Otherworld (12 page)

The first floor of the downtown office building that housed
Spotlight Magazine
had a little gift shop in the back. Mike thumbed through hundreds of cards and replaced them all. They were either too trite or too serious. He didn't want to express insensitivity to his estranged wife, but he also didn't want to be too pushy. He found a blank one with a picture of a rose on the front. It took him fifteen minutes to come up with his own simple message: “Hope you have a very happy birthday. Miss you very much and hope to see you soon. Love, Mike.” (The absence of I's was not conscious.) He paid for it, sealed it up, and addressed it. He had Vickie's address scribbled in a five-year-old pocket book, and he hoped she hadn't moved. Mike put the envelope in the outgoing mail basket in the magazine's office. The minute the mail-room boy picked it up, and it was impossible to take back, Mike had the overwhelming feeling that he had said the wrong thing. He didn't add
belated
to “happy birthday,” and he regretted writing “hope to see you soon.” Certainly, she would assume he was being presumptuous and would hate him all the more. Then he regretted the fact that he had sent her a card at all. Why not call? But he couldn't remember Vickie's number. He probably would have found it somehow, but he didn't like the idea of sending a card
and
making a phone call. He figured she'd think the card was a desperate measure from a desperate man, and indeed it
was
, but the feeling was there nonetheless. It couldn't be wrong for him to love her after she left. What was the point of leaving him if it wasn't to wake him up.
To LEAVE, you idiot!

He sat at his desk and proofread somebody's story about a Santa Barbara woman who rescued sea turtles. His phone buzzed.

“This is Mike,” he answered.

“Mike?”

“Yes?”

“This is Dr. Bering. From the college.”

“Right, right. How are you?”

“Doing good. I got your message and just wanted to let you know to stop by my office any time this week. I'd be delighted to discuss anything you'd be interested in.”

“Sure, that'd be great. How'd you get my number here?”

There was a pause, and then, “Oh, I found it in one of the school records,” which sounded reasonable enough, but Mike got the odd feeling that the professor was lying.

“Oh, okay. Well, I'll be in class tomorrow. Can we meet after?”

“Love to.”

“Okay, then.”

What was it about the man that Mike found so compelling? Bering had an
aura
, was the only thing he could figure. The UFO and hyper-dimensions stuff was just the surface. Mike was only barely interested in that stuff, anyway. But there was something else there, something indiscernible, some undercurrent to his every word and gesture, some secret gravitas. It was speaking to Mike's void.

Mike scribbled “Meet with Bering” under the next day's date on his desk calendar even though he knew he wouldn't forget, and he read a section in the article before him about the turtles being released into the wild.

From the journal of Dr. Leopold Sutzkever:

… There are several existing conditions that would typify the phenomenon that I fear may be present in my colleague, Dr. Bering. They are, if I recall correctly:

1. Continued compulsions or habits

2. Chronic fear

3. Mental anguish

4. Unnatural sexual desires

5. Involuntary actions or spasms

6. Unorthodox beliefs

7. Recurring nightmares

8. Insatiable appetite for attention

9. Unexplained physical infirmities.

I have witnessed a few of these in encounters with Bering but have no manner with which to observe them all (even if I wanted to) without asking him outright. (Imagine what drama might occur if I happened to inquire of him: “Excuse me, Dr. Bering, but do you harbor any predilections for unnatural sex?” It just wouldn't do.) These signs aren't necessarily a foolproof litmus test. They are symptoms found in those merely suffering psychological trauma. But there are other signs as well. My hallway experience was much like my “adventure” in 1979, and the atmosphere of his office gave me such a queer sensation. I am almost certain that my suspicions are correct.

 

In the Trumbull police station, Graham held the tarot card, secured as evidence in a clear plastic bag, and turned it over and over in his hand. The Grim Reaper mocked him. Several of his best men, Officers Petrie and Lane among them, sat in his office and watched him.

“Petrie, I don't want anyone touching that animal. I don't want anybody to step within six feet of it. Not Doc Driscoll, not any TV people. Not even Pops. I wanna keep it clean. It's about time we find the idiot doin' all this and restore some common sense to this town. Lane?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Go through the case files for every vandalism we've had here and in Myrtle in the past year. Call every last person on those sheets, including the investigating and arresting officers. Get ahold of the suspects and suspects' friends and the suspects' ninety-year-old grandmothers, if you have to, and ask them all where they were last night and the night of the first killing. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The sooner we catch 'em, the sooner we can get some peace and quiet in this town and get rid of all these reporters. The rest of you guys: one of you find any stores that sell these cards and ask around. See if the shopkeepers remember selling any recently. One of you guys go to Trumbull high school, one of you to the junior high, and talk to the principals about any kids that may stand out. Past problems with vandalism or picking fights. Cross-reference that list with any kids who might wear Satanic or occult T-shirts or jewelry. If you see any kids around, ask 'em if they know anything. Got all that?”

The group nodded and turned to leave.

“Wait, one more thing. One of you guys ask Kelly to bring me some aspirin.” And as they shuffled out the door, he shouted after them, “And don't talk to any reporters!”

 

Bering remembered the visitor's instructions. No candle. No need for nudity. The lights were only dimmed, not switched off completely, and he waited expectantly, seated not on the floor, but in his recliner. As before, he called aloud for his visitor, the invisible guest whose eyes and ears saw and heard Bering's every movement. He saw into Bering's world from his own. He influenced Bering's life with a subconscious guiding hand. Bering knew the visitor held the keys to unsearchable wisdom and impossible technology. His mind harbored the secrets and the reasons and the meanings of life.

Bering continued to call, but there was no sign of stirring. But then …

He believed he saw a shadow on the far wall, but not one of a man. Of something larger. It appeared briefly, in half a blink's time, so he attributed it to delusion.
A child will see a monster in a pile of clothes. The danger of the closet or under the bed. An apparition of expectancy.

He beckoned again, louder this time …

… Nothing.

“Are you here?”
There! In the corner!

A small saucer and teacup seemed to quiver. The vibration of porcelain on wood floor was vaguely audible. And then it ceased. Again, just a splinter of a second in time. Just imagination.

“Hello?”
Imagination still, or are the lights growing dimmer?
“Hello?”

A footstep? Again, a shadow?

He was shaking vigorously, throwing a shower of perspiration off his face. The drops gathered into a thin puddle on the floor below. He gazed down. And there was no sweat at all, but a round, rippling puddle of blood. He squeezed his eyelids shut tight. He heard a sound, much like the scratching scamper of a rat's claws, as
something
scurried across the floor behind him. It was not a light trample like a rat, though, but the frantic scritch-scratch of
something larger
. His body tensed, every vein, artery, and nerve straining, tightening, and testing capacity. He opened his eyes, and the pool on the floor was sweat.

The room began to gleam, the lightbulbs emitting blinding fury. He squinted and could feel his body temperature rise. Tremulous panic had thrown a thousand coals into his internal engine. And then …

“Hello, Samuel.”

Bering jumped.

“Did I startle you, chum?”

“Y-yes. I didn't know if you would come.”

“Well, I'm here. Don't fret. I came as soon as I heard your call.”

“Was the little show necessary?”

“Show?”

“I thought I was losing my mind.”

“Well, now. Wouldn't that be a shame? What exactly did you see?”

“The lights, the saucer, the whole bit.”

“Dreadfully sorry about that, chum. My colleagues can be a bit mischievous from time to time if the moment grabs them right. Please accept my apologies.”

“Sure. Scared me pretty good, I must admit. The footsteps, the shadow.”

The visitor appeared confused. “The what?”

“That huge shadow on the wall. Your friends always go to such lengths to frighten people?”

The look of confusion vanished from the visitor's face as anger washed over it. “I see,” he said, gritting his teeth. His scowl diminished, and the anger dissipated from his countenance. He was jovial once again. “The shadow,” he murmured. “Yes. Sorry for the scare.”

Samuel relaxed a bit more. “God, you scared me pretty good.”

The visitor raised an eyebrow. “God? How
interesting
.”

“I hope I didn't offend you.”

“No, no, Samuel. I understand the expression, chum.”

The visitor stepped forward and sat down in the air as if a chair had appeared directly under him. But it didn't, and Samuel was amazed.

“I realize,” the visitor began, “that you are a man of great understanding.”

“I mean to be,” Samuel said.

“Yes. I'm very certain that you are. I want to teach you, Samuel. I want to teach you about …
reality
.”

“This is my only ambition.”

“Let me refer to a friend from my past. He and I were secret companions. Confidantes. He was a great mind too. I introduced myself to him in much the same way that I have introduced myself to you. Are you familiar with the work of Heinrich Gorschbrat?”

“Yes,” Bering said, and he understood immediately. “Like Nietzsche, he said that God is dead.”

“Precisely, chum. Precisely.”

From the transcript of the video interview of Molly Holland, conducted by Michael C. Walsh; October 21, 1996

Mike: … So, tell me about the play.

Molly: Well, it's Rodgers and Hammerstein's
The Sound of Music
, and I play Maria. It's about a carefree nun who goes to work as a governess to care for the children of a widower. It takes place in Austria during World War Two, and so there's a secondary plot about Nazis and the family's escape from them. Maria teaches the children … well, I guess about how to be kids, and they even form a little singing group. It's also a love story.

Mike: What's your favorite part of the production?

Molly: You mean a certain scene? Or aspect of the play?

Mike: Well,
both
, I guess.

Molly: I like the musical aspect of the production the best, because I love to sing. But I love to act, too. But I think I more enjoyed the singing. My favorite scene is where Maria and Captain von Trapp dance on the patio during the big party.

Mike: Why'd you like that scene so much?

Molly: I don't know. I guess because it was a fun scene to do. And also it's sort of magical, because it's the first time they really look into each other's eyes and get a glimpse of the feelings inside.

Mike: Oh—

Molly: It's just so romantic. Two people thrown together by chance, who actually sort of conflict at the beginning, but who, I guess, wear each other down and fall in love. Neither of them knew such a common occurrence as hiring a governess—a governess who's a nun and not supposed to fall in love—would result in the love of a lifetime.