old man sat, unbothered by the closing of distance between the two.

“Where did you go?” Samuel asked.

“You need to slow down and let your brain
catch up with your mouth. You’re asking questions before the answers to the
previous ones make it inside your head. We’re safe here. For now. I’m sorry I
had to leave you so quickly, but if I hadn’t, the wolves would not have driven
you to this place, and that had to happen.”

“What had to happen?” Samuel asked.

“There you go again.”

Samuel stopped and put a hand to his
forehead. He ruffled his hair and dropped back to the floor next to the framed
photograph. He leaned against the wall and felt the chill leaking through the
wood. The light that filled the window earlier now faded into lonely blackness.

Major nodded before speaking. “I can tell
you a bit, but when I stop, I have to stop for reasons beyond your
understanding. Can you live with that?” he asked.

“No. But I’m going to lie and tell you I
can,” Samuel said.

Chapter 5

Samuel sat cross-legged on the bunk while
Major remained in the chair. The old man grimaced as he lifted one leg and
placed it over the other.

“The ligaments go before everything else,
and there’s nothing you can do about it. Remember that.”

Samuel smirked and tapped his fingers on his
thigh.

“Give me a second, Samuel. I need to
think about how to frame this for you.”

Samuel nodded. The old man stared at the
ceiling, one hand rubbing the end of his chin. He opened his mouth, held it for
a moment, and then shut it again. He repeated this two more times.

“Are the wolves coming back?” Samuel
asked.

Major held a finger up to Samuel, lines
creasing his forehead, which drove his eyebrows down in the middle.

“Did you ever play a musical instrument?
Like a violin or a guitar?”

Samuel furrowed his brow and thought
about the question. So much of himself remained as nebulous as the world
outside the cabin.

“I think so.”

“Good enough,” Major said. “Do you know
how sound is created on a stringed instrument?”

Samuel shifted again as the stiff base of
the bunk dug into his backside. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Major shook his head. He swatted at the
air in front of his face and fell back into the chair. “This isn’t going to
work.”

“Sorry,” Samuel said. “Tell me.”

Major took a deep breath and continued.
“When you pluck a string on a guitar, the vibration creates the sound. The
string vibrates quickly, and the sound is not constant. The note is really an
infinite series of oscillating sounds.”

Samuel shrugged.

“Let me tell you the parable of the blind
wise men and the lion. The blind men are hunting the lion, following its trail.
Hearing it run past, they chase after it and grab its tail. Hanging on to the
lion’s tail, they feel the one-dimensional form and proclaim, ‘It’s a one. It’s
a one.’ But then one blind man climbs up the tail and grabs onto the ear of the
lion. Feeling a two-dimensional surface, this blind man proclaims, ‘No, it’s
really a two.’ Then another blind man is able to grab the leg of the lion.
Sensing a three-dimensional solid, he shouts, ‘No, you’re both wrong. It’s
really a three.’ They are all right.”

Samuel held both hands up. “I don’t
understand what that means.”

“Just as the tail, ear and leg are
different parts of the same lion, this place and the one you’re beginning to
remember are different parts of the same world.”

For the first time, Samuel stopped
tapping his finger. He looked at Major and then at the floor. He turned to face
the framed photograph and then the lonely window on the other wall.

“So how do I get back to the tail, or the
ear, or the leg or whatever the hell part of the world is mine?”

“I don’t know,” Major said.

“Why not?”

“Imagine walking on a vast beach, near
the ocean. You scoop up a handful of sand. You sift the sand until a single
grain sits in your palm. A strong gust sweeps off the water and knocks that
single grain out of your hand. Could you bend down and pick it up off the
beach? Would you know which grain was yours?”

“Are you trying to say millions of places
are part of the same existence?”

Major shrugged. “Maybe billions, maybe an
infinite number. I really don’t know.”

“That’s really hopeless,” Samuel said.

“Depends. If your place was
healthy and vibrant, it might feel hopeless to leave. On the other hand, if all
that you knew was slowly dying, unwinding, coming apart, it might feel like
getting into the lifeboat before the ship sinks.”

Samuel nodded.

“There is one more thing you need to know
before we lie down for the night, something I want you to think about. Let your
mind turn it over while you sleep. Just like grains of sand on a beach, these
places exist in the same physical plane and often rub up against each
other.”

***

Major let Samuel take the bunk as he
slept on the floor. He thought Samuel’s body needed time to adjust but he had
spent enough time in the reversion to know sleep was never like it was before.

They awoke feeling no more refreshed than
the night before. Samuel opened his eyes and watched Major remove two
cylindrical objects from his bag and place them on the floor. The designs on
the labels had long since faded. Major used a tool from his belt and pried the
lid off the can. A faint and barely recognizable scent rose from the floor.

“Sauerkraut?” Major asked. He handed a
can to Samuel while using two fingers to dig into his own.

“Cabbage of some sort, right?”

Major nodded while shoving more of the
wet, cold breakfast into his mouth. Samuel scooped up a handful and felt the
consistency of the substance, detecting a hint of salt, but the sensation
dissipated until he was left eating a tasteless, odorless meal.

“I thought I remembered sauerkraut being
really strong.”

“You’ll get those feelings or intuitions
the longer you’re here. It’s like your mind slowly unrolls them for you so your
psyche isn’t run over by the flood of data.”

Samuel let the comment roll around toward
the back of his head. “Why isn’t this cabbage strong? Why can’t I smell it or
taste it?”

Samuel stopped and cocked his head
sideways.

“I don’t know,” Major said. “I mean, I
can feel it. I know you have, too. Things here feel like they’re not quite a
hundred percent. You know what I mean? Just look at the tint of any
flame you light here. It’s always off, some shade of yellow or green. The sun,
the odors, my taste buds. None of them operate at full speed. This place feels
like it’s at sixty percent.”

Major smiled while Samuel stared at the
floor.

“Each place seems to have
constants but with slight variations. They all keep a thread that unifies them.
Like our blind men chasing the lion, they’ll never grab a beak or a fin. They
could grab a stub of an amputated tail or half of an ear that was bitten off in
a fight, but it will always be lion-like. Never not lion-like.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Neither do I, but you get used to it
with each passing cycle. Eat your sauerkraut. We need to get out of this cabin
before Wolfman Jack and his crew come back to finish you off.”

They finished their meal and sat
on the edge of the bunk while their stomachs rumbled in protest. Samuel glanced
at the framed photograph leaning against the wall. Major nodded toward the
nail.

“Can’t hurt to put it back,” Major said.

Samuel stood and replaced the photograph
on the wall. He stepped back and looked again, nudging the corner up until the
frame hung straight.

“That shit pops up everywhere.”

“What does?”

“Reflections. These little reminders of
other places. They don’t ever seem to be as vibrant as the originals. That’s
why I call them reflections.”

Samuel nodded.

“And there’s no point in trying to take
the reflections with you. Your attention will be somewhere else, and when you
look back, the reflection will be gone. I know you considered rolling that
photo up and tucking it in your waistband, but you’d end up with nothing but a
blank piece of photo paper sooner than you realize. Best to leave it here and
not torture yourself with it.”