The Experiment of Dreams (22 page)

Iain stepped aside to let the slow-moving man take a seat at the bar.

“Stevie, you know this place? These boys are looking to find it. They’re investors from the city. Got bad directions.”

Did I say we’re from the city?
Iain loved how stories had a way of perpetuating themselves.

Iain unfolded the picture. Steve just glanced upward. “Sure, that’s Betty Kruger’s old place. She died a few years back; don’t know what’s going on with it now. Haven’t been up there in, gosh, I don’t know how long. Fixed the water heater for her, back, oh, maybe ten years or so ago, maybe more.”

The blood in Iain’s veins pumped like rapids.

“So you know where it is then?”

“Sure, I know where it is. I used to know Betty Krueger, going back, oh, gosh, maybe ten years or so. I fixed the water heater for her back then.”

Iain and Michael exchanged glances.

The bartender walked over. “Hey, Stevie.” He placed a brownish looking drink on the bar.

“Dewars and soda, Jimmy.”

“I know, Stevie; I know.”

“Let me get that,” Iain said, his hand going to his wallet. “On second thought, I think we’ll all have another round.”

B
en’s eyes fluttered, and then they opened.

There was no present moment. There was no later and no before. No time or reality. All was black and then it wasn’t. He blinked. One eye seemed to go one way, and the other did not quite follow. His eyelids flickered and strained, and he focused until his vision cleared. He was staring at the heavens above. A grey sky. The sun lost behind a sea of clouds.

Where am I …?

The tops of trees swayed in a light wind, and there was a face looking down at him. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“Shhh,” she said. “Rest.”

So he did.

When his eyes opened again, he was staring up at the same sky, only time must have become relevant again, because the grey clouds were now dark with the coming of night—or perhaps they were growing light with the coming of morning. Ben didn’t know how much time had passed. The same face was looking down at him: Emily, kneeling by his side. He was aware his head was on her lap. The warmth coming from her legs made him realize the rest of his body was very cold. His feet and hands were numb, tingling with spikes of pain like pinpricks. His fingers felt swollen, like he was wearing thick gloves, and he didn’t think he could form his hands into fists.

“Emm …” The mucus in his throat hindered words from escaping. He coughed. The skin around his nose felt tight.

“Emily.”

“Shhh,” she said. “Relax.”

“I don’t … I can’t get up.”

“Yes, you can. Just take your time.”

Slowly he did, pushing himself up to a sitting position, and sat there for several minutes as waves of dizziness lapped over him. He coughed hard into his palm, and a ball of mucus came loose. He spat in the dirt and saw blood.

“Emily … what happened?”

“You fell, Benjamin. But you’re okay now.”

He didn’t remember falling. He didn’t remember much of anything. One minute he was walking and the next minute he was opening his eyes.

“Is it … am I okay?” He scratched the dry skin around his nose, flaking away pieces of dried blood. “Did I … have a seizure, or something?” Each word caused his head to throb. It throbbed as if he’d just meditated for an hour, or read an entire novel in one sitting. Reality was clouded—seemingly cartoonish—any movement followed by dull aches.

“You’re fine now, Ben. Try getting to your feet.”

He wasn’t sure he was fine; however, he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t. He pushed himself up. His legs trembled and gave out, and he fell to his knees.

“It’s okay, Bennie. It’s okay. Take your time.”

The air smelled strange here, thick and awful—like shit; the air smelled like dirt and shit. He gagged and pushed himself up, steadying his nerves and muscles. The world wobbled under his feet.

Emily asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I … don’t know.”

“Can you walk? We have a lot of ground to cover.”

“I don’t know.” Thinking was hard, and answering questions was even harder. The tip of his tongue felt swollen and too large for his mouth.

Ben looked at the crude path in the woods. The trail was overgrown and long untraveled. People just didn’t go into the woods as often as they once had. He took a few deep breaths, listening hard for the stream they were following before he collapsed. Somewhere out of sight, he could hear the gentle flow of moving water.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out …

He twisted his body from side to side; his bones and muscles popping and cracking, and he looked off into the woods, through the vertical slats of the dense trees.

“Wait, who’s that?” He jumped, pointing behind him. There was a man standing several yards away, nearly invisible through the thicket. “Emily,” he whispered. “Emily, there’s someone there. Look.” The man was facing the opposite direction, walking slowly away. All Ben could see of the man was the back of his head. “Emily?”

She hesitated. “That’s no one, Ben. There’s no one there. We have to keep going.”

“But … am I imagining him? Do
you
know him?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did. Come on now.” She grabbed his shoulder and Ben nearly fell over.

“Give me a second.” He looked back at the man, who stopped walking and stood staring off. A low noise rumbled through the air at a barely audible frequency, echoing in Ben’s eardrums.

For a moment—just a moment—the confusion and fog that enveloped his senses cleared away.

What the hell is going on? Jesus Christ, what’s happening to me?

And then a thought popped in his head that he did not know he was thinking:

If only Sophia were here.

He was shocked and guilt ridden that he thought it. And even more shocked that he hadn’t thought about her at all since …
how long has it been?
He was further shocked when he realized that he hadn’t thought about anything—anything at all—since Emily first appeared. The last few hours, maybe days, weeks, was all a blur.

“Let’s go, Ben. Don’t look at him.” Emily’s face was pursed with anger and something else—
fear?
The rumbling in his ears became louder, and slowly, he placed one foot in front of the other, and began to walk in the opposite direction. The rumbling grew in intensity and frequency, and his ears started to ring in pain.

“Jesus Christ!” Ben covered his ears, and dropped to his knees. And just as suddenly as it started it stopped. The ringing went away, and the fog returned to blanket his mind.

“What the—”

“Let’s move, Ben.”

Ben looked up. The man was gone. Vanished.

“Who was that?”

“It’s wasn’t anyone, Ben.”

Emily turned and looked at him.

Her eyes. There’s just something about her eyes
.

She touched his hand and they continued walking. He wanted to ask her more questions, but his brain throbbed with exhaustion when he tried to think clearly; it felt swollen and large, as if engorged against his skull. He wanted to know why his face was bloody, and how long he had been unconscious—and
why
he had been unconscious. He wanted to know who the man in the woods was, and why Emily was so quick to turn him away. He wanted to know all of these things and more, but found it impossible to form words into sentences that would convey any semblance of rational thought.

She sensed his confusion and aggravation. “All you have to do is follow me, Bennie. You still trust me, right?”

In a trance he muttered, “Yes … of course I trust you.”

Miles passed underfoot, and with them went hours.

“Emma … I’m so tired,” he told her again, as he had several times already.

“You can sleep soon, but not now. I know how strong you are. You must keep walking.”

The trail rose before him. Large rocks shot out from the earth in massive sedimentary slabs and piles, both jagged and slippery. Emily traversed them with ease, her sharp heels making
clack-clack
sounds upon the hard surfaces, hopping from one boulder to the next. Ben followed, clambering over the slick surfaces on all fours like an animal, sliding down some rocks, and rolling over others. At times, his vision was bright—very bright, feverish—and at other times, it would go dark around the periphery. His clothing was tattered, muddy, and ripped. He fell often, and when he did, he picked himself back up. His labored breath burned his lungs, and his vision throbbed with his pulse. All he wanted to do was close his eyes, succumb to whatever dark or bright void was waiting for him—to finally put his mind at ease.

Then he reached the top of the hill.

And below him was the cabin in the woods.

Iain Marcus and Michael Bennet left the bar. They bought the two old men another round, and left them watching the ball game with glassy eyes. They drove past the few restaurants, bars, and a small inn, leaving the center of town behind. The streetlights became less frequent the farther they drove until they seemed to vanish altogether as the town became more rural. The sky was dark as they drove on the desolate road. In the distance, they saw a single streetlight illuminating a crossroad. They approached, barely making out the name: Crawford Pond Road. They took a sharp right. It was just as the old man at the bar had instructed.

Ben should never have vanished like this. Iain’s team had proven itself incompetent; now he was far from home, tracking a lead that might not pan out. His grip on the situation was not tight, not tight at all, and he would have hell to answer for if the situation did not start going his way.

Iain had shown his face in town, even showed a picture of the cabin they were looking for to several people in a crowded bar. If they found Ben at this cabin, they would have to remove him. Bury his body far, far away. There could be nothing left behind—no DNA, no traces of their encounter with him whatsoever. This had to be the cleanest job he ever carried out, but at the moment, things were a mess.

Crawford Pond Road was in desperate need of repair. The cracks and potholes were evidence that few people traveled upon it, especially at night. Blowing a tire or cracking an axle was a definite possibility. Occasionally they passed lone mailboxes on the side of the road beside narrow and dark driveways, but they were few and far between. Iain and Michael were far from civilization, secluded even, and that was a very good thing.

They read the numbers on the mailboxes until they arrived in front of number sixteen. They scanned the overgrown driveway for any signs of life. The house, off in the distance, was hidden in the dark woods. Iain killed the lights, turned the wheel, and the car bounced over a mound and onto the unpaved driveway. The overgrown weeds and bushes on either side of the path scraped the sides of the car.

It occurred to Iain that if he had to turn around, he would have to put the car in reverse. A K-turn would be impossible in the dark on the narrow driveway; there was no room for error.

Iain put the car in park and killed the engine.

He reached behind him and turned off the interior lights, then opened the door, stepping out into the night. Michael followed.

They stood motionless, listening. The air was still except for the constant chirpings of an untold number of crickets.

Iain opened the trunk and removed a black duffel bag from the cavity alongside the spare tire. Inside the bag he found a pair of night-vision goggles. Foolishly, it was the only pair they’d brought.

“I’ll go up alone to scope it out. Stay with the car.” Iain unholstered the pistol attached to his belt, checked the magazine and chamber, and screwed a silencer to the barrel.

Only a few steps out from the car, Iain vanished in the darkness, and after a minute, the darkness began playing tricks on Michael’s mind. He heard too many noises and felt the need to check his watch way too often. But Michael didn’t move a muscle; he knew the darkness was not something to fear, but something to respect.

Several vibrations emanated from Michael’s pocket that nearly caused him to jump out of his skin, and he recognized the feeling of his phone. He remained still and let the call go to voicemail. A moment later, it vibrated again, this time only one short buzz. He cupped his hand over the glaring screen and clicked on a text message from Dr. Wulfric. It was a long message, and he read it fast, aware that the screen was extremely bright and could draw attention. Apparently, the doctor had been calling him all night, but up in Sutton Lake, phone reception was hit or miss. He looked around for Iain, but saw no movement of any kind, and heard nothing but the crickets. He cracked open the car door and slipped inside, closing it as quietly as possible behind him, and dialed the doctor.

Ben saw it nestled among thick evergreen trees in the clearing below.

It was the cabin in the woods.

He watched as smoke billowed out from the chimney to be swept away in light gusts of wind. The pleasant smell of wood smoke lingered heavy in the air, along with something that made his mouth water. Food cooking. A pot roast, perhaps, with earthy vegetables stewing in a sauce of red wine and sage. A sweet smell wafted up to where Ben stood, like various fruit pies all baking in the oven at once. His stomach churned audibly, tumbling in its vacant shell.

Without further hesitation, he began clambering down the other side of the hill. He cut through a tangle of branches and vines, cutting his hands and face on sharp thorns, not noticing or caring, until he arrived at the clearing around the cabin.

His breath stopped in his lungs as he took it all in.

The cabin was before him, the stream still flowing over a shallow bed of smooth stones. The pebble driveway was meticulously raked and trailed off into the woods, leading to Crawford Pond Road. A neat pile of wood sat beside a thick stump with the gleaming steel and polished wood handle of an axe firmly planted in it. A cart beside the stump was piled high with firewood, ready to be wheeled to the hearth inside. Light shone from behind the open windows, the lace curtains moving in and out with the gentle wind. The scene overtook his senses, resonated deep within his very soul. A tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a clean streak across his dirty skin.

His vision was clear—exceptionally crisp. Small details of the cabin, such as the gleaming steel blade of the axe, radiated with such clarity and brightness that he was nearly blinded and completely enraptured. His brain was concocting a variety of chemicals, churning them about, and producing pure bliss.

The landscaped flowerbeds and plants circling the cabin emerged from the earth, radiating like blossoming sunrays jumping out from the ground, the blues, yellows, and oranges of the flower petals magnificent beyond belief. The vibrancy was such that Ben had only seen such colors back when he was a teenager and briefly experimented with LSD and psychoactive mushrooms. The center of his body released sensations of pure unadulterated joy that he could not put into words or understand.

Ben fell to his knees, tears covering his cheeks as hot as firewater. Emily stood before him, larger than life, her hand out and open, the sun at her back creating an electric aura shooting out like a halo around her body.