Journal Entry 2
Ah, my eyes! I just want to rub the grit out of them, but I can’t; I know what will happen if I do. I will have to start again, and I don’t know if I have it in me for that. The visions are bad enough, but the conversations are worse! Enough side trips about a cousin who pops Chlorpromazine like candy, and sees demons even after scooping out his own peepers. I just have to hold out a little longer and I’m good. Hell, I’ll be copasetic! ‘Sides, I can’t help him, except maybe through finishing this. He won’t get his eyes back, and he’ll always have mementos of that visit to teach him the error of his ways. But, maybe he’ll remember who he is while he tours all the hells; at least until he chooses one, or has a little help from his friends. I wonder, are you going to be his friend? Or am I the last one he has?
We went out Friday to get a view of the place, and for me to get a chance to laugh at the locals myself. It wasn’t too far, just off Redmond Duval Road, about twenty miles east of Seattle. We planned on camping out for a night or two, to save some green while we worked the dead house and sealed it up. Rick got the beer. I got some weed and papers. We both kicked in for some sandwich fixings, and hit the A&W for a gallon of root beer.
Once we had everything, we stuffed it all in a Styrofoam cooler. As long as we had music, we weren’t particular about what we ate. I had my portable cassette player, and we brought along the latest music from our favorite rock bands. I didn’t tell him I brought along my stash of my long(er) haired favorites: Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Westminster Cathedral Choral, and even some Gregorian Chants. I figured after he turned in I could listen, score my own tunes, and practice under the stars for a while when he slept. Along with a few beers, the sandwiches we would get in town, and the night sky, it would be a great time.
During the drive, I watched Rick; he looked even more unhealthy now than the day before. He was easily startled and jumpy. I was a little worried, but maybe he’d caught a bug or something. I thought maybe he just needed a distraction to get him to wind down, so I got him to talk about the graveyard, and the small town.
My cousin perked up like I had offered him a ticket to a bowl game. He mentioned some of the things going on in town, causing someone in Maltby to close the old cemetery to try and calm things down. A few people were carrying signs around, pushing the end days, and a few others acted like people in that movie Night of the Living Dead, and ended up committed to state facilities. A few others saw or heard disturbing things. In some cases, if you talked to the right person on the right night, you could hear of a few people who went out to the graveyard on a lark, but wandered off into the mist and vanished. If you asked the next day, the story would change, with the locals fearful that they might be overheard. All of them wanted outsiders to go away.
I should have known it was too sweet to be true. All that money for a few hours of work? I should have paid more attention to Rick, because him being sick was as unusual as a hippy sitting in a Congressional seat. I just watched the play unfold, until it became my turn on the Merry-Go-Demon wheel. And now? If you don’t solve my problem, it will be yours.
Sarajh
For this trip, this earnest investigator settled into a bed and breakfast, sitting on the outskirts of Maltby. It catered to connoisseurs of the “picturesque”, meaning I could sit on the deck and stare at cow patties, and free-range chickens, as the sun slipped below the horizon. Nothing wrong with patties or poultry; it’s just not really my idea of photo-worthy unless there’s an interesting story behind it. I’m mostly a city girl, except when I’m traveling, or investigating a story. Night came early this far north in the fall, as did a chill, reminding me of Halloween’s swift approach. I also remembered I had more of the journal to look over, and needed to determine its origin.
As the deck lights came on, I rummaged through my backpack for the tools of my trade: my laptop, and light pen, a USB recorder shaped like a small flashlight (it works as one too, how convenient), felt pens in several different colors, a couple pads of paper, a stack of stickies, a magnifying glass for use with old documents, but also handy as a worry stone when working through a puzzle, and finally, a pencil to chew on. The last was a must as I left my thinking fedora on the top shelf at home, to keep it away from Wolfgang and all his dog hair. No matter how much I brushed him, he always seemed to need more, and there was a lot of him to try to go over.
I was following Justin’s directions to a tee, and reading the journal in stages. I hoped for a bonus when I turned in a 400 word-count article, the middling range as cited by journalism critics.
Admittedly, I had yet to write a story shorter than two full pages, with pictures I might add, for the paper. The difference was… people like reading my byline because they know I survived another day somehow, even though I have a hell of a time explaining why. The proof is in my continued employment; family or not, Justin wouldn’t have me work for him unless it was profitable.
I paused and read a line again, just in case I missed the fine nuances. No. I did indeed read it correctly. Demons, sickness, and threats to yours truly.
Demons? I could take ‘em or leave ‘em, as you can’t prove them by me. Do I sometimes see a shadowy figure out of the corner of my eye? Yeah, who doesn’t? Reflection and distortion from the eyes would explain it easily. Do I occasionally hear screams in the middle of the night, and Wolfgang won’t go outside? Who would? But foxes sound like women screaming, and my dog is bravery-challenged. There have been no documented cases of demons on Rocky Point Road,and I don’t expect there to be; urban legends don’t count.
Sickness I wasn't worried about, as I never got sick; I was so healthy, even my dog was healthy. I put it down to good genes, and compensation for living a risky life.
As for threatening me, by the condition of the journal, he might be long past his expiration date. Even if he wasn't, he'd have to bring his "A" game. I've been threatened by a lot of people, hence the "survived another day" phrase.
However, Justin was sick, and gulping down more of those nasty chews to boot. In the little time I had been in the office after he gave me the journal, he had gone from "stay on your side of the room" illness and a messy office, to a full-blown version of "call for a hazmat suit stat!" and needing several good squirts of Woodsman Pine air freshener. Could he have picked up something at that auction, or was there something more?
My psyche gave a twinge, and I decided I better call him. If I woke him, it would be a bonus; but if he was really sick, I could talk to Cygnet, and get her to take the cheapskate to the doctor just in case.
I rummaged through my bookbag again, and retrieved my cell phone. I hit speed dial to call Justin. After several rings, someone finally picked up. It took an extended moment to sift through the whispers, and occasional keening assaulting my ear. I couldn't even tell if it was Justin, as the speech was not only low and full of pain, but it was almost incoherent. Even assuming it was him, it sounded like he was trying to recite multiplication tables, but would break down sometimes, and chant in a muffled voice, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. No. No. No. Don't show me! Don't show me! There's too many! I don't want to be there! Let me stay, let me stay!"
"Justin? Justin. It's Sarajh. Don't worry, I'm calling Cygnet; she'll take you to the hospital. She'll get you help. Just hang in there."
As I went to disconnect and call my cousin, he seemed to snap out of it for a few seconds, slipping in a few words between his recitations. "Too late. Don't come back. Finish it. Only way is to be locked up, and finish it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It will be better soon."
The phone went dead, and I called Cygnet at the pub she managed, relayed what I knew, and that he needed a doctor. During the call, I pictured how last I saw him, and remembered how sick and, frankly, terrified he sounded on the phone. How adamant he was about finding out what was happening to him. If I had just taken him to the doctor when I saw him that way, or called his wife earlier, before I left, maybe he wouldn’t be so sick now?
Whatever was going on, I had the feeling that Justin’s conversation wasn’t directed to me at the end, but to someone else in the room. But if so, why didn’t that person get him help, or call Cygnet? Why was Justin trying to reassure whoever it was?
I would follow through on Justin’s request. It wouldn’t be easy staying here when family needed me, but something had happened to him, and it seemed to be centered around a beat-up book that put its writer right here, in this town. The book’s author, and his cousin, also met with unfortunate events. It was time to drop the dilettante, take up detective, and find out what the hell was going on.