The Monocle Man Read online

  How long had they been walking?

  Jakob thought back. It was easily tens of minutes. But how was that possible? Jakob looked down. Saw the polished wooden floor beneath his feet. They were in a room. That was certain. But what kind of room could hold such an endless supply of emptiness? What sort of room went on forever?

  Crowley slowed his pace as he came upon the soft glow ahead of him. Outside the circle the light emitted, he stopped. Jakob was seconds behind him. He stepped up next to Crowley, but swung his head around, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes. A sense of dread and restlessness overcame him. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. Yes, something lurked there in the dark, just beyond the light, and he found himself being pulled toward it. As if the illumination might save him from the shadows beyond. Finally, he shrugged off the feeling best he could, and focused forward.

  A man sat at a small table within the circle of light. He had one arm stretched out, the hand laying palm down atop the table, while the other sat bent at the elbow, his chin resting in that palm. A pair of glasses sat atop the man’s nose, askew and drooping, as he gazed over the frames at the dark and light checkered board in front of him. Chess pieces were laid out, a game currently in progress. Across from the man sat another chair. This one empty though pulled back slightly from the table. Around the perimeter of this table and chairs, sat eight small, narrow side tables. Atop each, three candles burned. A welcoming glow indeed, within such an eerie setting.

  The man in the chair leaned forward, pulling the one hand off the table, as it hovered over one of the light colored chess pieces. With much articulation, he placed his fingers atop the piece and slid it to its new spot on the board. His eyes fixed upon the board again. Both Crowley and Jakob stood just outside the ring of light provided by the candles. Jakob blinked his eyes, in awe of what he witnessed. The air in front of the chess board wavered a spell. As if a bloom of heat from an invisible fire rose around the chessboard. The man sitting on the other side of the board pursed his lips as one of the dark colored chess pieces moved up the board. Up two squares, and over one. As it settled into this new square, it pushed the piece within it out. That piece then fell to its side and rolled off the board to the table. The man grunted as he reached over to right the piece, setting it next to its comrades which had already been expelled from the game.

  “Frater Perdurabo. What brings you here?” The man asked, not looking up from his game. Crowley tried to hide a scowl at the mention of his old monicker. Once, he would have bore the name proudly. But he knew well Samuel used it to remind Crowley of his past; his inability to follow along and do as commanded.

  “Samuel… so good to see you.”

  “You can dispense with the pleasantries Crowley.”

  “An old friend can’t pop in to visit?”

  “I’ve told you to knock. And we are far from friends.”

  “True,” Crowley stated flatly, as he stepped within the circle of light. “But this is a matter of some urgency.”

  “That I doubt.”

  “Doubt what you will Sam,” he said, pulling the empty chair from the table and taking a seat. Jakob noticed the disdain on Samuel’s face at Crowley’s intrusion. “I see you’re still failing at this wretched game.”

  “You’re trying my patience.”

  “Listen Samuel. I know we’ve had our differences.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Yes, yes. Maybe we are estranged. But there’s still one thing we see eye to eye on.”

  Somewhat intrigued, Samuel Mathers nodded, “Continue.”

  “I have stumbled upon a genuine circumstance of… shall we say, supernatural comportment.”

  “Crowley. I spend my afternoons playing chess with an unknown entity. What magic could you possibly possess to persuade me in another direction?”

  “I’m referring to the Abramelin Operation.” At this, Samuel’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

  “You’re mad Crowley!”

  “I am not!”

  “You’d have to be to conjure such a thing.”

  “Samuel! Listen. You and I. We’ve read the text. Nobody knows it more thorough and concise than us. Help me.”

  “I will not!”

  “Because you’re still indignant with me? Or just afraid?”

  “How dare you come into my-“

  “Please Samuel. I apologize,” Crowley interrupted, though Jakob struggled to find little hint of sorry in his voice. He turned toward Samuel who looked just as unimpressed. Crowley continued, “I may have been a bit boisterous. But you know as I do that this can be done!”

  “And why would I Crowley? Pray tell. Why?”

  “This is Jakob,” motioning to the young man. Jakob took a few steps closer. “Listen to the boy’s tale and then decide.”

  Jakob stepped forward near the table. He bowed his head at Samuel, still astounded at what he had witnessed since entering the room. He couldn’t help but wonder if by seating himself, Crowley hadn’t forced some spirit to evacuate the chair. And if so, were such spirits likely to get angry? Take revenge? So much more seemed possible since Lillian’s possession. So much he didn’t understand. He opened his mouth as to speak, but hesitated, not really sure where to begin.

  “Very well,” Samuel conceded, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve not all day, so speak to the point young fellow!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BROOKWISE, NH

  BROOKWISE, NEW HAMPSHIRE

  A slight knock at the door pulls Garrison from his dreams. He’d been dreaming of Annalise. Part remembrance of their evening together. Part make-believe, the way dreams are wont to do… running rampant with your imagination, in worlds that could exist nowhere but in the mind. Garrison pulls his head off the pillow a touch, before falling back into place.

  Just my imagination.

  The knock comes again. Just as faint. This time, the door opens slowly following it. Garrison keeps his eyes closed. Sure he’s still dreaming. The soft padding of feet on the carpeting sounds in the room, and Brent enters, dressed in the pajamas his older brother helped him into early. His hair is tousled from a restless sleep. His eyes, wide, alert, and very much away, stare past everything in his brother’s room, as if he were operating on heightened senses, with aired sight.

  “Gary?” Brent whispers. His brother stirs under the covers. “Gary, are you awake?”

  “Wha… wha…”

  “Gary?” Louder this time. His brother looks across the bedroom from his pillow. His eyes barely open.

  “Brent? What are you doing up?”

  “I had a thought Garrison.” That voice again. The one that seems to be hijacking his little brother as of late. At once, Garrison sits up in bed. He reaches for the light on the nightstand next to his bed, but his brother stops him.

  “No, leave the light Gary. It’s fine.”

  “What are you doing out of bed kiddo?”

  “I told you. I had a thought. And I know where I have to go. Although I’m not sure why.”

  “You’re not making any sense Brent. Are you sleepwalking again?”

  “No.”

  “Well, look at me.”

  His little brother turns his head in his direction, almost robotic, with eyes wide and vacant. Yes, the boy is facing him, but Garrison gets the hint that Brent isn’t really looking at him. No, his gaze seems to go beyond him. Through him.

  “I need to go Gary.”

  “Yeah… yeah, that’s a good idea. You should go back to bed.”

  “Yes, I need to go back.”

  “Do you want me to tuck you in?”

  “No thanks Gary. I can manage.”

  Brent turns on heel and pads out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Garrison jumps from bed and runs to his door, pressing an ear to it. He can barely make out the sound of his brother’s footsteps across the hall. Though he hears the handle turning on the door.

  The door opens.

/>   And then closes.

  Garrison sighs. His eyelids feel like lead. His head hurts. Not yet enough sleep. He’s not sure how to interpret this episode with his little brother. Some effect of the drugs they’d given him to help him sleep? Classic sleepwalking? But what of that voice again? So masculine, adult-like. Garrison’s not sure if he should wake his parents. But then, he’s not even sure if he imagined some, or all of it. A waking dream of sorts. And if it were real, his brother is now safely back in his room. Probably pulling the covers up over his head right now. No, he’ll wait till the morning to alert his parents.

  Padding back to his own bed, Garrison climbs in. He slides his feet this way and that under the covers, getting them just right, and places one arm up under the pillow. His eyes close, and seconds later, his breathing deepens as slumber takes hold.

  2

  2.

  “Brent? Oh Brent? Huh… is he downstairs you think?”

  “He’s not in his room?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll go check.”

  “Brent?”

  His parents' voices carry through the door. Garrison, groggy and half-asleep, pulls his head from his pillow. His tongue feels like sandpaper, his mouth pasty, tasting of the leftover Chinese they had last night for dinner. He sits up, a tight tinge pinching his lower back. He reaches his arms to the sky, trying to stretch both the sleep away and the pain. The dreams from the previous night still linger in all their weirdness. They sit vivid at the forefront of his mind. The one with Annalise and the little clearing in the woods. They sat in a treehouse. His hand held hers. She leaned in. They kissed. He reached up to touch her… and then his brother came into his room. Into the dream? Spoke in that strange adult voice.

  “Brent?” His mother’s voice calls from about the house. “Brent!” He wonders what all the fuss is about when she comes barreling into his bedroom. Startled, he almost falls from his bed. “Is your brother in here with you?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Jesus,” she swears at the far wall. Pivots and leaves the room.

  “Mom?”

  But she's back down the stairs to the first floor. Frantic now and not really knowing what’s going on, Garrison pulls himself from bed and ambles across the room to the hall. His brother’s door sits wide open. Peering in, he sees the covers pulled back, but no sign of Brent. Quickly Garrison crosses the room to the window. He’s relieved to find it, the one he caught his brother staring out of a few nights prior, closed.

  Downstairs he hears his mother and father going this way and that, calling out for his little brother. He exits the bedroom and makes his way downstairs. His mother leans against the kitchen island, one arm clutching her stomach, her other hand atop her forehead. She’s paler than usual. Nervous. Biting her lower lip. He can see her trying to hold back the tears. He approaches her with some trepidation though she doesn’t seem to notice him enter the room.

  A loud set of footsteps crashes up the basement stairs and the door pops open. His father, breathless, closes the door behind him. His eyes are wide.

  “Anything?” His mother pleads.

  “No, he's not down there. Garrison,” turning toward his son. Garrison’s head snaps in his direction. “Did you see your brother this morning?”

  “Uh… no. No, I uh-“

  “What about last night?” His father crosses over to him, bending at the hip and grabbing the boy gently, but firm on the arms.

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think son. When? Take a guess.”

  “I don’t know. I guess, I uh… I uh thought it might have been a dream.”

  “Did he say anything? Do you know where he went?”

  “He’s not here?”

  “No, do you know?”

  “I uh… no. I don’t. He uh, said…-”

  “What did he say?” Garrison shakes his head, trying to recapture the moments of last night.

  “He said, well. He said he had a thought. That he knew where he had to go.”

  “And you didn’t wake us?” His mother screams from across the room. Garrison turns to her, his eyes now welling up. Her hands cradle her cheeks in disbelief.

  “It’s ok son,” his father consoles. “We’re all worried.” Garrison turns his attention back to his father. “Did he say where?”

  “No. No he didn’t. I just thought he was talking about going back to bed. I thought he was sleep walking. Dad I… I… Dad…”

  “All right, all right.” His father pulls him close, wrapping his arms around him. “Let’s not get too far ahead of our emotions now.” He holds his son at arms length, looking into Garrison’s eyes, his face stern and focused, adding, “Why don't you do me favor Garrison. Go upstairs and pull on some warm clothes and shoes. You can help me walk the woods, in case he’s somewhere near. Ok?”

  “Ok.”

  “Good boy,” ruffling Garrison’s hair. As Garrison turns and trots back upstairs, he hears his father cross the room and speak to his mother. “All the same, you might as well call the police. Just to be on the safe side.”

  Garrison makes the second floor landing and pauses. He listens as his mother break down into sobs.

  “We’ll find him,” his father consoles in that same gentle voice. “He can’t have gotten too far. We’ll find him.”

  3

  3.

  He follows his father out of the house about fifteen minutes later. They round it together, walking side by side, feet crunching in the crusted snow, keeping their heads down, searching for any imprints Brent left behind. Garrison is immediately perplexed, noticing the fresh layers of snow but no tracks leading from the porch out into the yard. He can’t remember it snowing hard, just spitting here and there. Not enough to cover one’s tracks. So either Brent left the house early enough for his tracks to get lost in the dusting, or he’d never come outside in the first place. Maybe he’s still in the house.

  But this seems unlikely. They scoured the house from top to bottom. Garrison rummaged through each room, not long after his father cleared them. His mother sat in the kitchen, at the table, her cellphone clutched in hand, as if his little brother might somehow call. Garrison found the idea absurd; a little disheartening. But she sat there, and when one of them would come down the stairs and round the corner, or come back up from the basement, she’d turn to either of them with a glimmer of hope through the tears, only to sob again, her chin on her chest, eyes half closed, wringing the life out of the phone.

  And so, they pulled on some winter clothes and headed outside. Only one trail leading from the porch seems apparent. Around the side of the house, Garrison notices the indentations in the snow from where both he and Brent had played. Footsteps leading around the building. Up the back porch. But none which hint at his brother’s disappearance. None which signify Brent’s journey during the night.

  “Listen Gar. Let’s split up, ok?” His father gestures with his chin, in the opposite direction. “But don’t stray too far.”

  “Dad, I’m not a kid.”

  “I know son. But your mother is a wreck already. Best you stay as close as you can. And if you find something, you make sure you holler at me, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Garrison breaks from his father to venture on his own. He stands in the snow a moment, looking out into the wood, sifting through the ideas running rampant in his mind.

  Where the hell had Brent gone?

  And if he was out here where should he look first?

  Garrison fingers his chin, thinking. Scratches his head. Looks this way and that, and then up. A light snow drifts down from the sky. If it picks up, it will make the search that much more difficult.

  That won’t be good.

  “Come on Gar. Think!” He says out loud. He smiles to himself as an idea forms.

  With a trot, Garrison sets off toward the woodpile. That cursed, hulking mass of wood, which continues to be the bane of his existen
ce. A nail twisted and hammered in his forever memory. He’d seen his brother by it a day ago. Standing there, staring out into the wood. Staring at what, Garrison still didn’t know. But he remembers the transfixed gaze on Brent’s face. The eerie way he spoke to him. The similarity to the way Brent had acted in his bedroom. Yes. It’s as good a place as any to start.

  Garrison approaches the woodpile, taking care to mark in his mind, any tracks that seem fresher than the others. But all in all, they appear the same. His frustration gets the best of him when he rounds the pile and sees not a single imprint in the snow.

  But why not?

  Why were there so few prints?

  His brother is small, granted, but even his boots should leave a hole big enough to see. And the ones from the other day are all but gone now, just a few sets of slight downward curves in the white.

  Panic grips Garrison as his mind reels. He wonders if Brent even tied on a pair of boots. Maybe he slunk out of his bedroom right after Garrison thought the kid went to bed. And what if, he in fact, went out in his pajamas? Was that possible? It might be, given the state of mind his little brother had been in. There, but not quite there. Would they even find him if this were the case?

  For a moment, his mind seizes control of his thoughts. He pictures his brother out there now. The kid stumbling through the snow, barefoot and in his pj’s. Not even a jacket. His feet grow numb as he tracks through the white, the cold. Shivering. Lost. Unaware of his surroundings. Until he can’t walk any longer. Brent lays down in the snow. Tired. Curls up in a ball, his knees tucked in close to his chest, while the wind blows and the temperature drops. And that’s how they’ll find him. An iced statue, asleep forever, under a dusting of white. With crystals in his eyelashes and hair. Lips blue. The peacefulness of sleep frozen forever on his countenance.