Dark Bowers

“Lost it, lost it, lost it,” the man said, his voice was full of loss and bewilderment.

He listened to the man’s forlorn words, and wished that he had sewn his ears shut as well. He had sewn his lips shut to silence the gibbering. He had placed a leather strap over his eyes, and sewn it into his flesh to block out the world. They had caught him soon after.

The door to the room opened, and he turned his head towards the sound, only steps in darkness. He knew they would come with their questions. He knew they would come wanting answers. Only fools asked questions unprepared to hear the answers. It all no longer mattered.

“Are you ready to cooperate?”

He nodded; it had taken six cops to subdue him. He had laughed at them, when they hit him with batons. They crowded into the room around him just in case of another fit. The scissors were cold against his skin. His pain felt distant with the drugs they had given him, enough to take down a bull, but soon enough, they would ask him why, and he would share.

“What is your name?” he asked. He stared down at him; wild black hair was dark as his eyes, which blinked from the sudden light. The mad man looked stunned and sleep deprived.

“Balthazar…Balthazar Whitlock,” he said, throat dry. He looked at the Doctor, who was surrounded by cops. They looked at him as if he was a rabid animal.

“I have to ask you, of course, why, why did you kill those people?” he asked, though, he was certain that Balthazar was just crazy.

Balthazar laughed: the sound was jagged, uneven, and too loud. It bounced around the room, fell flat. The cops’ hands went to their pistols, but the Doctor held firm. The laughing fit passed, and they relaxed. “What’s your name?”

“Doctor Kane,” he watched his reactions. “I am a doctor at H. P. West Sanatorium. That is where you are now. Balthazar, why do you want to know my name?”

“If I’m going to ruin your life, then I should at least know your name,” he said with a light laugh. The story, his knowledge, was a gun ready to fire.

“Okay,” Doctor Kane said eyebrows rose. The man was strapped down from head to toe, and posed very little threat. “Be that as it may, you have caused quite a bit of havoc. Thirty-six people in twenty-four hours are a lot of murders. Even after sewing on the leather strap, you still broke one cop’s arm and another’s jaw.

“I was…a little frantic, confused, but I’m much calmer now.”

“I can see that. At first, you raved about cracks.”

Balthazar jumped, the restraints strained under his strength; despite his emaciated body, the man had the strength of ten men. The bed frame groaned, and Kane shifted, but he watched the mad man shake. Showing fear was like waving fresh meat in front of a hungry wolf. A single tear rolled down from a sunken eye. It washed away dirt from his cheek. The Doctor saw real fear in his eyes: manic energy crept into him, an inner war for sanity ensued, so he backed off for the moment.

“Yes, they’re everywhere, and they’re spreading. The world…no reality is breaking.”

Doctor Kane nodded; he had expected some sort of drivel. A man driven by passion is a considerable force. If the man loved his fellow man, then he could work wonders. If the man is mad, then he could do no end of evil. Despite helping the disturbed, he believed most were so lost that only death could release them.

“Do you see any here?”

“No.”

Doctor Kane nodded to show that he understood, though, in fact, he cared not at all nor did he want to understand. There was one thing he was desperate to know. “I tried to remove the silver key around your neck.” He said with a polite smile, but he had tried for a few hours to remove it. Even bolt cutters failed to remove the half burned leather.

“I can’t get rid of it,” Balthazar said. He looked at the Doctor’s face, and knew that the Doctor kept a secret. “And, you can’t take it. The Silver key is the answer to all your questions.” Balthazar smiled crookedly at Kane, who shifted uncomfortable for the first time. “All the questions you have ever asked, all the questions you’ll ever ask, and all the questions you’ll never ask.”

“Questions,” he said the word. It filled the room, the air grew thicker.

“You see,” Balthazar looked into Kane’s eyes. “Knowledge has been my life’s pursuit.”

Doctor Kane dismissed the police officer, who retreated to outside the door. He pulled up a chair to sit beside Balthazar, “Knowledge, or the pursuit of it, had caused you to kill.”

“You’re only seeing the end result, so, I’ll have to start at the beginning to contextualize it.”

Balthazar looked up at the stark white ceiling, white always reminded him of oblivion. He recalled the first time, when he felt the key’s cold reality. After he tells his story, everything would make more sense to him, yet it could undo the Doctor like it had undone him. Kane watched him close his eyes as another tear squeezed out. The world and reality made more sense before the key. He started his tale at the Retreat.

Balthazar had driven half a day to Professor Mark King’s Retreat. The Professor, brilliant but eccentric, preferred to do certain work in private. He was the only one of his family, who still spoke to him. The rest of the family found his odd behavior disturbing, but he understood his uncle. Professor King’s intelligence intimidated people, yet it fascinated him.

“Your Uncle is Professor Mark King,” Kane cut in skeptical. He glanced at the Doctor, but Balthazar saw only what was in his mind.

No one had spoken to Uncle Mark in a couple of weeks, which was uncommon for he always called Balthazar. The Professor said it was to speak about his research; however, it was because the man was lonely. He loved his uncle who was socially inept, possessed no real friends, and often sounded narcissistic and condescending. Balthazar knew he was intelligent and sure of himself.

Professor King’s retreat was deep in the Appalachian Mountains. Balthazar’s car negotiated the hills and ridges easily despite having left asphalt for gravel hours ago. The forest surrounding the property had grown large—spring rain had turned the verdant hills lush this summer. So much rain, in fact, that a bluish haze hung amongst the trees. Rain and the proximity to the lake made the air humid. He was indifferent to the heat or the humidity.

The car cleared the forest’s edge, which opened up onto the Retreat. Balthazar stomped the brake, he saw the burned out remains of the house. He stomped the accelerator, gravels and dust flew, and the modest car shot towards the burned out hulk.

The large garage was untouched, but the house itself was burned almost to its foundation. Door frames and parts of the exterior stood jutting from the foundation. No smoke curled up. He felt tears spill, it didn’t matter.

Balthazar rushed out of the car leaving the door open. He prayed his uncle was okay. He prayed he had gone out of town, forgotten to tell others, and left the stove on. Bizarrely, he ran to the front door, but stepped around it. The smell of smoke still hung on the air, but another smell smothered it, the tang made him drool. Balthazar smelled burned bacon, and he wondered if his uncle had been cooking breakfast, when the fire started. Maybe his uncle let his insurance go? He could be embarrassed to tell the family (they found any reason to tease him.) He froze at the fire’s starting point.

A body lay curled up on the floor in the fetal position. Balthazar realized where the smell of burned pork emanated. He threw up, the light breakfast mixed with the ash. Some landed on a can that still smelled of gasoline, and he looked at the body. It was his uncle: a ring on one finger had “Libris” inscribed on it, his uncle loved that ring. Balthazar sat against a burned door frame, which had once went to the Study and cried.

Professor Mark King, his uncle, had always believed in him, and helped pay for his college. The Professor had been his friend even, when he was at his lowest. Some said King was one of the brightest of their age, but to him, he was the fun uncle, who played role playing games. He looked at the body of his uncle, wiped away tears. An ornate silver key was clutched in one hand untouched by the flames.

It drew the eye; clean metal shimmered in the sun. Balthazar pulled it from the hand, but held it for a moment. His Uncle had soft hands. He hoped the Professor had not suffered, and another tear spilled. The key was unchanged, but the leather strap had not fared as well. Its knot barely held on.

He shook himself, something wet struck his arm, and he realized it was drool. How long had he stared at it? The sun had pasted its zenith, and he checked his watch. Two hours, he had stared at the Silver key for two hours, yet the time had passed instantly. Balthazar decided to leave it for the police, but instead took the remnants of the leather strap and retied it. He stared at it around his neck.

Absently, a hand wiped sweat from his brow. Balthazar looked down at the body unable to recall who it was, where he was, or why he stood in the rubble of a house. “My Uncle,” he whispered down at the body. “I should call the police.”

He felt detached, there were two worlds: the world outside of himself, which felt thin, a mere facade, with another just under the surface, and the world inside of himself, which overwhelmed him, every breath a divine wind, with the beat of his heart for thunder.

Balthazar meant to reach for his cell phone, but instead, it went to the key around his neck. He stared at a nearby door that opened onto the small bathroom. The bathroom was demolished, tub warped, toilet blackened, but the door was completely untouched as were all the doors in the house.

Why? The simple question had been the bane of his existence. Every time something escaped his grasp he pursued its answer. Answers were sometimes hard to find, understand, or even accept. Balthazar’s obsessive search for knowledge had earned Professor King’s respect. His Uncle had taught others, who only pursued knowledge for a job, not enlightenment.

He looked at the bathroom door, then the silver key that hung around his neck. When did that get there? The question disappeared in the fog that swept through his mind. What is behind the door? “Just a burned toilet,” he said aloud, but another voice answered in the fog. Put the key in the lock, and open the door it whispered.

The Silver key slid into the lock easily, and he turned it with a loud click. Balthazar blinked, the fog which clouded his mind departed, and he looked at the knob in his hand.

“Why not,” he opened the door. Balthazar felt his curiosity grow, and let it take hold of him. “Surely, it will no doubt be just the tub.”

The door swung open easily on the frame. Balthazar stared, key held tight. A field set on the other side full of wild flowers of all colors, which moved gently in a light breeze. The smell of the field was heavenly, and he drew closer to the door. A pug bounded after butterflies with quick light barks. The dog panted as the bugs fluttered away in the sun, and he recognized his dog, Phoebe, who had past years ago. She trotted around the field, and Balthazar called to her with a laugh. When she had passed, he had cried over her like she was a baby. She turned towards his voice and ran. Balthazar stepped forward.

He smacked into a barrier, reached out a hand to test it, and the door shut. For a moment, he stared at it confused. Balthazar put the key back in the lock and turned it. He had to see the field again, if only to confirm its reality.

The door opened onto the field, and Phoebe still frolicked amongst the wildflowers. Balthazar watched her in silence. Whatever this place was, it was very beautiful. He left the door open, walked around it, and saw nothing from the other side. The view returned when he returned to his original position. “Huh, well,” he said. “What’s the point?”

Balthazar looked at the other doorway then to the key he had gripped in his hand. He wondered what would happen if the key was used in another door. The curiosity returned, and he walked over to the den, which looked worse than the bathroom. The bookcases were in shambles with their books destroyed. Some of the volumes were collectibles. He had borrowed many of them loving the smell of old books.

The key slid into the den door easily, and turned with a light click. Balthazar opened the door. The fetid smell of burned meat, boiled in sewage, blew across the air. He backed up. Smoke boiled up from the doorway that stung his eyes and hurt his lungs. Inside of the door was fire, stone, and metal. The door opened upon a cavern filled with smoke from the eternal fire below; the black smoke gathered at the cavern’s top into clouds filled with bloody lightning.

A constant red rain fell from the firmament, and covered the black stones. In the cavern’s center a giant engine turned with a slow wet grinding, and powered the machines, which tore apart the masses below. The great machine had many tiers, and each tier was turned by the damned to fuel their suffering. Balthazar put his hand over an ear and the other over his mouth. The smell of the hellish landscape was unbearable, and he heard them call to him to join them. He slammed the door shut.

Whatever had taken over him, curiosity or madness, had finally departed. It passed, and he wiped his brow, coughed, and breathed in deep. Balthazar walked away from the den door, and the base, low stench that hung around it. The air felt cleaner even with the burned pork smell. After a couple of deep breathes, he looked at his Uncle.

He pulled out his cellphone from a pocket, and called the police. They told him they were sending a cruiser; however, it would be a while before they arrived. Balthazar walked back to his Uncle to wait.

A light breeze passed over, Balthazar locked at the body of Professor King. How would he tell his mother Mark was dead? Even with the body in front of him, it was hard to accept his uncle was dead. Tears began anew as he stared down. It was a bad end to a brilliant man.

“Why?” Balthazar asked. He had asked his Uncle that question a thousand times. Professor King was the last person who would kill themselves. Something must have happened, obviously. He must have seen something, but what? “What did you see?” He rubbed the key, which still felt cold despite being pressed against his skin. He looked at the can of gas. He had been scared enough to commit suicide by fire. Opened a door, saw something, and it had driven him to suicide.

He pulled at the key; the police would need it as evidence. The leather strap stuck to his skin, and he tried to break it. Balthazar had a knife, and tried to cut the leather cord. The leather was unbreakable, and he knew his Uncle kept tools in the shed. He found a set of bolt cutters, but it wouldn’t cut it.

The door was undamaged like the others, but smelled heavily of gasoline. Balthazar turned, gripped the key, and knew that behind the door was what scared his Uncle. The fog returned, he turned to the door, slid in the key, and turned. He heard the key click though held a sour note. It opened though slowly.

Balthazar stared, surprised at what he saw through the door. A city stretched out before him through the doorway. Its skyscrapers were impossibly tall to him, though, he had lived in the rural part of Appalachia. The skyline could have been Chicago or New York for all he knew. People bustled across the streets in droves, and he guessed from the position of the sun in that world, it was rush hour. The scene’s banality vexed him. Why would this scare his Uncle enough to burn himself?

Curious, he leaned forward to see if there something more. The door to the field had a barrier, but his hand touched nothing, and he staggered forward. Balthazar looked up to see no one had even noticed him. He had heard some city folk behaved in such a manner: don’t bother me, and I won’t bother you. A child stared at him for a moment before rushing off.

Balthazar looked back, the door he had stagger through slammed shut. He dashed back, though it disappeared before he took a single step. “Oh God,” he said.

“Move or get out of the way buddy,” an old man said. He watched Balthazar through his bushy, white eyebrows.

“Sorry Sir,” he replied and the old man smiled. The old man walked past him, “Sir, what is the name of this city?”

The old man stopped, he looked him over once. “Country boy, well, this is New Chicago, the City of Storms.”

Balthazar nodded as if he understood and somehow forgot, but he knew Chicago was just called Chicago. Is this a different Chicago? The old man walked away before he could ask any more questions. He watched him go, after a few moments, the old man disappeared.

He looked around the streets, but saw only people about their lives. Light blue cracks were the main decoration, which he found odd. One of the designs was a part of a nearby building, so he walked over to study it. The curiosity had returned with its fever.

The blue cracks glowed slightly in the light, though were brighter in the darkness of the alley. He studied them; thin light was unsteady and pulsed; after a few minutes, his eyes started to burn and water. Their glow made him feel unsteady on his feet. Soon the nausea threatened to make him vomit, yet his eyes resisted turning away. The luminous cracks grew more prominent deeper in the alley.

Deeper in the passage the sun’s light no longer reached the filthy concrete. The illumination from the blue cracks grew brighter, and their radiance pulsed like an arrhythmic heart. Balthazar stumbled in the sick, blue light. The deeper he went, the more the alley gained a fun-house effect, which twisted the brick and concrete into a cavern. Soon he had to crawl, vertigo drove him to his knees, and his curiosity only grew.

What is this? The thought disappeared into the fog, which had overtaken him. He had to know, he had to see, and understand his oddity. Finally, under the assault on his senses, he stopped unable to take another step. Tears ran down from his face, and he stared stupidly at them.

A tin can toppled from a mound of trash next to a dumpster. It rolled over to him, the sound echoed across the stillness of the alley. Balthazar stared down at it, and curled a lip at it repulsed. In the filth of this great city, he saw the truth of humanity unveiled to see for those who would see. It is all meaningless trash: the people and their history or deeds were just a blink in the eye of time.

“There is a secret here,” a voice whispered low.

He looked around to the pile the can had fallen from. Blue cracks spread out from under the pile as if something had struck the earth, and had been covered in trash to hide it. Balthazar reached out with a hand that trembled. “I have to know,” he said, and the blue lights pulsed in laughter.

Trash toppled from the pile to the filthy concrete. Each struck with a sour ring like a broken church bell. Balthazar coughed, blood covered his hand, and he felt tears course down. His nose gushed blood down his shirt, hot and wet. He looked up at the pile of trash.

A dead man lain against the side of the building; dark blue cracks run riot through his flesh. Balthazar stared at him with pity; it was unfashionable to care about homeless or the poor, so no one cared. He thought of his Uncle, who lain curled up on the floor forgotten like the man before him. It seemed shameful to just leave the homeless man to rot in the filth.

Dead eyes popped open. The vibrant sick blue glow was like the cracks, which crawled through the homeless, dead man’s flesh. Its mouth lolled open, blue slime dripped from broken teeth. He recoiled from the screech vomited from the wretched maw. The lower jaw pulled violently down, mouth ripped up to the ears and it rose. A nest of feelers emerged from its throat, and the head turned upside down. Bones broke as its head turned.

Balthazar stood, he pressed up against the wall. “NO,” he groaned. He understood nothing. What is it? The homeless man stood to reveal its injuries. Stab wounds split open to spill dark blue guts, and tentacles slid out of its emaciated rib cage. Hot warmth spread across his pants. “NO,” he repeated as it reached for him. Balthazar turned and ran.

The blue cracks pulsed in laughter disorienting him. He wanted to throw up or shit himself or both. It screeched behind him cheated, and shuffled through the trash cluttered alley. A great call came forth from the sky. Balthazar fell under its power, and glanced back. More tentacles burst from the dead man’s back with the snap of more bones. They ripped at the alley walls. Blue cracks spread through the stone and mortar with snaps like sticks under a great weight. He screamed, snatched for a hand hold to stand.

Balthazar ran through the alley as the filth and trash clung to him. He emerged from the alley. The way behind him glowed with the pulsing light. The homeless man shambled after him, and he screamed gibberish, words beyond him. They must see, he thought, they must see.

The people stared up at the roiling clouds above the city. They didn’t notice the blood, dirt, and piss covered man. They stared at the black firmament, and it started to rain. Black blood fell down from the sky, yet the people only stared up. The clouds parted above and Balthazar screamed.

A great eye like those possessed by creatures in the deepest part of the ocean glared down at the people. Again, the call sounded from the heavens, and the people fell to the ground or their knees. Men and women wept and screamed, but all remained where they stood. Again, the call sounded from the heavens, and the spell was broken. The world erupted into chaos.

The city shook as glass from the skyscrapers rained down. Blue cracks ran through the streets, and blocks fell deep into the earth as other rose higher. Buildings like the dead, homeless man twisted. The groan of the metal rose above the screams as if the city was in agony. The rise and fall of the earth cast people screaming into the depths below, yet their wails of torment were undiminished and grew. Balthazar dug his fingers into a lamp post as the world shook itself apart. He stared at the eye above the city.

Balthazar grew distant, and looked away from the great eye. A woman screamed beside him, and he looked drunkenly at her. The blue cracks ripped through the earth to crawl up the woman’s legs. She cried in agony as bones broke, twisted, and shortened or grotesquely elongated. He stared, tried to form any thoughts as she was given new form. Flesh became bulbous, covered in ulcers, and given a new purpose. As Balthazar watched, he heard the creature above think, its thoughts hammered down upon him. It wanted knowledge. It wanted to fill all with its knowledge, and destroy the finite with the infinite, so the order and sanity of this world would be undone.

“I don’t want to know,” he whispered to the eye above. The cold metal touched his chest, and he glanced at the key. Balthazar gripped the key, the crushing weight of knowledge lifted from his mind. He looked at the smooth silver. It was his only hope for escape.

Balthazar’s paralysis broke with the key’s sane reality. Others broke from their inaction, they followed his action. Anywhere was better than here, and any action felt like salvation. They prayed for redemption, for a god to save them. Every door he saw was destroyed.

Through the broken streets he ran, and the others struggled to keep up. The men and women wept or screamed as he searched for any door. They fled from the people distorted by the gaze of the insane god. Balthazar cast a glance back; misshapen people followed the refuges in a tide of flesh. He turned from each dead end and crevice, but the tide of flesh drew closer.

Balthazar saw an old metal door, laughed, cried, and ran towards it key held high. He ran focused on nothing but the door. At the last moment, he saw the crevasse between him and the door; screams rose from behind him. Some of his followers had not seen it. Their screams echoed up from below in the pulsing blue depths.

Balthazar fumbled at the lock as the people clamored to catch up with him. They screamed for him to open the door, and he cursed them. He hated them for screaming and himself for being so inept. The silver key slid into the lock, and turned with a light click. He laughed as hot rears squirted out, and rushed through the door. Others ran towards the door, and he turned to see them screaming in horror. Their fear had driven them mad: eyes vacant some fell laughing into the crevasse, and others gibbered as they ran. Balthazar looked past them to the giant eye in the sky, and he felt its triumph. He screamed, the door slammed as his followers begged for him to save them.

“I left them. I LEFT THEM!” Balthazar screamed, and cried till he choked on his tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Kane saw the agony in his eyes and patted him. He saw the complete belief, and wondered if it was better to treat Balthazar, or put a bullet in his mangled mind. “Mister Whitlock, why did you kill those people?”

“CRACKS”!! He screamed up at the ceiling, laughed then cried. Balthazar’s mind fell back into itself. He could still feel the cold door against his head.

His lungs burned, he saw gray at the edges of his vision, and felt the world grew distant. The eye in the sky of New Chicago was still watching: he felt it. Balthazar willed his heart to slow, and he shook his head to dispel the screams of the people. It wasn’t his fault. The eye had seen him, the world beyond the door was so close to his world, and the eye wanted a new world to undo with its madness. He hit the door, his fist clutched the key. “I understand,” Balthazar said as he thought of Professor King. This had to be what his Uncle had seen.

Balthazar staggered around still light head to see a small parking lot. A large dumpster set beside him: its rim slimmed by grease, the owner’s way of dissuading people from using it. He frowned, looked at the door, then back up. After a moment he realized where he stood. The parking lot was behind a laundry mat in Fort Hill, which was forty-five minutes from where he lived. Night had fallen, and he saw the pavement was wet.

The night was silent except for the frogs and cicadas that droned on. He smelled the blood, vomit, and urine. Balthazar looked into the widow lit only by a sick, yellow street light. A puddle near was filled by rain. He used it to clean himself best he could with the image of eyes upon him ever watching and ever prying.

After midnight the people of Fort Hill were usually in bed. They rolled up the sidewalk after eight he thought. It had annoyed him as a kid, but now he only felt alone. All he cared about was the shuffle of his feet, and the glow of the gas station.

Balthazar thought of his Uncle, and the people he left to die. The weight of their screams and looks of horror bore him down. He stopped and leaned against the wet brick of the gas station. A few droplets of water struck his cheek to mix with the tears, he looked up then down at the silver key. Soft blue light bounced off its surface with a light pulse.

He glanced up, a man shuffled near; the old man’s hair was long, and mixed with a bushy beard. Balthazar recognized him as a local crazy, though still harmless. The wrinkles in the old vagrant’s face were deeply carved from the years. He turned to glance at him, and Balthazar saw a blue crack down one cheek.

“NO,” he said and looked around. An old pipe set against the wall, and he snatched it up. “NO,” he repeated as the blue crack pulsed in laughter. The fog returned as he brought down the pipe on the wizened face. It smashed the blue crack, and he screamed in triumph. “NOT HERE!” he brought down the pipe.

He swung the pipe till there was nothing left. I must keep the cracks from spreading. More of the blue light pulsed, and he turned to see another. A sore riddled woman smoked a cigarette. She leered at him, but he only saw the blue crack which split her deflated breasts. He charged at her blood splattered pipe held high. All he saw were the blue cracks, and how they spread.

Balthazar stopped talking, the silence drew out as he stared at the ceiling, unblinking, and Kane stared at him. The Doctor wiped his brow as he waited for him to continue. The mad man’s belief and avid words had, momentarily, infected him. After a second, he smiled, straightened his tie, and then watched him cry silently. Insanity could be infectious, the maladies of the patients could infect the sane; he had seen it happen. “What happened next?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“I can’t remember. It is lost. We are lost. The cracks…are here.”

“Okay,” Doctor Kane stood. The police officers no longer stood outside the door. He looked into the hall, but no one walked the corridor. His office at end of the hall was slightly ajar.

“It doesn’t matter, it is over now.”

A great call shook the building, and Kane staggered forward. Another followed, and part of the wall fell away. Black clouds boiled above, and Doctor Kane watched as they parted. A great eye emerged above, and he turned afraid to stare into its gaze. Balthazar stood at his office door; he stared at the Doctor. Behind the mad man another world had replaced the interior of his office. He started forward, and Balthazar slammed the door shut on another dying world.