and I very much agree that this place is a mess.
Bluntly, I ask, "Did you see any demons out there?"
"No. They must have flown south for the winter."
"It's spring."
Jon replies, "I know." He must think that I'm crazy. At least he doesn't scorn me for it. His sarcastic response to my ridiculous, but serious question is disarming. I join Jonathan on the couch. We both turn toward the shattered television screen, as if it still had purpose.
With his eyes still focused on the shattered screen, Jon politely asks, “Do you like nature?”
I love nature. I can’t get enough of it. It has all been covered by pavement and decorated whorishly with unforgivable examples of living, so quite literally, I can’t get enough of it. Oh, how I wish I could be in a place where trees were not etched with lovers names joined by mathematic symbols. A natural place would suit me so fine. However, that place I have yet to find. The skies that I’ve seen are hallowed by still existence.
Jon turns his eyes from the screen, and towards me. “I know a place. I’ve seen ghosts,” he claims. I want to go to this place. I’ve seen demons, why not view ghosts?
“Where is it?” I ask.
“It’s a half-hour walk.”
Quickly, I reply, “We’ll drive.”
“Can’t drive a car where we’re going.” Then, it is settled. We’re going for a walk. It should feel good to get out of the house, but it won’t.
Jon is a few feet in front of me. While still walking, he turns to me. Loudly, he says, “It’s right up here!” All I see are scattered pieces of stone and a few trees that outline a small plateau. “They call it Loon Lake.” I look around. There are no lakes. My face is tagged with confusion. Jon looks confused because I look confused. He asks, “What is the matter.”
With sarcasm I play on those words, “Lacktherof.” I ask, “Where is the lake?”
“Oh, there isn’t one. It’s just a name. It’s just what they call it, however that does not change the fact that we are at Loon Lake.”
I heartily agree, and so, I reply, with obvious undertone of understanding, “Okay.”
“They killed many people on the ground that we walk on.” I want to know more. Homicide has always intrigued me. I say not a word, and don’t bother to look around. I keep my eyes on Jonathan, and he understands why I am doing this; he continues, “This little town we live in was, at one time, owned by witches. Rather, by those accused of being witches. Honestly, this is no more glamorous than an urban street, in the sense that it is simply land on which men have perished, but I always get this feeling when come here… I feel hated and threatened.” I can feel it, too.
Jon stops, abruptly. He turns to me, raises both brows, and then continues walking toward the plateau. This action makes the adventure more intriguing. We both suspect that something ill surrounds us, still we playfully approach it’s focal point. I hear a noise near the largest stone, however it is surrounded by brush so tall that I cannot recognize the source of commotion. Jon grins, smiling with only the right side of his face, while the left stays static. His manners appeal to me. That look that he gave is the look that I hope to adopt for a situation such as this. It’s so fearless; still, it is warm with character.
Jon steps through the overgrowth, moving towards the sound. He isn’t even looking forward. Instead, his stare is at the ground. This helps him maneuver through the thick weeds spaced between half-naked bushes, while offering forthwith an awful lot of exposure. Now, I begin to wonder if I have confused my cohort’s fearlessness with carelessness. While he rushes through, I am fearful of whatever it is that produced the sound. It would be ridiculous not to, considering sound’s undeniable reputation, now known to accompanying lunacy.
Loudly, Jon declares, “It’s just some birds,” I see them, and I can’t understand why Jon’s abrupt declaration has not scared them around. I think, there must be thirteen of them. Then I am stricken with the same feeling that astounded when the demons surrounded my home. I cannot move. In fact, I can do nothing but stare at these birds and recognize that they number thirteen. Jon starts asks, “Do you see? There are thirteen of them. That’s odd.”
“No Jon, the reasons for the current positioning of my mattress and box-spring are odd, this is uncanny.” I can’t help it. I’m shaken and it shows. I don’t feel well. I should not have left home.
Jon says, “No… they are always here. Everyday, on this stone, thirteen birds sits perched and still.” He points at a weathered engraving on the stone on which they sit. I approach, taking two steps forward, then bending down onto one knee. This whole time the birds stay still. They cock their heads around this site as if neither Jonathan nor myself occupied this space. The stone reads: “Cursed is Mary, the killer of childs.”
“She was not a killer. She was in the wrong place in the wrong decade.” He stops and grins that half grin before continuing, “Nice way to be remembered, isn’t it?”
I don’t quite follow, “as a child murderer, or as being in the wrong place in the wrong decade?”
Quickly and confidently he asks, “Was I being sincere of sarcastic?”
“I’m not sure.”
Jon’s tone falls deep, and I here sincerity in a reply that comes unexpected, “That makes two of us, my hombre, that makes two of us.” What about this question changed his tenor?
Am I in the wrong place in the wrong decade? No, I am just in the wrong place. Jon stutters as he says in a wavering voice, “We should go now.” He surveys our surroundings fitfully. He looks so scared, and I haven’t been saving any valorous instincts for such an occasion. I run, and he follows. We run until we can’t run any more, and then we break to discuss the direction in which we should have been running.
Between catching breaths, Jon tells me that we are very near an old train station. He says that he used to play with toy trains and that he has always wanted to take the wheel of the historical locomotive. Jon says, “The train still works,” then he glamorizes some town that is only accessible by this railroad. He speaks briefly of this place. He says that it is not in record books and that its history is one of horror. He promises to tell me all about it, should I agree to start the train with him.
The train starts with very little effort. It doesn’t take the pair of us to do it, but I suppose neither one of us would fancy such an expedition if it weren’t for the good company. We check, and then double-check all gears and systems to make sure that everything is running tip-top. We know nothing about the maintenance or operation of a locomotive. “Looks good.” I affirm. The train has been holding a constant speed for some time. Now, Jon tells the story of a town named Marie.
“The city was small. It would fall as a result of the fascist orthodoxy of a catholic priest. Father Sandry was his name… no Saundy. Yes, Father Saundy. He believed sleep-depravation and self-mutilation were not just permissible, but expected of “our father who art in heaven”. The small town followed his example. After all, he was a clergyman and this city was far from any others.” Jon tells the story like a mystery. Slightly trailing as he ends each sentence, only to abruptly interrupt with the next.
He looks up at me with shocked features. I look over my shoulder very convinced that I will see a ghost. He speaks quickly and loudly. “So far from everything that even the trains didn’t run through it!” He grabs my arm and we bail out of the train.
I stand up and brush dirt and dead weeds off my jeans, “This looks right,” he says. Then he grins before adding, “or at least right enough.”
He continues the story as if nothing has happened, and so I follow, as though the jump from the train were a step over a puddle. “The town stayed awake for days. The children died after seven. The adults perished after thirteen. What happened during that time is undocumented or unknown. There is nothing more to tell. I will show you her remains and you will know as much as will ever be known about Marie- the killer of childs…” He looks at me, curiously. I understand what his ey
es are telling me; the town’s history is memorialized by a misleading rock that suggests Mary be a deceased woman, rather than an excommunicated town. “Do you understand?” I nod my head immediately.
Suddenly, I feel a familiar pressure all around me. Jon stops dead in his step, so I believe he feels it too. Sincerely and regretfully I say, “I’m unsure about this, Jon. I don’t want to follow you anymore.”
“Fine. Then I’ll follow you. It’s just ahead.” That was not my contention, but a wish half-granted is better than a will full-bent. So I carry on, as leader, across a barren field that dulls. The hills to the east eclipse the muted sun. The old town of new legend is closer than I had anticipated. It’s just a phone’s throw from here.
Marie is a cluster of small, rotting cottages that appear to have been built around a church whose mason would be proud. If it weren’t for the strong smell of aged lumber produced by the cottages, I may have believed him still alive to see it. Everything else is archaic. I have trouble turning away to look at the bulk of Marie in all of its fading glory, because I can’t understand why the scraps of wood below my feet are green and the mortar on the church is grey. I feel spiritually empowered at the sight and, as unsure as I am about where I came from and where I will go when I die, I know that God has touched this church.
Jon interrupts my golden grace with a startling statement, “Your house is built on the old Marie. This is just the part that won’t seem to fade.” When he says fade, I identify a very stunning pattern on the site. The decrepit houses have less wear twenty-five feet from the church than they do at thirty feet. There is less wear fifteen feet from the church than at twenty. Then, I notice that this is true of all cabins nearby, as if an invisible circle surrounds the church, weakens with distance, but slows debeautification. While looking to the ground Jon says, “Marie once was, and with a history so marked,” he makes sure that I stare him dead in the eye before he continues, “she shall be always.”
We had seen all that was to be seen in Marie, or at least what was attractive enough to catch our eyes. As quick as we had come, we left that place. Stained by the grace, we arrived home in a manner that made it seem like we hadn't walked home at all. With the house still quiet, and with many footsteps behind me I felt a want for rest. I find my way to the mattress that lie in the middle of the beige room, amongst splinters of wood and cracked pieces of drywall. For reasons defiant of animate bedrooms, this is where I close my tired eyes.
It’s dark when I awake from the cold; from the sweat perspired as I dreamt something vicious. I pull the sheet that cover me over the damp linens beneath then continue to dream of the things that no man should see.
In these dreams, I am walking through a maze. This is recurring, as in that I have dreamt this in prior slumbers and that I have dreamt it thrice in this one. I go a different way every time, knowing the horror of the wicked way that I went previously. No fruition. Every new way presents something worse. I see things too painful to watch- things too extremely ruthless and cruel to describe in detail. This time spent close-eyed feels more real than hours awake. It is a thrill, and it cripples me emotionally.
I wake definitely to the sound of Jon humming loudly. I look down at my forearms. "Marie" is inscribed in my flesh; it is etched over healing scars. Ouch, did I do that? I look out the door in an attempt catch a glimpse of Jon, or more importantly to uncover the reason for this very loud noise. He notices me and gets startled. He says, "I'm sorry, did I wake you? That was the solo. It's a bit loud isn't it?"
"No, it's fine," I reply. I have no fucking idea what he is talking about.
"You are going to lose your mind without that television to dull your thought," Jon suggests.
I reply, "The reason for destroying it was just that; it will dull thought."
"What are you thinking that is so great?" He asks.
I don't answer aloud, but... I can't think of anything. I cannot surface one viable conclusion of my own. I am short with him. "Things, okay? I'm thinking things." This isn't a lie, but it doesn't say much. My incapacity to render a respectable response forces me to step back for a moment and do what Jon must be doing, dulling oneself by humming mindlessly. We begin to hum together, then one of us switches it up a bit. We hum as if we were in an orchestra conducted solely by ambition to hum mindlessly. "Hmmm, hmm, hmm, hmmm, hm, hmmmm, hmmmm."
I find myself humming alone. Where the hell did Jon go? I call out his name, but hear no response. I hear water running in the bathroom and, while I wish it disproved, ‘twas turned on by the house. I'm sure that the running water is hot as hell, and I know that a message will be waiting for me. Alas, I shattered the mirror prior, but torturous home avail, represented by a shard of mirror lying on cheap linoleum floor. Condensation on the sliver of reflective surrounds the claim, "Jon is gone." I begin to silently reject, and then concur that I should orally express my opinion. In an unwavering matter-of-fact tone I say, "I fought your demons and I stand valorous. You mustn't continue these fruitless efforts. Should you persist, you will find yourself as desperate and unrecognized as I."
I should have kept my mouth shut. A twisted and familiar voice fills the home, "I am unrecognized? You are the fool that still has his eyes fixed on that broken bit of mirror." While the voice is much more bearable this time around, it has simply traded the menace of vocalization for a pirate, intellectualism. Words worth articulation are spoken in complete sentences rooted in the mystics. He asks the preposterous, "Do you think this has something to do with Marie?" Of course not, Marie is a myth. "You saw it with your own eyes."
I confess, "I can't distinguish dreams from reality. However, the blatant obscurity surrounding the whole ‘Marie’ tour suggests that it be fictitious."
"If that is your reasoning, then..."
"What..?"
The voice continues, as if it had never paused, "are you dreaming?"
I look down at scarring forearms. I am alive, and I am not dreaming. So I declare, "I am not dreaming."
And the callous voice replies, "I know."
Even though an unidentified voice provides sound company, I feel alone. I think about the girl at the bar. She had the voice and the saunter of an angel- and the mouth of a working girl. I cock my head and look at the wall. The glare of the persistent sun throws a bright line across the glass face of a cheap wall clock. I squint to read the time. It is five o'clock in the evening.
I feel like putting a gun to my temple and pulling the trigger just to decease inborn feelings of sexual attraction.
I go to the bar. I sit down at the corner- the same place I had leisurely settled three nights prior. I am entertaining the idea that if I repeat the routine that lead to the brief social encounter, then the night will repeat itself. I order a whiskey on ice. For those who care, dust had settled on the bottle in my absence, and again it garnished my drink as the fat fucking bartender poured my bourbon.
Last time, I had little interest in pursuing young women. Three days later, I am stuck in a frame of mind that will not let lustful feelings escape. I was taken with the stranger that stepped precariously on this old bar’s rotting, wood floors. Still, I had not expected any company, and so I declined at the opportune moment and regret it at this moment. If only she would slowly push open that heavy front door, I would say the right thing. I could appeal to her sense of adventure and make her feel like she was young again.
I stay until the bar closes at ten o’clock, because it’s Tuesday, and because I’ve been the only one in the bar for the last three hours. My rose never came. I imbibe generously, as I imagine her sitting next to me smelling however she did when she was within my reach. Then, I feel sorrow and lone. I walk home with my eyes to the ground. While I make shameful steps, I think about lost love, the only kind of love that I know.
Thinking about love, I cannot help but consider the feeling of hate; there has been little progress dispelling the curse that is all around. Once we love, we can lose, and I hate that; and I
would love to make the lovers hate in a way in which only one once loved could appeal. In conclusion, today, hate and love abounding.
My education would convince me that man is better than other animals, however, I don’t believe that the other animals would waste their lives hating and loving. They would not spend hours disassembling their thoughts and actions. Then again, maybe they do. Maybe, in some situation, a mouse is questioning why he must retrieve the food and considering disbanding from the other totalitarian mice altogether, as a cat pounces and pierces his neck. Maybe, the cat wonders why it’s carnal instincts be so prevalent and malicious. Maybe it is considering a vegetarian diet.
As mind wanders wayward, the girl’s vivid image fades. Is this for the better? This hurts and belittles my honor and my heart, so I suppose not. But, where to go from here- I’ve already done the deed that will stratify- I’ve skirmished feelings that would example humanity, and I did so without a wince. Oh, how crippled within I must be, to think in such a way and to act upon conclusions made whilst so unsavvy.
I love the smell of cut grass, and I hate how my lawn looks as I come upon it roadside. So, I walk past my house. I walk to an aluminum shed that is bordered by cornfields, and which lies within my property line. I approach it on the off chance that I may find a working lawnmower, full-up on gasoline, ready to cut this yard ‘till it’s beautiful. My luck has seldom been good, but often fate is rather kind to me; under a bit of light, a coordination of lamps left on in my house and a neighbor’s porch light, I spy a sturdy looking lawnmower. I pull it out of the shed quickly, because even in this low light I spot a large spider-web; and I may hate spiders.
I pray that it will start, and that is not a turn of phrase. I push it to the farthest corner of the yard and position to cut lengthwise down the middle. I pull the string that is attached to the motor. I think I heard something begin to start, so I pull again; I pull six times fretfully and successfully start the lawnmower. I start to work.
After a while, I notice my neighbor and his wife staring out at me through a sliding-glass door. They must be in awe of my perfect lines. I exhale and crack a bit of a smile; I’m not even half finished. I watch them talk while I push southeast, and when I turn the other way to make a parallel cut, I think about what they must be saying. They’ve probably never seen a yard become so glamorous- sure, they may have heard stories, but they didn’t think they were true. I’ll bet they are already thinking of a nickname for me; one that refers to my unwavering ability to handle a lawnmower with