314 Book 3 (Widowsfield Trilogy) (11 page)

Charles had stayed at a hundred different hotels in his years as a field rep, and this one was neither one of the best, nor one of the worst. He rarely stayed in suites, preferring to keep his expenses down to avoid the always-vigilant eye of the company’s CFO, but these were the only rooms available when he called, and his days of sleeping in the car to appease the accounting department’s miserliness were long over.

He explored the space, but was chagrined that he wouldn’t even utilize half of it. In the morning he would be headed out to St. Louis for a conference, and then all the way to Springfield, Illinois to meet with a distributor that the company was courting. He wouldn’t end up getting any use out of the f
ull-size refrigerator or stove in his room. He simply didn’t have time for much else but sleep.

Something in the wall rumbled, and Charles grimaced at the loud noise. It sounded like running water, but he was surprised by how much the noise bled through the walls. He placed his hand against the flower-print wallpaper and realized that his neighbor’s bathroom was located just behind the headboard of the bed. It
seemed the foul-smelling man was finally taking a bath, but the sound of the running water was frustratingly loud.

Charles went through his normal hotel procedure, unpacking only essentials, and then started to get ready for bed. He texted his wife, choosing not to wake her with a call, and then started to run through his emails, but the swell of work-related messages quickly antagonized him. He was tired of the debates that consumed the time of everyone at the corporate office, and didn’t want to get bogged down reading through the mu
ltiple, strongly-worded replies about the necessity for a minimum sale price limit for online retailers or the quality of fabric being used on pocket linings. He was too tired to care about any of that at the moment.

His neighbor had stopped running the water, and Charles flipped on the television to make sure he drowned out any further disturbances. As he was searching channels, he passed the adult pay-per-view, and considered purchasing one, but ultimately decided he was too tired.

“You’re getting old, Charlie,” he said to himself as he continued clicking through channels. He stopped on a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a show that he never thought he would enjoy, but that his daughter had convinced him to watch a few months earlier. Remarkably, he found that he liked it a lot more than he would’ve ever expected, although he still hadn’t admitted that to his daughter.

He struggled to get comfortable on the annoyingly plump and fluffy pillows. Despite how most people seemed to enjoy large, thick pillows, Charles liked his flat and nearly devoid of filling. He kept meaning to bring a pillow from home along with him on his trips, but always forgot
to while preparing to leave.

Despite his minor annoyance with the bed, he soon drifted to sleep, but was rudely awakened by a commotion in his neighbor’s room. It sounded like someone was thrashing in the tub, and then he could hear the bass of the man’s voice bleeding through the wall. Charles cursed, and tried to go back to sleep. He could hear the man in the room beside him blather on, but he eventually calmed, and things were quiet enough for Charles to doze off again.

He would only be asleep for little more than an hour, but that was plenty of time for the lies to sink in.

Branson

3:45 AM

March 13
th
, 2012

The Skeleton Man was alive, but he was trapped in the incapacitated body of Ben Harper. The boy had grown much more than The Skeleton Man had expected, and he realized that his perception of the flow of time was warped by The Watcher’s lies. For years, The Skeleton Man had searched Widowsfield for Alma Harper after she appeared with her mother at Terry’s cabin. He thought he was looking for a young girl, certainly no older than high school-age, but he was proven wrong when Alma appeared at the cabin again, this time as a woman in her mid-twenties.

“Michael,” said Ben Harper as he stared at the man on the bed beside him. Ben was in a wheelchair, and was leaning over the bed in an attempt to grasp the man that had been the cause of all his feelings of hatred, betrayal, and sorrow. “Michael.”

“That’s good, buddy,” said Michael Harper before he yawned. He’d moved to the far side of the bed, out of his son’s grasp. Ben continued to try and reach out to him, his fingers uselessly scratching at the bed sheet. “I’m happy you’re starting to be able to talk again, but it’s getting late. You should try and get some sleep.”

“Michael
Har…” Ben choked on the name.

“You need a pillow or something?” asked Michael. “Or do you want me to lay you down on the sofa? Would that be more comfortable?” Michael started to sit up, but then settled back down and said, “Nah, I bet you’re sick of lying down. I bet it feels good to be sitting up like that, watching some TV instead of staring at the ceiling all day and night.”

“Michael Harper,” said Ben, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“You’ve got to quit doing that, kid,” said Michael as he relaxed. “You’re going to drive me nuts.”

Several minutes passed, and Ben continued to try to reach out to his father while repeating the man’s name. Michael grew increasingly upset and kept pleading with his son to stop, each time becoming more frustrated than the last.

After this continued for nearly fifteen minutes, Michael finally lost his patience. He bounded from the other side of the bed, visibly agitated as he glared over at his son. “Now I warned you, buddy. I warned you over and over. Didn’t I? How the fuck am I supposed to get any sleep with you grabbing at me and talking all night?”

He picked his belt up off the floor where he’d thrown it earlier.

Ben Harper held his breath. The child that still resided behind The Skeleton Man’s consciousness was suddenly
dominant over the other souls within the human shell that sat in the wheelchair. The boy recalled the beatings his father used to inflict with a similar belt, and all those memories came rushing back. The time he’d been whipped for breaking the vacuum while cleaning his room; the time he’d been beaten for crying too loud; the time he’d been spanked for seemingly no reason except that his father had accused him of giving him a ‘snide’ look at dinner.

“You did this to yourself,” said Michael as Ben watched, frozen by both terror as well as the mortal prison he was stuck within.

Michael Harper took a pocket knife out of his jeans. Ben watched as his father approached with the belt and the knife, frightened of what was about to occur, but helpless to defend himself. He tried to move his body to block his father, but his arm just flopped off the side of the bed and down into his lap when he moved.

“Michael Harper,” said Ben as he stared glassy-eyed at his father.

Michael reached out with the belt and strapped it over Ben’s mouth, and then looped it behind his head. Ben gnawed at the belt, and saliva dripped over his lip and down his chin as he tried to say his father’s name. Michael tightened the belt, and then used the knife to cut a mark in it where the buckle would latch. He pulled the belt away, leaving his son to gasp and lick at his raw lips.

Michael dug the tip of the knife into the leather belt, spinning it until a hole emerged. Next, he set the knife and the belt on the bed before taking off his sweat-stained t-shirt.

“Michael Harper,” said Ben, his voice maligned by the pain in his lips that the belt had caused.

“Keep it up,” said Michael with a snicker as he shook his head.

Ben’s father stuffed his sweaty, unwashed shirt into his son’s mouth. He pushed hard, as if eager to cause pain, and then he wrapped the belt around his boy’s head, forcing the buckle through the hole he’d made and tying the shirt to Ben’s face like a ball-gag.

“That should do it,” said Michael, pleased with himself.

Ben struggled to breathe. The belt had pushed part of the shirt high up against his nose, and he felt as if he were hyperventilating. He shook his head and moaned, and tried to raise his arms, but his body was a prison. He scratched at his legs and writhed as best he could.

Michael sighed, and for a moment Ben thought he was going to apologize. Ben hoped his father would untie him.

“Looks like you’re sleeping in the bathroom tonight, kid,” said Michael as he unlocked the wheels on his son’s chair before pushing him across the room. He put Ben in the bathroom, facing the tub with his back to the door, and then shut off the light.

“Goodnight,” said Michael before he closed the door, leaving Ben alone in the dark.

Every breath of air was laden with the stench of Michael’s shirt. He could taste the sweat as his tongue was pressed hard against the balled up fabric.

Ben Harper’s fingers clawed as his arms tried their best to move. He had just enough strength to raise his arms up to the armrests, but not up to his face. He shook as best he could, but was never able to do anything more than rattle the chair a little. As he struggled, his left hand touched the cold wall beside him. His pinky finger brushed against the coarse stucco.

The walls of the hotel slowly spilled their secrets, as if Ben had spent a lifetime studying the architectural plans of the building. He knew what the room on the other side of the wall looked like, and how it was connected to another suite that also looked the same. He could sense the electrical wires that snaked through the thin walls, protected by a metal sheathe. He could feel the bed in their neighbor’s room as it succumbed to the weight of a tossing occupant. As the night went on, and The Skeleton Man lingered alone in the dark bathroom of Michael Harper’s hotel room, new possibilities presented themselves. He began to comprehend weaving in and out of the world The Watcher had come from, and the one where Michael Harper lived. He knew that once Michael fell asleep, he would be susceptible to The Skeleton Man’s power, but Ben needed to practice first.

On the other side of the wall, snoring as Buffy the Vampire Slayer played on his television, was a man named Charles Dunbar. The Skeleton Man would test his powers on this stranger as he waited for Michael Harper to fall asleep again.
The Skeleton Man perfected his lies.

Philadelphia

June 15
th
, 1943

Two pillars rose to twice the height of a man on either side of a large, steel box. Lyle, Vess, and Major Groves were in a cavernous bay of the USS Eldridge. Lyle would’ve never guessed the ship housed such a large room, and he marveled at the space as Groves led them across the catwalk that looked down on the area of interest.

“There she is,” said Groves as he motioned over the side of the railing. They stood on a walkway about twenty feet up, and Lyle could look through the grated metal that they walked across to see the floor beneath, causing his stomach to churn. Groves and Vess were focused on the spectacular machine that was the only thing housed within the gigantic space. “
Your Charged Oscillating Radiation Distributor.” Then Groves looked at Lyle and said, “Or CORD for short.”

“It’s magnificent,” said Vess, unwilling to look at anything other than the machine below. His face was alight, like a child staring in through a Macy’s window during the holidays. “I can’t believe I’m here, looking
at it.” His voice was tempered by reverence, as if he were daring to whisper in church. “I’ve studied Tesla’s drawings a thousand times, but seeing it in person...” he grinned as he looked at Groves. “It’s magnificent.”

“Well, let’s not spend any more time dithering about up here,” said Groves. “Let’s go have a look.”

Vess and Lyle followed behind Groves as he walked down a circular staircase to the solid floor beneath. Lyle could feel the gentle sway of the ship, although it wasn’t as severe as he’d feared. He wasn’t much of a seaman, having thrown up as a child while fishing and never giving it another chance. This ship, however, seemed too large to be affected much by the water around it. The USS Eldridge was like an island unto itself.

Vess
approached the CORD as if drawing near a fragile masterpiece. Lyle got a better chance to study the monstrosity. The pillars on the side rose higher than the unit in the center, and four rings were independently mounted by a rod that stuck out of apertures on the pillar they haloed. The rods were each different sizes, with the largest on the bottom and the smallest on top, and a foot-sized gap separated each. The pillars were both adorned with massive globes on top that cast shadows down over the center box. Thick wires littered the floor, crawling out from the pillars and connecting to the square hub, which was fitted with various levers, switches, and gauges that Lyle was certain he’d never understand even given a course on their function.

“It’s perfect,” said Groves with certainty. He stood stoic, his arms clasped behind his back as he watched Vess inspect the machine. “Down to every last detail.”

“They’re silver?” asked Vess as he approached the rings of one of the two pillars. “You didn’t lace this with copper to save money?”

“No expense spared,” said Groves. “You’re looking at a machine that’s worth more than the
GDP of some small countries.” He chuckled, but neither Lyle nor Vess reciprocated.

“Damn,” said Lyle, trying to add to the conversation. “That’s quite a machine you fellows built. But, forgive me for asking, why the
hell’d you build it? What’s it do?”