The stone edifice of the building materialized slowly out of the thick fog as the car bearing Nolan arrived. Nolan sat in the back, staring out the window, seeing nothing of what passed by outside. He'd made up his mind already, he was sure he had, so why did he keep thinking about it? Of course there were questions but he doubted that the answers to them would change his mind about things. Maybe it was just the strangeness of the whole situation. It was hard to just accept it and move forward, every time he tried to focus on any particular facet of the whole it lost meaning.
The driver, who had maintained his signature silence since picking Nolan up, spoke suddenly. “We're here. Mr. Sound will meet you at the door.”
Nolan drew himself out of the slouch he'd lapsed into and did a small stretch. He had expected to feel nervous, butterflies in his stomach and all that, but he wasn't. What he felt was more akin to terrified anticipation, like cresting the first hill of a roller coaster, and he liked it. He hadn't felt such a strong emotion about anything in a long time.
The building didn't measure up to Nolan's expectations either. He hadn't paid much attention to it when they'd left the day before and now found it completely incongruous. The walls were crumbling gray brick around empty black holes that might have once served as windows. The remnants of a rusted, chain-link fence leaned so far over that it was nearly lost in the thick scraggle of weeds bursting through the concrete. The whole area was so run down Nolan couldn't even guess as to what its purpose might be. Which, he supposed, was most likely the point.
The driver stopped briefly to let Nolan out and drove off. As Nolan reached the tall, steel door at the entrance it opened with a squeal and there stood Mr. Sound, his dark suit melding with the shadows of the dark hallway behind him.
“Mr. Savitch,” he called out congenially, “I can't tell you how pleased I am at your decision.”
Nolan stopped in front of Mr. Sound and tried to look at him steadily, with limited success.
“Just so I'm clear,” said Nolan, “this isn't a 'once you're in you're in' kind of deal is it? I can still change my mind later, right?”
“Nolan,” said Mr. Sound, adopting what Nolan suspected was supposed to be a fatherly tone (it wasn't), “this is not a cult and you are not our prisoner. This is an occupation, and like any line of work, you are free to quit if you so choose. As the people on television say 'you may cancel any time'.” Mr. Sound chuckled to himself and it sounded like gravel rolling down the walls of some subterranean cavern.
“And who is it exactly that I'll be working for? Is this a government operation?”
Mr. Sound's smiled faltered slightly at the word “government'. “We are a private organization, privately funded, completely autonomous. Certain members of the government are aware of our activities but they prefer to keep their distance. 'Plausible deniability' and all that.”
Nolan detected the faint smell of bullshit around Mr. Sound's words. He wasn't sure why but he had the feeling there was more to that story than he was getting.
“Is there anything else that concerns you?” Mr. Sound continued.
“No,” said Nolan, “not at that moment anyway.”
“Then if you'll follow me.” Mr. Sound turned in almost militaristic fashion and strode off down the hallway, his heels making echoey clicks as he walked. His long legs carried him so far so quickly that Nolan practically had to jog to catch up.
The interior of the building was exactly what one would have expected to find based on the exterior. The floors were dirty and strewn with refuse. There were few windows lining the crumbling hall they walked and even fewer that contained any intact glass. Light was scarce and what little there was wound its way through the building from half open doorways and cracks in the ceiling. Nolan thought “run down” would have been an extremely kind description.
As they walked down the hall Nolan was struck by another of his “being watched” episodes. This one was unusually brief, and probably would have ended before he was aware it was happening, if it hadn't it coincided with another, seemingly unrelated, occurrence. It might have been a trick of the light or even a figment of Nolan's admittedly frantic mind. Walking behind Mr. Sound, Nolan saw him shiver as the sensation came and went. Except shiver wasn't quite the word for it. Mr. Sound's body did not appear to physically move, he never broke stride or changed his posture, yet his form visibly shimmered. For an instant it was as if Nolan were seeing the man through a cascade of water, like rain running down a window. It was an odd occurrence in a long line of odd occurrences and, not really knowing what it had been anyway, Nolan filed it away for later contemplation.
“So,” said Nolan, “is there some kind of orientation video of handbook I need to look at?” The words sounded ridiculous in his ears and he regretted them before he was even done speaking. Mr. Sound, however, seemed to either not notice or not care.
“We tend towards a more on-the-job approach to training. There really is no substitute for jumping in and getting your hands dirty. Not to worry though, you'll be working with one of my best men. I'll introduce you shortly, but first there's someone else I'd like you to meet.”
Mr. Sound stopped in front of a set of very heavy looking metal doors. Set into the wall next to them was a numeric keypad into which Mr. Sound quickly punched a long series of numbers. The doors shuddered apart and Nolan noticed they were several inches thick and quite solid. Behind the doors was a large, metal elevator compartment that looked big enough to hold a small car. Mr. Sound stepped inside and Nolan, only hesitating for a moment, followed. There were no buttons or controls on the inside of the elevator, the doors simply shut of their own accord and the elevator began its descent.
“The work we do here,” continued Mr. Sound, ”the work you will soon be engaged in, isn't easy. You are going to encounter things that will defy your current definitions of logic and reason. You may believe at present that you understand what that means. You do not.”
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open on a hallway strikingly different from the one they'd left. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all clean, smooth concrete, creating a massive, perfectly square, passage . Florescent lights beamed brightly down from the ceiling. Doors of polished metal lined either wall at regular intervals, with thick looking, frosted windows set with wire mesh in between them. At the end of the hall stood a massive metal wall that looked to be set on rails, with a much smaller door set into the lower right corner. Nolan wanted to say something but, since “wow” was the only thing his stunned brain could come up with, he remained silent.
Mr. Sound stepped briskly out of the elevator and proceeded down the hall with Nolan beside him. “It is extremely important to me that all my agents are as prepared as they possibly can be for the mental challenges they will face in the field. While your partner will be there to help you with the details there are some things no amount of explanation or training can prepare one for. Some things you simply have to experience for yourself.”
Mr. Sound stopped before the door in the huge metal wall.
“With that in mind I would like to introduce you to our most unusual resident.”
Mr. Sound grasped the metal handle on the door and turned it downward. The latch clanked and the door swung into the room beyond.
“Nolan Savitch,” Mr. Sound intoned, with almost palpable relish, “say hello to Nyarlathotep.”
Chapter 10 - A Woman's Guide to Dealing With Hellspawn
Constance was not in a good mood. Something was happening and she had become unavoidably aware of it. There were portents everywhere, her morning walk had been positively full of them. The average person might make the mistake of thinking that being able to read portents would be a neat ability to have, and the average person could not have been more wrong. Constance had learned, through experience, several unfortunate rules concerning the art of reading portents.
First of all, most portents rarely told you anything of any real importance. The wealth of minutia that could be read in portents was staggering and of almost zero use. It often took years of study just to learn how to look past all the pointless garbage. There were reasons why it was the way it was, but they were mostly the sorts of cosmically unfathomable tenets that made Constance want to punch something.
Secondly, the rules regarding the meanings and interactions of portents were mind numbing in their intricacy. Location, time of day, weather patterns, it all mattered. Constance had once forgotten to turn her watch ahead for daylight savings time, read a sign wrong, and spent the rest of the day thinking she was going to die in a fire when she was actually just going to get her period early (which, it turned out, would have been very useful to know).
Then there were the illusionists. As it turned out, portents were extremely easy to fake, so a large part of a seer's training was spent learning to tell the difference between real and artificial signs. If you weren't careful even an amateur illusionist could royally fuck up your day.
The thing that Constance like the least about scrying, and by a considerable margin, was the fact that, once you learned how to do it, you couldn't not do it. If there were three ravens sitting on an oak branch facing east at sunset somewhere nearby you'd see it, whether you wanted to or not.
It all added up to one the most incredibly annoying and utterly useless talents one could possess. So, of course, Constance had a natural affinity for it. Thankfully it wasn't her only skill.
Now she was on the toilet, pointlessly brooding over the impending whatever it was, and getting more irritated by the minute. She normally liked going to the bathroom, not so much for the act itself (that would have been weird), but more for the serenity of it. It was a personal, quiet time where one could be reasonably sure one would be left alone. No one, apart perhaps from poorly raised children and those bearing the most dire of news, would dare to intrude on a person's bathroom time. Except now that stupid sense of foreboding had followed her there and spoiled it. It was almost depressing.
Constance finished her business, cleaned up, and prepared to return to the non-bathroom world. She stood, turned, and reached to flush the toilet, which was the precise moment when her heart stopped.
There are many things in the world that may give a person pause, like someone approaching them brandishing a gun, or witnessing the eruption of a volcano, or watching their child take its first steps, but few things have the sheer stopping power of seeing blood in a toilet. Particularly when one has just finished using it.
Constance stared down at the bloody horror her body had produced, her mind grappling with the sight, locked in the grip of that sinking feeling one gets in presence of the truly horrifying. Slowly the all-too-bright red swirls began to flow and shift of their own accord. Constance's eyes widened even further as the swirls coalesced and started to form shapes. A bitter, acidic taste developed in the back of her throat and her stomach rolled alarmingly. It was only when part of her mind started to recognize some of the shapes that her paralysis broke. She slammed the lid down, slammed the door shut, dashed out her door without bothering to put her shoes on, and stood on her front porch shivering in spite of the days warmth. She hadn't bothered to flush. It wouldn't have worked anyway.
A tiny wisp of smoke, barely visible, coming from nowhere at all, drifted lazily past Constance's ear. As it passed she heard the tiny breath of a voice.
“Come back,” it whispered.
Constance lifted her head and faced in the direction of the voice.
“Absolutely not. I am not talking to that... thing in the toilet. If you're going to address me then find another way.”
Another wisp of smoke drifted by. “Fine,” it whispered, “just come back inside.”
Constance turned around, regaining some of her composure now that she had asserted some control over the situation, and went back inside.
Just inside the door, dangling on from the ceiling in front of the window, there was a plant in a hanging basket. Constance had never been much good with plants, most of them died on her quite quickly, but for some reason this one had survived and flourished in her care. As she walked inside the plants leaves began to rustle. She sighed and seated herself on the arm of her couch to watch. With eerie speed the vines lifted and twisted around each other, intertwining here and braiding themselves together there, until they had achieved the semblance of a face. It was a face Constance knew well. Under normal circumstances it was an imposing, even intimidating, face that commanded respect and occasionally, in the right light, awe. Being emulated by an hibiscus, however, seemed to lessen the effect. When its verdant transmogrification was complete the plant spoke to Constance in a voice that was also, under normal circumstances, much more peremptory, but then it usually wasn't accompanied by the ceaseless rustle of tiny leaves.
“Constance...”, the plant face began.
“That was disgusting,” Constance interrupted, “what possessed you to appear like that?”
The plant face paused. “I thought it was funny.”
“Funny!? Do you have any idea how terrified I was? I thought that had come out of me!”
“How do you know it didn't?”
Constance eyed the plant for a minute. It was difficult, even when it had taken the form of a face, to tell when a plant was fucking with you. She decided it was and further decided to move on.
“You have, unquestionably, the most horrible sense of humor of any sentient being in the whole of existence.”
“And you should have seen the look on your face,” The plant face chuckled and shook its many leaves in amusement, “priceless.”
“It's amazing,” Constance said with a sigh, “I'm already tired of talking to you.”
“You know, most people tend to address me with a little more respect.”
“Yes and most people aren't addressing you through a plant. What do you want?”
The plant face affected, with limited success, a look of solemnity. Apparently playtime was over. “Something is happening. Forces have been set in motion and your particular talents are required.”
Constance rolled her eyes and let a thick lock of her auburn hair drop down across her face. She had somehow gotten the idea into her head that this lock of hair, when positioned in such a manner, made her appear both intimidating and irritated, a combination of emotions she often had cause to convey to others. She was mistaken.
“Something,” the plant-face continued, “has begun to stir in the void. Minds that have long slept are beginning to awaken and turn their attention towards your world.”
Constance stared intently at the plant and tried her best to look put upon. “And what, Mally, do you expect me to do about that?”
There was a heavy silence for a moment. The vines of the plant began to shiver and several tiny tendrils of smoke drifted up from within the leafy mass. A few of the leaves turned black and disintegrated. Constance knew she had pushed things too far. She wasn’t necessarily afraid, at least not of this one, he was hardly more than a trumped up messenger, but it seemed a shame to see the only plant she’d managed to keep alive destroyed.
“Forgive me Great Malacath.” She intoned with cleverly concealed mock reverence, “I meant no disrespect. How may I serve the Masters?”
“There is one who seeks to awaken He Who Dreams. This cannot be allowed to happen. This person must be stopped.”
“Wait a minute. Who’s this ‘He Who Dreams’? I’m not familiar that name?”
“That is not your concern.”
Constance frowned. She didn’t like being kept in the dark, but she’d learned long ago that if the Masters didn’t want you to know something there was no use asking twice.
“Okay, so any idea where I can find this mysterious interloper?”
“He has hidden himself from us but we believe he hides in the city. He is, as we speak, being pursued by Mr. Sound and his people. They may be of use to you.”
Constance groaned. “Wonderful. I’m sure they’re going to be remarkably cooperative.”
“Time is of the essence. Find this man before he achieves his goal.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Then I shall take my leave. Good luck… ‘Connie’.”
The plant-face twisted into the closest approximation it could achieve of a malicious grin and burst spectacularly into flame.
Constance hung her head and sighed. “Fucking demons.”
First of all, most portents rarely told you anything of any real importance. The wealth of minutia that could be read in portents was staggering and of almost zero use. It often took years of study just to learn how to look past all the pointless garbage. There were reasons why it was the way it was, but they were mostly the sorts of cosmically unfathomable tenets that made Constance want to punch something.
Secondly, the rules regarding the meanings and interactions of portents were mind numbing in their intricacy. Location, time of day, weather patterns, it all mattered. Constance had once forgotten to turn her watch ahead for daylight savings time, read a sign wrong, and spent the rest of the day thinking she was going to die in a fire when she was actually just going to get her period early (which, it turned out, would have been very useful to know).
Then there were the illusionists. As it turned out, portents were extremely easy to fake, so a large part of a seer's training was spent learning to tell the difference between real and artificial signs. If you weren't careful even an amateur illusionist could royally fuck up your day.
The thing that Constance like the least about scrying, and by a considerable margin, was the fact that, once you learned how to do it, you couldn't not do it. If there were three ravens sitting on an oak branch facing east at sunset somewhere nearby you'd see it, whether you wanted to or not.
It all added up to one the most incredibly annoying and utterly useless talents one could possess. So, of course, Constance had a natural affinity for it. Thankfully it wasn't her only skill.
Now she was on the toilet, pointlessly brooding over the impending whatever it was, and getting more irritated by the minute. She normally liked going to the bathroom, not so much for the act itself (that would have been weird), but more for the serenity of it. It was a personal, quiet time where one could be reasonably sure one would be left alone. No one, apart perhaps from poorly raised children and those bearing the most dire of news, would dare to intrude on a person's bathroom time. Except now that stupid sense of foreboding had followed her there and spoiled it. It was almost depressing.
Constance finished her business, cleaned up, and prepared to return to the non-bathroom world. She stood, turned, and reached to flush the toilet, which was the precise moment when her heart stopped.
There are many things in the world that may give a person pause, like someone approaching them brandishing a gun, or witnessing the eruption of a volcano, or watching their child take its first steps, but few things have the sheer stopping power of seeing blood in a toilet. Particularly when one has just finished using it.
Constance stared down at the bloody horror her body had produced, her mind grappling with the sight, locked in the grip of that sinking feeling one gets in presence of the truly horrifying. Slowly the all-too-bright red swirls began to flow and shift of their own accord. Constance's eyes widened even further as the swirls coalesced and started to form shapes. A bitter, acidic taste developed in the back of her throat and her stomach rolled alarmingly. It was only when part of her mind started to recognize some of the shapes that her paralysis broke. She slammed the lid down, slammed the door shut, dashed out her door without bothering to put her shoes on, and stood on her front porch shivering in spite of the days warmth. She hadn't bothered to flush. It wouldn't have worked anyway.
A tiny wisp of smoke, barely visible, coming from nowhere at all, drifted lazily past Constance's ear. As it passed she heard the tiny breath of a voice.
“Come back,” it whispered.
Constance lifted her head and faced in the direction of the voice.
“Absolutely not. I am not talking to that... thing in the toilet. If you're going to address me then find another way.”
Another wisp of smoke drifted by. “Fine,” it whispered, “just come back inside.”
Constance turned around, regaining some of her composure now that she had asserted some control over the situation, and went back inside.
Just inside the door, dangling on from the ceiling in front of the window, there was a plant in a hanging basket. Constance had never been much good with plants, most of them died on her quite quickly, but for some reason this one had survived and flourished in her care. As she walked inside the plants leaves began to rustle. She sighed and seated herself on the arm of her couch to watch. With eerie speed the vines lifted and twisted around each other, intertwining here and braiding themselves together there, until they had achieved the semblance of a face. It was a face Constance knew well. Under normal circumstances it was an imposing, even intimidating, face that commanded respect and occasionally, in the right light, awe. Being emulated by an hibiscus, however, seemed to lessen the effect. When its verdant transmogrification was complete the plant spoke to Constance in a voice that was also, under normal circumstances, much more peremptory, but then it usually wasn't accompanied by the ceaseless rustle of tiny leaves.
“Constance...”, the plant face began.
“That was disgusting,” Constance interrupted, “what possessed you to appear like that?”
The plant face paused. “I thought it was funny.”
“Funny!? Do you have any idea how terrified I was? I thought that had come out of me!”
“How do you know it didn't?”
Constance eyed the plant for a minute. It was difficult, even when it had taken the form of a face, to tell when a plant was fucking with you. She decided it was and further decided to move on.
“You have, unquestionably, the most horrible sense of humor of any sentient being in the whole of existence.”
“And you should have seen the look on your face,” The plant face chuckled and shook its many leaves in amusement, “priceless.”
“It's amazing,” Constance said with a sigh, “I'm already tired of talking to you.”
“You know, most people tend to address me with a little more respect.”
“Yes and most people aren't addressing you through a plant. What do you want?”
The plant face affected, with limited success, a look of solemnity. Apparently playtime was over. “Something is happening. Forces have been set in motion and your particular talents are required.”
Constance rolled her eyes and let a thick lock of her auburn hair drop down across her face. She had somehow gotten the idea into her head that this lock of hair, when positioned in such a manner, made her appear both intimidating and irritated, a combination of emotions she often had cause to convey to others. She was mistaken.
“Something,” the plant-face continued, “has begun to stir in the void. Minds that have long slept are beginning to awaken and turn their attention towards your world.”
Constance stared intently at the plant and tried her best to look put upon. “And what, Mally, do you expect me to do about that?”
There was a heavy silence for a moment. The vines of the plant began to shiver and several tiny tendrils of smoke drifted up from within the leafy mass. A few of the leaves turned black and disintegrated. Constance knew she had pushed things too far. She wasn’t necessarily afraid, at least not of this one, he was hardly more than a trumped up messenger, but it seemed a shame to see the only plant she’d managed to keep alive destroyed.
“Forgive me Great Malacath.” She intoned with cleverly concealed mock reverence, “I meant no disrespect. How may I serve the Masters?”
“There is one who seeks to awaken He Who Dreams. This cannot be allowed to happen. This person must be stopped.”
“Wait a minute. Who’s this ‘He Who Dreams’? I’m not familiar that name?”
“That is not your concern.”
Constance frowned. She didn’t like being kept in the dark, but she’d learned long ago that if the Masters didn’t want you to know something there was no use asking twice.
“Okay, so any idea where I can find this mysterious interloper?”
“He has hidden himself from us but we believe he hides in the city. He is, as we speak, being pursued by Mr. Sound and his people. They may be of use to you.”
Constance groaned. “Wonderful. I’m sure they’re going to be remarkably cooperative.”
“Time is of the essence. Find this man before he achieves his goal.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Then I shall take my leave. Good luck… ‘Connie’.”
The plant-face twisted into the closest approximation it could achieve of a malicious grin and burst spectacularly into flame.
Constance hung her head and sighed. “Fucking demons.”
Chapter 9 - A Tentative Life
Nolan stepped quickly into his apartment and tossed his keys on the
table next to the door with a dull clatter that seemed to die too
quickly in the still air. He walked down the short hallway without
bothering to take off his shoes and into the small kitchen. He grabbed a
shot glass and a bottle of cheap whiskey from the cabinets above the
counter and filled the glass with booze. Nolan carried the glass and
the bottle into the living room and slumped down onto the couch,
spilling whiskey on his hand and pants. He didn’t notice. Nolan
drained the glass, wincing as the alcohol burned its way down his
throat, and filled it again.
The car ride home had been mercifully silent and uneventful. Upon entering the vehicle Nolan had found a large, manila envelope with his name on it containing the two personal items he'd left in his cab the night before: his cellphone and his share of that night's earnings. His only vocal interaction with the driver was to confirm that, yes, his cab had been returned to the garage. Having settled that marginally important piece of business he had settled back into the seat for the remainder of the trip.
Returning home Nolan found he was too mentally and emotionally restless to sit alone in his empty apartment and dwell on all he'd learned. He needed distraction and decided a walk through the city might be just the thing to clear his head. Inlet City was not a bustling metropolis by any measure but it was well populated for its size and, it being a Friday night, the streets were full and humming with life; it seemed the perfect mixture of white noise and ceaseless movement to act as the background for a evening of introspection and contemplation. Unfortunately for Nolan he couldn't have been more wrong. He'd walked those street many times before and knew them all very well. It should have been comforting, being in a familiar place, with all the familiar sights and sounds, but as he walked a feeling of paranoid unease began to creep over him. All the shadows now seemed to deep. Seemingly innocent glances from people passing by now felt full of concealed malice. Every fleeting movement in of the corner of one eye made him want to whirl around to face it. With every unexpected sound he had to fight an overwhelming urge to run away.
All the familiar things he'd come to know had taken on menacing overtones. Everything seemed changed. Mr. Sound's words came back to him then and it wasn't hard to see the truth. Nothing had changed. He was the thing that was different. He'd become permanently hyper-aware of the world around him. His mind latched on to every movement, every sound, every smell, desperate to analyze its meaning. No longer could anything be taken for granted, reason and rationale no longer applied, and all manner of terrible possibilities had been granted credence. The world had become a chaos of potential dangers; a night river, cold and black, whose waters he could no longer trust nor navigate. Nolan retread back up the street. The quiet and solitude of his empty apartment, and its supposed safety, suddenly seemed much more appealing.
Being there, however, had proved to be less than comforting. Was it possible that he had once thought his apartment was quiet? It had been a sound that had sent him on his bizarre adventure and so it seemed his mind remained attuned to every noise. The hum of the refrigerator running in the kitchen, the quiet buzz of some loose connection in the bulb of the lamp behind him, and through the closed window came the muffled drone of the city going about its business.
I'll probably always be sensitive to sounds now, he thought, just waiting for the next one that means “danger”.
Nolan downed the second shot of whiskey and poured himself another. It was all too much for him to deal with at that point, he was too tired and too overwhelmed to approach the situation with anything resembling coherence. Perhaps what he really needed was to relax and get some rest, if he could. The alcohol was already working its magic on him and hopefully a few minutes of quiet reading would finish the job. Nolan got up from the couch and turned, meaning to get a book from the bookshelf, but he stopped short of his destination. The bookshelf was empty. It wasn't unusual for the shelves to be empty. In fact, when he thought about it, they were always empty. He had purchased those shelves when he'd first moved in with the intention of populating them with books but somehow never had. Nolan stared at the empty shelves as if seeing them for the first time, which, in a way, he was. He liked to read, it was how he usually passed the time while he waited for his next fare, so he tended to read a lot. So where were all his books? He thought back to the last book he'd read, a collection of Harlan Ellison short stories, and remembered that he'd given it to one of his customers on the very day he had finished it. The one before that he had left on the table of a coffee shop. The one before that was abandoned on a park bench. On it went, as far back as he could recall, every book was left behind or given away. He never collected them. It wasn't a decisive act on his part, there was no altruism involved, and until then he hadn't even realized he was doing it.
The hazy outline of an idea began to materialize in his head, spawned by that strange epiphany, and he turned in a slow circle, letting his eyes slide over everything. The walls were bare and the shelves were empty. He knew if he were to open any of the drawers or closets he would find something similar. It wasn't just that room either, the whole apartment, every single room, was the same. He never collected anything, not one keepsake or memento, nothing since he had awoke from his coma. Even his laptop, which he had bought to assist him in researching his past, only contained what had been on it when it was purchased. It now sat on his otherwise empty desk collecting dust, abandoned along with his fruitless quest for self-knowledge. It struck him in that moment, as he surveyed his living space, how unused it looked. At first glance one could easily have mistaken it for an uninhabited place, a furnished apartment awaiting a resident, and the strangest part was that this new revelation did not arouse any desire on his part to change it. He felt no more attachment to that particular place then he would have to any of the other thousands of homes in the city, or the world for that matter.
Nolan was overcome by a rapid succession of thoughts, each one spawning a new thought, like dividing cells, coming faster then he could examine them, taxing his already overtaxed mental faculties. How easily he had denied the pattern sitting right in front of him, fooling himself into believing that he was actually trying to move on and rebuild his life when all along he had been actively doing the exact opposite. It wasn't the lack of material possessions that concerned him but what that lack represented. No wonder he felt so empty and aimless.
I'm a homeless man with a place to live, Nolan thought despairingly.
Nolan drew the card Mr. Sound had given him from his pocket. He went into his bedroom, sat down on the edge the bed, and took off his shoes, all at once feeling more tired than he could ever remember having felt. He didn't even bother undressing, but before he laid down, he placed his phone on the bedside table and carefully placed the card next to it.
The car ride home had been mercifully silent and uneventful. Upon entering the vehicle Nolan had found a large, manila envelope with his name on it containing the two personal items he'd left in his cab the night before: his cellphone and his share of that night's earnings. His only vocal interaction with the driver was to confirm that, yes, his cab had been returned to the garage. Having settled that marginally important piece of business he had settled back into the seat for the remainder of the trip.
Returning home Nolan found he was too mentally and emotionally restless to sit alone in his empty apartment and dwell on all he'd learned. He needed distraction and decided a walk through the city might be just the thing to clear his head. Inlet City was not a bustling metropolis by any measure but it was well populated for its size and, it being a Friday night, the streets were full and humming with life; it seemed the perfect mixture of white noise and ceaseless movement to act as the background for a evening of introspection and contemplation. Unfortunately for Nolan he couldn't have been more wrong. He'd walked those street many times before and knew them all very well. It should have been comforting, being in a familiar place, with all the familiar sights and sounds, but as he walked a feeling of paranoid unease began to creep over him. All the shadows now seemed to deep. Seemingly innocent glances from people passing by now felt full of concealed malice. Every fleeting movement in of the corner of one eye made him want to whirl around to face it. With every unexpected sound he had to fight an overwhelming urge to run away.
All the familiar things he'd come to know had taken on menacing overtones. Everything seemed changed. Mr. Sound's words came back to him then and it wasn't hard to see the truth. Nothing had changed. He was the thing that was different. He'd become permanently hyper-aware of the world around him. His mind latched on to every movement, every sound, every smell, desperate to analyze its meaning. No longer could anything be taken for granted, reason and rationale no longer applied, and all manner of terrible possibilities had been granted credence. The world had become a chaos of potential dangers; a night river, cold and black, whose waters he could no longer trust nor navigate. Nolan retread back up the street. The quiet and solitude of his empty apartment, and its supposed safety, suddenly seemed much more appealing.
Being there, however, had proved to be less than comforting. Was it possible that he had once thought his apartment was quiet? It had been a sound that had sent him on his bizarre adventure and so it seemed his mind remained attuned to every noise. The hum of the refrigerator running in the kitchen, the quiet buzz of some loose connection in the bulb of the lamp behind him, and through the closed window came the muffled drone of the city going about its business.
I'll probably always be sensitive to sounds now, he thought, just waiting for the next one that means “danger”.
Nolan downed the second shot of whiskey and poured himself another. It was all too much for him to deal with at that point, he was too tired and too overwhelmed to approach the situation with anything resembling coherence. Perhaps what he really needed was to relax and get some rest, if he could. The alcohol was already working its magic on him and hopefully a few minutes of quiet reading would finish the job. Nolan got up from the couch and turned, meaning to get a book from the bookshelf, but he stopped short of his destination. The bookshelf was empty. It wasn't unusual for the shelves to be empty. In fact, when he thought about it, they were always empty. He had purchased those shelves when he'd first moved in with the intention of populating them with books but somehow never had. Nolan stared at the empty shelves as if seeing them for the first time, which, in a way, he was. He liked to read, it was how he usually passed the time while he waited for his next fare, so he tended to read a lot. So where were all his books? He thought back to the last book he'd read, a collection of Harlan Ellison short stories, and remembered that he'd given it to one of his customers on the very day he had finished it. The one before that he had left on the table of a coffee shop. The one before that was abandoned on a park bench. On it went, as far back as he could recall, every book was left behind or given away. He never collected them. It wasn't a decisive act on his part, there was no altruism involved, and until then he hadn't even realized he was doing it.
The hazy outline of an idea began to materialize in his head, spawned by that strange epiphany, and he turned in a slow circle, letting his eyes slide over everything. The walls were bare and the shelves were empty. He knew if he were to open any of the drawers or closets he would find something similar. It wasn't just that room either, the whole apartment, every single room, was the same. He never collected anything, not one keepsake or memento, nothing since he had awoke from his coma. Even his laptop, which he had bought to assist him in researching his past, only contained what had been on it when it was purchased. It now sat on his otherwise empty desk collecting dust, abandoned along with his fruitless quest for self-knowledge. It struck him in that moment, as he surveyed his living space, how unused it looked. At first glance one could easily have mistaken it for an uninhabited place, a furnished apartment awaiting a resident, and the strangest part was that this new revelation did not arouse any desire on his part to change it. He felt no more attachment to that particular place then he would have to any of the other thousands of homes in the city, or the world for that matter.
Nolan was overcome by a rapid succession of thoughts, each one spawning a new thought, like dividing cells, coming faster then he could examine them, taxing his already overtaxed mental faculties. How easily he had denied the pattern sitting right in front of him, fooling himself into believing that he was actually trying to move on and rebuild his life when all along he had been actively doing the exact opposite. It wasn't the lack of material possessions that concerned him but what that lack represented. No wonder he felt so empty and aimless.
I'm a homeless man with a place to live, Nolan thought despairingly.
Nolan drew the card Mr. Sound had given him from his pocket. He went into his bedroom, sat down on the edge the bed, and took off his shoes, all at once feeling more tired than he could ever remember having felt. He didn't even bother undressing, but before he laid down, he placed his phone on the bedside table and carefully placed the card next to it.
Chapter 8 - The Thin Black Line
The first thing Nolan noticed when he woke up was that he was not in his own bed. He was not someone who spent a lot of time sleeping in beds other than his own but when such events occurred he was invariably uncomfortable, even in a bed that most people would find comfortable. The bed he found himself lying on would have been considered comfortable by no one. A thin slab of slightly-less-than-rock-hard material, covered by coarse and badly stained fabric, resting on a configuration of worn springs that creaked loudly whenever he did anything more vigorous than lie still and breath. It was about as far from his own bed as a bed could be and still be called a “bed”. The second thing he noticed was that he was wearing the same clothes as the night before but they were not, as they should have been, covered in mud. He ultimately decided to leave that particular train of thought unexplored.
Nolan rose and took in his surroundings. He was in a small room furnished only with the bed he was now sitting on. He thought the walls might have once been white but age and grime had rendered them a dull grey. High up on the back wall was a small, thick window reinforced with wire mesh. Pale, grey daylight filtered weakly through the film of dirt that coated it. On the wall opposite the widow was a featureless slab of metal almost as wide as the room. There was no handle or knob on his side of it. Nolan had never, so far as he could remember, been to prison, but the word the immediately came to mind was “cell”. Looking up he found another curious feature, one which only served to make the room more unappealing, and that was the ceiling. It seemed to him that it was abnormally high for such a room and as he stared up the word “cell” was replaced by “grave”.
Being on the verge of panic Nolan practically leapt to his feet when a loud “THUNK” came from the other side of the door. The door opened and in stepped a large man that Nolan recognized immediately. The same bearded face beamed the same pleasant smile at him. He was larger than Nolan's initial impression from the night before had led him to believe, not just in height either, and the room instantly felt tiny. He wore a navy colored pea coat with shiny, gold button down the middle and the same short brimmed cap. On his feet were huge, black boots with think soles. He would have looked right at home standing at the helm of some fishing boat on a stormy sea.
“All up and about are we Mr. Savitch? Good, good. You've been asleep quite awhile, but I suppose that's to be expected, what with all the excitement.”
“Where am I?”
“Questions, questions, of course,” Issac replied, “I'll answer the ones I can while we walk. As for those I can't, if you'll follow me I'll be happy to take you the man who can.” Isaac gestured toward the open door and the shadowy hall beyond. In spite of the circumstances Nolan felt surprisingly unconcerned. The man before him, though imposing, was not the least bit threatening. Whatever danger might await him in the immediate future it would not come from his escort. Isaac turned on his heels and ducked back into the tunnel. Nolan followed.
The passage outside his room was more tunnel than anything; arched stone walls comprised of roughly hewn, damp stone slabs flanking a floor of uneven cobbles. Caged bulbs lined the ceiling following a line of unconcealed, and clearly post construction, wiring. Nolan could even make out holes in the walls that might have once accommodated torch sconces.
“I didn't catch your name,” said Isaac.
“Well I'll be sure to throw better next time,” replied Isaac and he let out a tremendous bray of laughter that reverberated up and down the tunnel. “Sorry, sorry, name's Isaac Scoggins.”
“I notice you already know mine.”
“Indeed I do,” said Isaac. He paused for a moment and shook his head slowly. “That sounded sort of ominous didn't it? Not meant to be scaring you am I? Forgive me. The boss gave me your name when he sent me to fetch you. As for how he came by it, I suppose you'll have to ask him.”
“I see,” said Nolan, not exactly sure if he really did or not, “so you brought me here after...”
“Your little adventure last night? That's right.”
“Thank you,” said Nolan, “by the way. For saving me I mean.”
“You're quite welcome, though I really shouldn't take too much credit, Bill did most of the work. I just hauled you out of the way.”
“Bill? He was the man with the...?”
“The big gun? That's him. You might meet him, might not. I suppose that depends.”
“On?”
“Sorry, sorry, I'm talking out of turn here. I really should leave the explanations to Mr. Sound.”
“Mr. Sound?”
“Yep. He's the boss. The man with the answers.”
At the end of the tunnel was another heavy, iron door. Isaac turned the handle pushed hard against it. Nolan could only imagine how heavy a door would have to be to require deliberate effort from a man like Isaac. The door opened onto a narrow shaft with a wrought iron spiral staircase that went up several floors. Isaac started up the stairs, which he couldn't climb without turning himself slightly sideways.
“What is this place?” said Nolan, staring up through the helix of steps.
“Headquarters. I believe it was originally an insane asylum, back in the old days, when that meant dumping the crazy people in locked rooms and waiting to see which infection would kill them first.”
“I guess that explains the cheery décor.”
Isaac let out another booming peal of laughter so loud that Nolan imagined he could feel the staircase vibrate.
“Nice, nice. I like you Nolan. Not many people could keep their sense of humor in a situation like this.”
At the top of the stars Isaac opened another door, this one wooden but no less solid for it, and led Nolan into a long hallway lined with wood panels and tall windows. Outside there were only trees and the same dull sky he'd seen from his room. At the end of the hall was another wooden door with a brass knob so well polished that it practically glowed, even in the gloomy light from the windows. Isaac grasped the knob, his fist engulfing it completely, and opened the door.
Everything in the antechamber was well polished wood. The walls, the few chairs that lined the wall, the desk behind which the receptionist sat, and it gave the room a soft effulgence as if the wood were lit from within. Isaac crossed the room, doffing his hat briefly at the receptionist and smiling.
“Elise,” Isaac said politely.
Elise was a dream of red hair and green eyes. She smiled back at Isaac and nodded slightly. Nolan, who was trying his best (and failing) not to stare, noticed her eyes dart briefly in his direction, transforming in that moment to bitter chips of malachite ice, before returning to Isaac.
Isaac stood before the door on the far side of the room with his hands behind his back like a man deep in thought, saying nothing. After several moments of this, as Nolan was about to suggest that maybe Isaac ought to try this new thing called “knocking”, Isaac stepped aside and motioned to the door.
“Off you go then,” he said and walked back out of the room.
Nolan grasped the gleaming brass handle and opened the door.
The office behind the door was shadowy and sparse. The only source of light were two small table lamps on small tables at either side of the room. On the far side of the office sat a wide, wooden desk with a single chair in front of it. The only other features were two sets of shelves on either side of the room, running from one end to the other, floor to ceiling. Each was filled, to the last inch, with books. Behind the desk sat a man leaning on his elbows, his fingers steepled in front of him. It was difficult to make out his features in the deep shadows but Nolan could tell, even in the dim light, that he was exceptionally thin.
“Mr. Savitch. Do come in and have a seat.”
Nolan shut the door and walked to the chair in front of the desk. It seemed to take a long time to get there, much longer than his mind told him it should have, as if the room contained some optical illusion that masked its true size. Mr. Sound watched him the entire time, his eyes locked on Nolan’s, with an expression of detached curiosity, like a scientist observing an experiment. Nolan sat and laid his hands uneasily in his lap for want of anything else to do with them. Silence spun out between them as Mr. Sound continued to watch him. Nolan found his gaze unnerving, like staring into dark waters where hidden things with sharp teeth circled, ever watching the surface for movement.
“I'm sure you have a multitude of questions,” Mr. Sound said suddenly, making Nolan start, “I will endeavor to answer them as best I can. I also have a few questions for you, if you would be so kind, but we'll get to that. By the way, I should probably return this to you.”
Mr. Sound slid something across the top of desk. It was Nolan's wallet. Nolan picked it up and stuffed it back in his pocket without checking the contents. He felt kind of foolish for not noticing sooner that it was missing, but at least that explained how they knew his name.
“Who are you people?” asked Nolan.
“That,” replied Mr. Sound with a smile,” is an excellent question.”
Mr. Sound leaned back in his chair. “The short answer is this: there are other worlds than this, Nolan. Dimensions, for want of a better word. From time to time things from those other worlds find their way into ours. Some are benign, harmless, and some are not. We handle the ones that are not.”
“Like that thing I ran into last night.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Sound replied, sounding genuinely please, “speaking of which, would you mind telling me exactly where you 'ran into' that creature?”
“It was an alley, Tenth and Madison. It had killed someone I think.”
“Ah, I see. Just a moment then,” Mr. Sound pressed the button on his intercom, “Elise?”
“Yes sir?”
“Have a team sent downtown, Tenth and Madison, there's a body in an alley that needs to be collected.”
“Right away, sir.”
“So,” said Mr. Sound turning back to Nolan, “you encountered the creature in the city but it didn't attack you there.”
Nolan had begun to notice something peculiar about Mr. Sound's manner of speaking. Most of his statements felt incomplete, like a missing note at the end of a melody. It wasn't in the way he spoke, there was no lilt to the pitch of his speech indicating an unfinished idea, and Nolan would've been hard pressed to explain what gave him the idea, yet whenever Mr. Sound stopped talking the impression was of something left unsaid. It made him difficult to talk to and Nolan kept finding himself waiting for him to finish when already had.
“That's right. It chased me out of the city, out to the woods.”
“Unsurprising, considering what it intended for you.”
“Which was what exactly?”
Mr. Sound lost his pleasant demeanor and suddenly became very serious. The transformation was startling and Nolan had a hard time believing he was still talking to the same person. “Oh, Mr. Savitch I think we both know the answer to that question. Just as we both know that the answer is better left unspoken. All the better for you to put it out of your mind and move on. It's best not to hold on to such things, don't you agree?”
“You're saying,” continued Nolan, deciding that Mr. Sound was in fact correct, “that you, what... fight monsters?”
Mr. Sound smiled, “if you like, though it's obviously a bit more complicated than that.”
Nolan sat, processing what he'd just been told. Under normal circumstances it all would have been completely ridiculous, but these were not normal circumstances. He had seen what he had seen, there was no denying that, and everything that followed had to be, at the very least, given due consideration. Nolan sat, expecting Mr. Sound to say something more, perhaps offer him some sort of comforting assurances, but he only sat in his chair, regarding Nolan with his grey, predator's eyes.
“So, what now?” Nolan said finally, if only to break the deafening silence.
“Now you have a choice. We can erase your memories of these events and return you to your life as if nothing happened or...”
“Wait a minute,” Nolan interrupted, “'erase my memories'? How would you do that? And what if I don't want my memories my erased?”
“My apologies. I didn't mean to imply that you had to lose your memories of all this. The process is safe and painless but you don't have to submit to it, though I would recommend that you do.”
“Why?”
“The world you knew is gone, replaced by a world peopled with dark and terrible things, things you can't even imagine. They've always been there of course but you, like most people, refused to see what your mind could not accept. Now that your eyes are open to the truth you won't be able to deny it any longer. Some try to go on with that knowledge. They don't last very long I'm afraid. Without a guiding hand the transition can be... taxing on one's mind.”
Nolan considered this. Having already lost so much of himself to vanished memories he was loathe to lose any more, but what if Mr. Sound was right? What if you couldn't go on having glimpsed what lurked beneath the bright veneer of the world?
“What's the other option?” asked Nolan.
“Join us. Help us 'fight the monsters' as you eloquently put it. With us you can learn to accept your new world. You might even find it preferable.”
“Do you make this offer to everyone who comes here?”
“No, not everyone, but I believe you have potential. It isn't easy, and it can be dangerous, but is it really any less dangerous than walking the world in ignorance of what walks beside you?”
Nolan had no answer. Mr. Sound opened a draw, removed something small and thin from it, and slid it across the desk. Nolan picked it up. It was a business card. On one side was a black box with a white circle in the center and a small, black dot at the center of that. He turned it over and found a phone number printed on the back.
“You don't have to decide right now,” continued Mr. Sound, “take as much time as you need. We'll take you home and you can ponder these question at your leisure. Sleep on it, as they say. When you're ready you can call that number. Or not. It's entirely your decision.”
Mr. Sound stood and walked around towards the door. Nolan stood, taking the cue, and followed him.
“Elise will direct you to the exit, there's a car waiting for you,” said Mr. Sound as he opened the door, “I do hope we will meet again Mr. Savitch.”
Nolan muttered a dazed “thank you” and left.
Nolan rose and took in his surroundings. He was in a small room furnished only with the bed he was now sitting on. He thought the walls might have once been white but age and grime had rendered them a dull grey. High up on the back wall was a small, thick window reinforced with wire mesh. Pale, grey daylight filtered weakly through the film of dirt that coated it. On the wall opposite the widow was a featureless slab of metal almost as wide as the room. There was no handle or knob on his side of it. Nolan had never, so far as he could remember, been to prison, but the word the immediately came to mind was “cell”. Looking up he found another curious feature, one which only served to make the room more unappealing, and that was the ceiling. It seemed to him that it was abnormally high for such a room and as he stared up the word “cell” was replaced by “grave”.
Being on the verge of panic Nolan practically leapt to his feet when a loud “THUNK” came from the other side of the door. The door opened and in stepped a large man that Nolan recognized immediately. The same bearded face beamed the same pleasant smile at him. He was larger than Nolan's initial impression from the night before had led him to believe, not just in height either, and the room instantly felt tiny. He wore a navy colored pea coat with shiny, gold button down the middle and the same short brimmed cap. On his feet were huge, black boots with think soles. He would have looked right at home standing at the helm of some fishing boat on a stormy sea.
“All up and about are we Mr. Savitch? Good, good. You've been asleep quite awhile, but I suppose that's to be expected, what with all the excitement.”
“Where am I?”
“Questions, questions, of course,” Issac replied, “I'll answer the ones I can while we walk. As for those I can't, if you'll follow me I'll be happy to take you the man who can.” Isaac gestured toward the open door and the shadowy hall beyond. In spite of the circumstances Nolan felt surprisingly unconcerned. The man before him, though imposing, was not the least bit threatening. Whatever danger might await him in the immediate future it would not come from his escort. Isaac turned on his heels and ducked back into the tunnel. Nolan followed.
The passage outside his room was more tunnel than anything; arched stone walls comprised of roughly hewn, damp stone slabs flanking a floor of uneven cobbles. Caged bulbs lined the ceiling following a line of unconcealed, and clearly post construction, wiring. Nolan could even make out holes in the walls that might have once accommodated torch sconces.
“I didn't catch your name,” said Isaac.
“Well I'll be sure to throw better next time,” replied Isaac and he let out a tremendous bray of laughter that reverberated up and down the tunnel. “Sorry, sorry, name's Isaac Scoggins.”
“I notice you already know mine.”
“Indeed I do,” said Isaac. He paused for a moment and shook his head slowly. “That sounded sort of ominous didn't it? Not meant to be scaring you am I? Forgive me. The boss gave me your name when he sent me to fetch you. As for how he came by it, I suppose you'll have to ask him.”
“I see,” said Nolan, not exactly sure if he really did or not, “so you brought me here after...”
“Your little adventure last night? That's right.”
“Thank you,” said Nolan, “by the way. For saving me I mean.”
“You're quite welcome, though I really shouldn't take too much credit, Bill did most of the work. I just hauled you out of the way.”
“Bill? He was the man with the...?”
“The big gun? That's him. You might meet him, might not. I suppose that depends.”
“On?”
“Sorry, sorry, I'm talking out of turn here. I really should leave the explanations to Mr. Sound.”
“Mr. Sound?”
“Yep. He's the boss. The man with the answers.”
At the end of the tunnel was another heavy, iron door. Isaac turned the handle pushed hard against it. Nolan could only imagine how heavy a door would have to be to require deliberate effort from a man like Isaac. The door opened onto a narrow shaft with a wrought iron spiral staircase that went up several floors. Isaac started up the stairs, which he couldn't climb without turning himself slightly sideways.
“What is this place?” said Nolan, staring up through the helix of steps.
“Headquarters. I believe it was originally an insane asylum, back in the old days, when that meant dumping the crazy people in locked rooms and waiting to see which infection would kill them first.”
“I guess that explains the cheery décor.”
Isaac let out another booming peal of laughter so loud that Nolan imagined he could feel the staircase vibrate.
“Nice, nice. I like you Nolan. Not many people could keep their sense of humor in a situation like this.”
At the top of the stars Isaac opened another door, this one wooden but no less solid for it, and led Nolan into a long hallway lined with wood panels and tall windows. Outside there were only trees and the same dull sky he'd seen from his room. At the end of the hall was another wooden door with a brass knob so well polished that it practically glowed, even in the gloomy light from the windows. Isaac grasped the knob, his fist engulfing it completely, and opened the door.
Everything in the antechamber was well polished wood. The walls, the few chairs that lined the wall, the desk behind which the receptionist sat, and it gave the room a soft effulgence as if the wood were lit from within. Isaac crossed the room, doffing his hat briefly at the receptionist and smiling.
“Elise,” Isaac said politely.
Elise was a dream of red hair and green eyes. She smiled back at Isaac and nodded slightly. Nolan, who was trying his best (and failing) not to stare, noticed her eyes dart briefly in his direction, transforming in that moment to bitter chips of malachite ice, before returning to Isaac.
Isaac stood before the door on the far side of the room with his hands behind his back like a man deep in thought, saying nothing. After several moments of this, as Nolan was about to suggest that maybe Isaac ought to try this new thing called “knocking”, Isaac stepped aside and motioned to the door.
“Off you go then,” he said and walked back out of the room.
Nolan grasped the gleaming brass handle and opened the door.
The office behind the door was shadowy and sparse. The only source of light were two small table lamps on small tables at either side of the room. On the far side of the office sat a wide, wooden desk with a single chair in front of it. The only other features were two sets of shelves on either side of the room, running from one end to the other, floor to ceiling. Each was filled, to the last inch, with books. Behind the desk sat a man leaning on his elbows, his fingers steepled in front of him. It was difficult to make out his features in the deep shadows but Nolan could tell, even in the dim light, that he was exceptionally thin.
“Mr. Savitch. Do come in and have a seat.”
Nolan shut the door and walked to the chair in front of the desk. It seemed to take a long time to get there, much longer than his mind told him it should have, as if the room contained some optical illusion that masked its true size. Mr. Sound watched him the entire time, his eyes locked on Nolan’s, with an expression of detached curiosity, like a scientist observing an experiment. Nolan sat and laid his hands uneasily in his lap for want of anything else to do with them. Silence spun out between them as Mr. Sound continued to watch him. Nolan found his gaze unnerving, like staring into dark waters where hidden things with sharp teeth circled, ever watching the surface for movement.
“I'm sure you have a multitude of questions,” Mr. Sound said suddenly, making Nolan start, “I will endeavor to answer them as best I can. I also have a few questions for you, if you would be so kind, but we'll get to that. By the way, I should probably return this to you.”
Mr. Sound slid something across the top of desk. It was Nolan's wallet. Nolan picked it up and stuffed it back in his pocket without checking the contents. He felt kind of foolish for not noticing sooner that it was missing, but at least that explained how they knew his name.
“Who are you people?” asked Nolan.
“That,” replied Mr. Sound with a smile,” is an excellent question.”
Mr. Sound leaned back in his chair. “The short answer is this: there are other worlds than this, Nolan. Dimensions, for want of a better word. From time to time things from those other worlds find their way into ours. Some are benign, harmless, and some are not. We handle the ones that are not.”
“Like that thing I ran into last night.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Sound replied, sounding genuinely please, “speaking of which, would you mind telling me exactly where you 'ran into' that creature?”
“It was an alley, Tenth and Madison. It had killed someone I think.”
“Ah, I see. Just a moment then,” Mr. Sound pressed the button on his intercom, “Elise?”
“Yes sir?”
“Have a team sent downtown, Tenth and Madison, there's a body in an alley that needs to be collected.”
“Right away, sir.”
“So,” said Mr. Sound turning back to Nolan, “you encountered the creature in the city but it didn't attack you there.”
Nolan had begun to notice something peculiar about Mr. Sound's manner of speaking. Most of his statements felt incomplete, like a missing note at the end of a melody. It wasn't in the way he spoke, there was no lilt to the pitch of his speech indicating an unfinished idea, and Nolan would've been hard pressed to explain what gave him the idea, yet whenever Mr. Sound stopped talking the impression was of something left unsaid. It made him difficult to talk to and Nolan kept finding himself waiting for him to finish when already had.
“That's right. It chased me out of the city, out to the woods.”
“Unsurprising, considering what it intended for you.”
“Which was what exactly?”
Mr. Sound lost his pleasant demeanor and suddenly became very serious. The transformation was startling and Nolan had a hard time believing he was still talking to the same person. “Oh, Mr. Savitch I think we both know the answer to that question. Just as we both know that the answer is better left unspoken. All the better for you to put it out of your mind and move on. It's best not to hold on to such things, don't you agree?”
“You're saying,” continued Nolan, deciding that Mr. Sound was in fact correct, “that you, what... fight monsters?”
Mr. Sound smiled, “if you like, though it's obviously a bit more complicated than that.”
Nolan sat, processing what he'd just been told. Under normal circumstances it all would have been completely ridiculous, but these were not normal circumstances. He had seen what he had seen, there was no denying that, and everything that followed had to be, at the very least, given due consideration. Nolan sat, expecting Mr. Sound to say something more, perhaps offer him some sort of comforting assurances, but he only sat in his chair, regarding Nolan with his grey, predator's eyes.
“So, what now?” Nolan said finally, if only to break the deafening silence.
“Now you have a choice. We can erase your memories of these events and return you to your life as if nothing happened or...”
“Wait a minute,” Nolan interrupted, “'erase my memories'? How would you do that? And what if I don't want my memories my erased?”
“My apologies. I didn't mean to imply that you had to lose your memories of all this. The process is safe and painless but you don't have to submit to it, though I would recommend that you do.”
“Why?”
“The world you knew is gone, replaced by a world peopled with dark and terrible things, things you can't even imagine. They've always been there of course but you, like most people, refused to see what your mind could not accept. Now that your eyes are open to the truth you won't be able to deny it any longer. Some try to go on with that knowledge. They don't last very long I'm afraid. Without a guiding hand the transition can be... taxing on one's mind.”
Nolan considered this. Having already lost so much of himself to vanished memories he was loathe to lose any more, but what if Mr. Sound was right? What if you couldn't go on having glimpsed what lurked beneath the bright veneer of the world?
“What's the other option?” asked Nolan.
“Join us. Help us 'fight the monsters' as you eloquently put it. With us you can learn to accept your new world. You might even find it preferable.”
“Do you make this offer to everyone who comes here?”
“No, not everyone, but I believe you have potential. It isn't easy, and it can be dangerous, but is it really any less dangerous than walking the world in ignorance of what walks beside you?”
Nolan had no answer. Mr. Sound opened a draw, removed something small and thin from it, and slid it across the desk. Nolan picked it up. It was a business card. On one side was a black box with a white circle in the center and a small, black dot at the center of that. He turned it over and found a phone number printed on the back.
“You don't have to decide right now,” continued Mr. Sound, “take as much time as you need. We'll take you home and you can ponder these question at your leisure. Sleep on it, as they say. When you're ready you can call that number. Or not. It's entirely your decision.”
Mr. Sound stood and walked around towards the door. Nolan stood, taking the cue, and followed him.
“Elise will direct you to the exit, there's a car waiting for you,” said Mr. Sound as he opened the door, “I do hope we will meet again Mr. Savitch.”
Nolan muttered a dazed “thank you” and left.
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