The Monocle Man Read online

  “What choice do we have?” Garrison offers.

  “I… what if… I don’t know,” she sobs into her hands.

  “Did you see it Gary?” Brent asks his brother. Garrison thinks he understands.

  “The fire?”

  “You saw it?” His little bother’s face lights up with so much joy, he’s almost propelled to lie.

  “No Brent. I didn’t.”

  “Oh,” disappointed. Brent finds one of the chairs and scoots his backside up into it, hanging his chin to his chest as if he were upset. Then he perks up and looks at his brother. “It was wow!”

  “I bet it was, buddy. I bet it was.”

  “Maybe you’ll see it next.”

  “Maybe.”

  The door to their right opens again, and the man with the monocle strolls through, tapping his cane. He pulls up behind a large desk and plants himself in the chair. The kids look around, taking in the stark contrasts surrounding them. The walls of the room are bare, a pale ochre color, looking fresh and new. Nothing hangs on the walls, but around the room, a flurry of pedestals sit scattered about. Each holds a sculpted depiction of something, or someone. Large heads of gods unknown, full bodies of creatures none of them could begin to fathom. Each statue casts as eerie shadow on the wall behind them, and Garrison wonders if his eyes are deceiving him, or if those shadows are actually moving. The Monocle Man watches a moment before offering a smile. With his chin he motions to the empty chairs. Annalise sits reluctantly. Garrison stands.

  “Suit yourself,” the Monocle Man says. “Now, where were we?”

  “You were going to help us get out of here.”

  “Yes, yes. But not yet.”

  “Wha-”

  “First, I must figure this out.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “Your names,” he spits matter-of-factly.

  “You need to figure out our names?”

  “Not too bright, are you? No, I want your names. What we must figure out comes second.”

  “I… no.”

  “Very well, I’ll begin. My name is Jakob. There. See? That wasn’t so difficult. Now you.”

  “I’m Brent!” The little boy tosses jovially.

  “Ahhhh, Brent. Wonderful monicker. Nice to meet you.” Brent smiles at the man. “You two?”

  “I… I’m Annalise,” she says. “This is Garrison.”

  “Annalise. Garrison.” He pauses a moment. “Brent. Welcome!”

  “Where are we?” Annalise asks.

  “You child, are very, very lost.”

  “But where?”

  “Hmmm. That is difficult to answer. Are you the religious sort?”

  “Not really” Garrison interjects.

  “But of God, you know of him?”

  “Of course.” Annalise blurts.

  “There is a place some say. A place which lies between heaven and hell.”

  “Purgatory.” Garrison adds.

  “Not quite. Purgatory is not, real per se. And if it were so, I venture it’d be a much brighter place than here. Tell me, did you come by staircase?”

  “Yes. Yes we did!” Annalise answers.

  “That place is known as The Great Beyond. Within it, you may find a staircase that leads just about anywhere in all of time and space.”

  “What?” Garrison offers confused.

  “It’s more complicated than that though. You must have a key if you wish to enter.”

  “Enter what?” Garrison continues.

  “The Veil, of course.”

  “The Veil?”

  “You really do not know where you are? Or how you came by it?” Jakob strokes his chin in thought. “Interesting.”

  “No, we. Well, my little brother snuck out of the house. He walked through the woods. We followed him in a way. Found this tree.”

  “Or what was left of it,” Annalise adds.

  “Yeah, what was left. It was turned up, or over rather. Uprooted. The tree trunk and roots all torn up from the ground. In it there were these lights. Lights in a mass of black… gunk, I guess. We heard Brent’s voice, so we came through.”

  “Yes, the key.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Him,” Jakob pointing to Brent.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I. Not yet. But your little brother conducts a certain familiarity about him. I know him. Know his soul. Yet cannot fathom at this juncture how that might be. I need… a little time.”

  “But we need to get back,” Annalise pleads.

  “Yet, you cannot. I won’t allow it. Not yet. There’s something sinister at work here. And I must discover what.”

  “But-”

  “Until then, you’ll be my guests. Come, let us sit in the Arena. There we can converse more. Possibly unravel the turret of it all.”

  Jakob stands from his chair and turns on heel. He strides over to the door on the right. The three watch it open. He waits for them though taps his cane and raises his eyebrows at each as if to hurry them. This time Garrison moves first, while Annalise and Brent look to him with question. In one hand he takes his little brother’s. In the other, Annalise’s. He pulls the two through the door and Jakob follows behind.

  THE FARMHOUSE 1

  THE FARMHOUSE…

  His eyes widen as the door swings open. Reynolds stands, transfixed at the apparition before him. He’s seen nothing like it. Imagined nothing like it. Though he isn’t what anyone would call the imaginative sort. Reynolds looked at the world through eyes spectacled with common sense and logic. Everything with reason. A purpose. And above all… an explanation. But this? Well this… this dreamscape-like visage before him is something else.

  Without knowing he’s doing it, Reynolds takes a step closer. Circles the thing in the room. On his right, two windows are missing, long since fallen out, or broken. Snow and wind blow through, dampening the carpet by the wall, with flakes of white piling up in little drifts. But he feels neither the wind, nor the cold. He hardly even notices the missing windows, and the decrepit windowsill crumbling from age and neglect. Reynolds is focused in front of him.

  The darkness looming within jars Reynolds visually. It consumes a quarter of the room, making him weary about getting too close at first. He blinks away the sight, waiting for the apparition of smoke to dissipate. But it clings to the room. Hovering. Not a cloud, but a dense blob floating before him. It rests just above the floor, reaching a foot or two above his head. It looks painted on the air. A can of charcoal paint, tossed into the room, exploded and frozen in place. But the apparition is far from frozen. The black coalesces. It moves and undulates, an oily substance hiding a creature within. Beneath, the floor looks as if it’s fallen away, swallowed by a dark abyss. A puddle of nothingness where the floor should be, swallowing the light. Along the outside of the murky obstruction, an uneven ring of light sheds some illumination, though it doesn’t so much as spill out and brighten things. It hums softly, in place, lighting only itself and nothing around it. Within the blackness dance thousands, no, millions of tiny white specs. Like snowflakes falling in front of a blowing fan. Only they aren’t a construct of water and air, but rather pinholes of light. These fall to the floor, all into the darkness there, where all at once they extinguish.

  “What… the fuck?” Muttering aloud.

  Reynolds rubs his eyes over and again, trying to wipe away the hallucination. As that’s how his rational mind allows him to consider it. He wonders if he’s still outside somewhere. Fallen in the snow, tired and cold; drifting off to sleep. To death. And this is just some fabrication of his mind. But it all looks so unbelievably real. Reynolds shakes these thoughts away and moves in closer. He expects something, anything, but the apparition doesn’t give off a feel or scent. Not even a sound. That’s when he realizes how quiet everything has become.

  He removes one of his gloves, and, with his bare hand reaches forward into the anomaly. His hand disappears into the blackness, swallowed like the light. There’s a tin
gling now. Little pricks on his skin. Not unpleasant. Reynolds moves his fingers and twists his wrist. His hand moves through a thick viscosity. When he pulls it back nothing remains on his skin. He sniffs at his fingers, the back of his hand. Nothing unusual. Moves in closer.

  Reynolds stands there, at the threshold, wondering why he’s so tempted to take a step forward. He senses no danger, but, why would he? This is something he’s sure no-one has ever seen or experienced in their lives before. There can be no common or programmed response to something such as this.

  Reynolds takes several steps back, allowing his mind time to analyze the situation. He looks toward the broken window; the snow falling into the room. Walks over to the broken aperture and stands gazing out into the night. The landscape before him, one of a small patch of yard and the tree-line behind it, all covered in fresh powdery white, seems to extend forever. He knows there’s no savior out there. No real possibility of finding cover, or some place safe. The safest place is where he is now. He’s out of the snow at least. Out of the cold. He should just stay put, only venturing out to find some wood. Maybe even bust up the table in the dining room for kindling. There’s the banister leading upstairs as well. Both would do fine to start a fire. The house is as dry as he’ll find, given the hour and the diminishing situation. He nods to himself, eyes never leaving the apparition. That’s what he’ll do. Get a fire going in the living room. Let the warmth of the flames melt the chill from his bones, his body. Lie down for a while in front of the warming flames. Get some much needed sleep. In time, the storm will pass. And then he can venture out in the morning.

  Resolved now, Reynolds turns and leaves the room. He pauses before closing the door behind him, certain that in the morning, he’ll find this room exactly as he left it. Though he doubts he’ll be able to free his mind of it, even in sleep. Not that he’s threatened by the apparition, but rather, tempted. He thinks it’s best if he doesn’t see it. Somehow leaving the door open seems more an invitation to concede to this feeling he has. That which beckons him to take a step through the anomaly.

  The door catches with a click, and Reynolds exhales. A sense of burden lifts from his shoulders. He strolls through the kitchen back into the living room, pulling his glove back on. Before touching the banister, he takes a quick walk upstairs. So much of the floor is missing he doesn’t dare go much further than the doorways in the hall. He closes each door, hoping to stave off some more of the cold coming in through the half-missing rooms, busted windows and crumbling walls. At the bottom of the stairs he tugs gently at first, confirming the sturdiness of the banister. In moments though, he has it down in two large sections. Reynolds drags these into the living room and kicks the spindles free of the railing. He sets a few in the fireplace.

  Reynolds shakes his head, looking at his work. Sure, the fireplace is set, ready to go. He’s plenty of other spindles set to the side of the hearth. His body aches for the warmth of the fire. But he grits his teeth, realizing he’s no way to the light the fire. With a deep sigh, steeling himself for the bitter truth he just might have to sleep in the cold tonight, he walks throughout the downstairs, picking through everything in hope to find some source of fire. In the kitchen, a smile spreads across his lips. One of the drawers holds a box. The picture on the outside shows a long, wooden match. Smoke rising from the flame glowing at its tip. He pulls the box from the drawer and, holding his breath, gives it a shake. The rattle of a single matchstick offers a glimmer of hope.

  Soon after, a fire burns within the fireplace. His eyes grow thick with sleep the second the warmth touches his face. He feeds the fire some, making sure it’s fueled well before lying on his side, and folding his hands beneath his head.

  THE ARENA OF SOULS

  THE ARENA OF Souls…

  “What is this place?” Annalise asks as they crest a set of stairs.

  All around them impatient shouts sound. Down the staircase a way, the monocle man, Jakob, had taken the lead. Brent towed behind him first, followed by the other two, Annalise in the rear. They watched Jakob take a quick right at the top of the stairs. When they reached the landing, they entered a platform of sorts. Garrison thought it looked like box seats at a baseball game.

  The area, rectangular, rests behind short walls with a canopy above. A series of chairs, much like the ones in Jakob’s office sit in pairs, small round-top tables between each set. Garrison lets his gaze go full circle, and before them, looking out from the front of the box, is something he’s never seen.

  The Arena stretches out in a large oval, encompassing an area below of jumbled earth and concrete. Old statues lie on their sides, or protrude from the ground as if they’d grown there, a garden of crumbling granite. The stone and paved Arena floor runs jagged in a series of crags as if disturbed by an earthquake. Folds of concrete jut up in various places. There’s vegetation too, though it’s sparse. Little tufts of long grass sprout alongside the statues and concrete while vines snake from the ground and seem to hold everything in their grasp. Large posts of varying lengths burst from the ground. The tallest ones near the center, the shorter around the outer edge, burn with bright orange and yellow fires, illuminating everything below. All around the circumference of the structure, large arched doorways open into darkness beyond.

  “The crowd grows impatient,” Jakob states. “I’m afraid our little encounter has pushed my schedule back some.”

  “Your schedule? Your… what… what is this?” Garrison questions, his brow furrowing.

  “This,” Jakob boasts, standing tall and spreading his arms. “This, is the Arena of Souls.” When neither of his guests respond he frowns a little then takes a seat in mild disappointment. “I know, I know,” he adds. “Not very creative. I’m afraid the monicker is not of my choosing. The Arena existed long before I came to care for it.”

  “What’s if for?” Annalise pipes in.

  “Please. Have a seat so I might set things in motion.” Brent climbs into one chair, but both Annalise and Garrison take a few steps closer, placing their hands on the short wall overlooking the entire Arena. “Very well then,” Jakob says as he too makes his way to the front of the box.

  Annalise cranes her neck left, leaning forward over the wall. Instinctively, Garrison places a hand at the small of her back, steadying her in the event of an accidental fall. Their eyes arc around the Arena, looking left and right, forward and below. A vast mix of people occupy the seats. These differ little from before. Each is just as strange as the ones they’d seen out in the street. All manner of dress and age. Though one thing dawns on Garrison.

  “There are no children?”

  “No. Why would there be?” Jakob asks, eluding to the absurdity of Garrison’s question. The boy looks up at him with a furrowed brow again. “Right. Yes. I forgot. Not all of us in attendance are privy to the how and why of this place. Well, allow me to get things started. Then we can sit and discuss things in greater detail.”

  “You mean, us getting out of here.”

  “Yes, an eventuality. But I don’t like for events to get backed up. Makes for a hell of time here. Please, one moment.”

  Jakob looks down at the wall in front of him. A door which neither Garrison nor Annalise noticed, as if appearing from nowhere, opens. The wall parts on phantom hinges and swings wide. The floor beneath Jakob’s feet extends and he walks out over the crowd. With every step he takes, another foot of platform unfolds. Garrison wonders if he’s imagining it. But the look on Annalise’s face confirms she too is witnessing the event. He waits for the platform to bend or fold over on itself. Expects the weight of Jakob to eventually snap the narrow, extending walkway. But this never happens. The platform keeps unfolding until it hangs out over the Arena, covering nearly half the circumference. There, Jakob stops. He turns one way, then the other, his hands out at his sides, fingers splayed, cane leaning against his leg. He looks, for a moment, a conductor. With a smile he sets his hands at his side. Taking his cane up in one hand, holds it aloft to the sky,
then brings it down on the platform. A thunder booms about the Arena, and as Jakob turns around and starts back toward the box, the place erupts in applause.

  “What’s going on?” Garrison questions as Jakob steps off the disappearing platform and back into the box. The door in the wall swings shut, and he pauses a second before turning to the young man.

  “Life my new friend. Life.”

  A wave of excitement bursts through the air, carried on the shouts and cheers all around them. Annalise and Garrison turn to each other, question on their faces. Both shrug and return their attention to the Arena. Brent smiles, sitting idly by, his eyes scanning the vast array of colorful auras only he can see, bursting with anticipation throughout the stands. The applause and shouts continue for some time before slowly fading to a murmur. A hush falls over the crowd. When a man walks out from one of the archways below, the crowd erupts again, startling the kids. He’s an average looking man in basic jeans and a t-shirt. A black leather jacket sits unbuttoned on his torso while his feet are encased in a pair of black boots. The pompadour hairstyle makes Annalise think back on a movie she’d seen at some point. One her mother seemed to cherish. Black leather jackets and hot rods. Bowling and motorcycle gangs. For the moment, the movie slips her mind. But the man below walks with a sense of purpose. Strides almost, toward the center of the Arena, glancing up on occasion through the locks of hair curled down over his brow.

  Another eruption from the crowd follows a woman stepping from a different archway. With an air of dignity and grace she steps forward and comes within a few feet of the other at the Arena’s center. She’s a few inches shorter than the greaser, a few years younger, and dressed in a rather elegant gown. The gown is cinched tight around her waist, her bosom spilling out up top, while below it billows out in layers and ruffles. She has her hair pulled back in a blue bow to match her dress, and a pair of gloves pulled up over the elbows, of the same color. The two size each other up. He, with a snarky, over-confident smile; she, with a lilt of the eyebrow as if he’s taken for granted how formidable a woman might be. A hush falls over the crowd for the briefest of moments. Garrison and the others look on, not sure what to expect.