The Monocle Man Read online

  “Dispatch, unit 14. Possible ten-ninety-six too. On a minor. And-” He couldn’t hold it any longer. Reynolds bent at the waist, had just enough mind to step away from the crime scene, and brought his breakfast and coffee back up.

  “Unit 14. I didn’t quite catch that last part?”

  Reynolds spit the bile from his lips for several ticks before standing and wiping the sweat from his forehead. He finished his call to dispatch and while he waited for backup and emergency to show, took careful steps around the scene, trying to track who he’d seen earlier. He didn’t think the man from before killed her. No. He’d probably been some vagrant himself. But the fact she was dead didn’t stop him from having his way with her body. Already he thought, it wouldn’t take long before he’d need to get out of the city.

  He hadn’t payed much mind to his feet. They kept their pace while his mind ventured back to days long gone, but far from forgotten. He shivers now though, not from the cold, but the remembering. There are some images, he fears, that he’ll never be able to escape. Not the night he found the girl in the alley. Nor the violence which plagues his city. And most of all now, that of his partner, Dori, and the man’s damned fingers on the thigh of that dead girl.

  When he lifts his head again, he startles at the sight. Not twenty yards or so before him stands an old house. From this vantage point it appears the porch light is on. But it maintains an eerie glow. Not flickering per se. Not really. The light wavers in a way. Though it might only be a trick his eyes are playing on him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LOCH NESS, SCOTLAND

  LOCH NESS, SCOTLAND, 1919

  The smell assaulted Jakob when he threw open the door, odd and disturbing. The scent snaked up his nostrils and clung to the insides of his nose and lungs. Both, along with his throat as he choked and gulped in air, burned with a sulfuric aftertaste. His eyes too, watered. Squinting, he attempted to make sense of what lay before him. Just feet from where he stood, a wall of dark, vaporous clouds spun left and right, creating a maelstrom which impaired his vision. Hid what lay inside. The sound grew in immensity as if the storm were winding up.

  Jakob reached out with one hand, found his fingers sank into the barrier. The black substance sifted over and through each finger, almost as sand, but so fine it bordered on powder. To the touch, the clouds were cold. Icy. He pulled his hand back as needles formed under the skin. Eyes still half shut, with a hand above his brow trying to protect them, he walked around the storm on shaky legs. Through a squint, Jakob struggled to deduce some means of ingress. He made it near half around the room when he spotted a wavering portion which left a small opening at eye level. His eyes found the hole and captured the event within. Jakob saw his little sister. Lillian floated above the floor some three or four feet, her head laying back, eyes wide, mouth agape, feet at an angle to the floor. Her arms splayed out to her sides, fingers opened and closed, clutching at nothing in frantic fits. A few feet from her, stood Crowley.

  The man yelled at the little girl though Jakob could neither comprehend the words flooding from his mouth nor make out the shapes of speech by watching Crowley’s lips move. His hands were outstretched, palms open, facing up as if receiving communion; forgiveness from a higher power. They thrust at his little sister repeatedly. Pleading, Jakob thought. Crowley looked to be pleading with her.

  Resolved not to let anything further happen to her, Jakob gathered up his breath and bolstered through the maelstrom. Inside, the atmosphere became different. Jarringly so. The sound which whooshed and battered the ears on the outside faded the instant he stepped through. Instead, he clutched his ears in discomfort. The sound, mute within, forced a current of pressure on and around his head. A bubble of deafening silence thrust itself upon him from either side. Jakob opened and closed his mouth several times, attempting to pop his ears.

  A hand touched his forearm. Jakob looked down at it, following the grasp up the arm and to the face of Crowley. He tried to pull Jakob closer. They found the battle hard fought. Crowley pulled as Jakob trudged through the invisible viscosity one slow and debilitating step at a time. He yanked the young man close; within ear-shot. Yelled. But Jakob discerned nothing. Jakob looked at Crowley confused. The confounded look on Jakob’s face spurred Crowley to continue his rant. Again, Jakob lacked the comfort of either hearing or understanding.

  A slight tug at Jakob’s back caused him to turn around. He swore he’d felt a hand there. But behind him, nothing lingered, just the ever darkening storm swirling about the room. When he turned to face Crowley again an unseen force pulled him from behind. It yanked him from his feet, tossing him several feet into the air and to the ground. He didn’t hit the ground like someone who fell, but rather, as if something rocketed him to the destination. The wind bruised from his lungs and he heard several audible snaps before being drowned again in the silence. Pain seared in his shoulder and wrist. His forearm. Jakob sat upright, struggling to lift his left arm. When he did, that arm tugged, as if a railroad spike had been driven through his shoulder, down his arm and into his elbow. His stomach convulsed at the immense pain. For a moment, Jakob teetered on the edge of consciousness.

  Crowley kept the rapture spewing from his lips. He hurled the words at the unseen entity within the maelstrom as if he had some sense of control. Which, he hadn’t in the least. Something went wrong. Though he was hardly allowed a moment to comprehend what that something had been or where he went wrong with it. All he knew, is his grasp on the situation spun out of control. He didn’t know how, but the young man, Jakob, pulled himself to his feet. He watched in horror as an unseen entity lifted the young man and hurled him across the room. Surely the boy had broken bones. The way this force lifted him from his feet, then slammed him to the ground, revealed a violence even Crowley hadn’t prepared for. If he could only communicate with Jakob. Maybe…

  As if a wish granted, the silence that cocooned them within the storm abated a fraction. There emitted a low hum. The whirring of the blackened winds surrounding. Crowley’s voice, hoarse from the last hour of battle regained a little sense of strength and purpose, as if a hand had let up on his throat. Crowley called to Jakob, but the laughing began.

  It started low, guttural, until it rose several octaves in cadence and volume until the voice boomed all around them. Jakob, startled, stumbled as if the sound of it threatened to knock him off his feet. He looked to his sister, but found unlike the days and months before, the voice didn’t appear to be coming from her.

  “Crowley, you fool! I warned you!” The voice echoed about the room. “I warned you, you fucking pig!”

  “Be gone demon! The power within-”

  “Power within what Crowley? Eh? Tell me! You? You’ve no power? Not over me. Nor any of my kind!”

  “Silence!” Crowley commanded.

  The voice erupted into another fit of laughter. Jakob staggered to his feet and ambled over to Crowley, his left arm hanging limp at his side. Within the maelstrom the winds continued and the light flickered and faded as if the circuits behind his eyes were striving to stay connected.

  “What is it?” Jakob demanded of Crowley.

  “I’ve failed my boy! Failed.”

  “No! You can’t,” Jakob insisted. Even though he had no powers of which to speak, Jakob vowed to leave this place dead if it meant he couldn’t save his sister.

  “My guardians never showed.”

  “You’re what?”

  “The incantations were to summon my guardian angels. They were meant to protect me before the veil to the other side opened. The angels never showed. And I couldn’t stop the veil from opening. I tried!”

  “Try harder!”

  “You don’t understand boy!” Crowley snapped at Jakob. “Without my guardian ang-”

  “Ha!” The surrounding voice boomed. “Fool Crowley! You look for guardian angels. But it never occurred to you, did it?”

  “What never occurred to-”

  “Who ever said YOU of all people
had a guardian angel?”

  What remained of color drained from Crowley’s face. He’d given no thought, really. Just assumed. Didn’t we all have at least one guardian angel? The ancient texts insisted most men had several. Where was his? At least one should stand in his corner? Was his heart so dark, even a flicker of light from the heavens above failed to penetrate it?

  The floor beneath Lillian dissolved. She hung still, floating in the air a few feet above the disappearing ground. The wood cracked at first, turning a putrid, motley green, before it broke into particles of ash and fell into the abyss below. For a moment he thought his sister might get dragged down. But on this account, he miscalculated. From below, a glow arose. And the voice; the voice which consumed the surrounding air not seconds before came from within the hole.

  “We’ve toyed enough. Now I take what’s mine!”

  Jakob understood the meaning well enough though. If the spirit meant Lillian, the fight was far from over.

  BEYOND THE VEIL PART 3

  BEYOND THE VEIL…

  The three stare out at their new surroundings. None can make heads or tails. Garrison looks down at his little brother, who’s now seated on the ground at the mouth of the alley and watches him for a moment. Brent’s eyes are wide. They seem to skitter from one person to the next. All the while a smile broadens across his face. Garrison startles when his brother looks up at him suddenly.

  “Do you see it too?” Brent asks his older brother.

  “See what?”

  “The colors.”

  “The colors? What colors?”

  “All around them Gary.”

  Garrison’s gaze returns to the street before them. He feels Brent’s eyes on him. But he’s unsure what his little brother is seeing. Brent watches his older brother a moment, then sighs. His frown discerns that Garrison can’t see what he’s seeing. By why not? He wants to tell his big brother more, describe it all, but he can’t find the words. He’s enraptured at the colors floating about the street. Every person walking, or sitting, standing or talking carries one with them. The colors can hardly be categorized. He sees yellows and blues, reds and greens. Some purples, some rust, some oranges and silvers. Some, a combination of many colors. They drift in and out of one another in wisps and streams, coalescing around each person from head to toe. Ahead, someone with a dark blue inner haze, and lighter outer blue passes by. With each step, his foot pushes the mirage forward. The blues crackle and pop, spark and sizzle in little droplets of light, making way for the briefest of seconds before closing in around the man’s foot again. This repeats with each step he takes. A woman standing just ten yards away with another is talking with heated expression. He can’t hear her voice, but her actions are animated, each wave of her hand, accented in colorful expression. Mists of yellows and reds around her explode outward with each flick of her wrist, or shake of her head. Like a star bursting they erupt in their designated colors only to, by some unseen force, appear to draw back into their original conglomeration. Brent likes this woman the best. Her colors intensify with each expression. She is a delightful display of fireworks.

  “What’s he talking about?” Annalise asks.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.” The two of them are squinting. They follow Brent’s gaze and close in on the woman he seems enraptured with. But all they see is a woman talking.

  “I don’t like this place,” Annalise whispers.

  “No. No, neither do I. We have to find a-”

  “Well, what have we here?” A voice beckons from across the road.

  Neither Annalise nor Garrison saw the man approach. Garrison looks down at his brother, but Brent’s focus looms on the woman across the way. His eyes return to the man walking across the street toward them. The man leans to the left, his weight supported by a black cane. Between his fingers, polished silver peeks out. His dress is elegant, well pressed. Dark slacks over black boots which reflect the firelight in the street lamps. A long top coat sits atop a gray shirt with a stiff collar. The collar and top button are unfastened. Garrison makes out a scar that starts just below the man’s chin and disappears down into the collar. His face is clean, shaven. Sideburns frame either side of his face, but they’re trimmed short, only extending just below the ear. An ample supply of thick, black hair covers the man’s head. It looks oiled, maintained and groomed. Brushed back save for the coiffure at the front just over his forehead, creating a single wave of charcoal locks. One eye holds a monocle.

  He steps without looking either way. His gait is fearless and unconcerned. Garrison thinks for a moment he’ll be plowed over by the pedestrians going to a fro, but he parts them like the Red Sea. They move around him with nary a glance. As if they know of his presence without seeing. He is a force. As the man draws near, it’s the thought Garrison can’t get out of his mind. A force. He strides closer to the three in the alley and pauses a few feet away. Brent acknowledges the man, his eyes growing wider when he sees him. But the Monocle Man pays him no mind, keeping his attention full on Garrison, occasionally looking at Annalise.

  “I recall none of you-” He stops short, pulling back his head a moment and looking the three over at length. “No. This… this cannot be. How have you come here?”

  “Excuse me?” Garrison stutters.

  “How have you come here? It is not your time. You shouldn’t be here. Can’t be here.”

  “We… well… we don’t know how we got here. We were walking in the woods, and-”

  “Unless,” the Monocle Man hisses, taking a step toward Annalise. A startled breath catches in her throat as he pushes his face a few inches from hers. He sniffs. Looks close with the one eye. The other, covered with the monocle, disappears behind the dark glass, a sinking fissure of shadow where an eye used to be. “No, not you,” he concludes.

  He then turns to Garrison. Garrison takes a step back but tries to steady himself. He straightens his spine as the man draws near, trying to stand taller. But this other doesn’t appear fazed. He gets as close to Garrison as he had Annalise and again takes a sniff and looks a time at Garrison and into his eyes. He shakes his head. Then a slight smile spreads across his face. He looks down at Brent. The smile unnerves Garrison even though the man expresses no hostility. He takes an instinctive step in front of his little brother. Without missing a step, the Monocle Man brushes his backhand into Garrison’s arm to move him aside. But Garrison won’t be swayed.

  “Fear not, young man. Had I wanted harm to come to you, it would have been done swiftly. For my time is not to be trifled with. Nor wasted.” He pushes harder and Garrison stands his ground. The Monocle Man takes a step back and surveys the older brother. Clicks his tongue before shaking his head. “Would it prompt you in any way to allow me my perusal if I were to conclude that said perusal might in fact, shed light on the mystery of why and how you came to be here. And also, allow me some pretense as how I might return you from where you came?”

  The man’s eyebrows arch in question. Garrison considers the statement though has a difficult time wrapping his head around its entirety. The language is his, but yet, seems so different. As if he were from some other time. Annalise whispers to Garrison from where she stands, nodding all the while. He doesn’t quite feel at ease, but senses they’ve few options. With reluctance, he takes a step to the side, closer to Annalise, but close enough still that his little brother is within reach.

  The Monocle Man moves in. He bends his knees and squats, laying his cane at an angle on his leg. The handle becomes completely visible for the moment, and Garrison can only wonder what it is. A figure cast in silver, polished. It looks the face of a little girl. But the visage is hard to discern at the angle the cane rests.

  His head bobs from side to side as he looks at the little boy. In return, Brent looks up at the man, still smiling. Though his eyes don’t appear to be looking right at him. But rather, all around him. Garrison wonders if this man too, hosts some kind of colors only his little brother can see. Once again the Monocl
e Man repeats his method of deduction. He sniffs the air around Brent, then looks at the boy with a calculating expression. His eyes widen though, and a half-formed smile fades just as quick from his face, replaced with a look of confusion.

  “This cannot be,” he states as he stands. He taps his cane against the ground several times. Purses his lips, eyes focused on some far off thought.

  “Well?” Garrison asks. “Can you help us get back?”

  “I… I don’t. Yes. I think so. But as to you being here. He is the reason,” tilting his head toward Brent. “Only, I can’t surmise how it’s possible. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Annalise pleads.

  “Come with me. It will do these others little good to see him here.”

  “Who? Brent?” Garrison is nothing, if not confused.

  “Yes, yes. If that’s his name. It won’t do at all. Quickly, come.”

  The Monocle Man taps his cane against the street once more and sets off. Annalise and Garrison exchange glances, not sure what they should do. Brent answers though, by standing and starting after the man.

  “Brent. Where are you going?” Garrison asks in a half-whisper.