“I know it will seem frightening at first,” the old man says talking about the demons, “but you have to trust me. Just wrap your entire body, head included, with this cloak and there’s no way those things can touch you.”
“It’s a blanket,” I respond with a touch of sarcasm.
“It works every time,” he smiled at me and patted me on the shoulder as he showed me once more how to use this cloth. It was simple enough. When the creatures emerged, and they usually do late at night, I just enshroud my whole body with the blanket- I mean, cloak. Who was I to argue? He was my father after all and he hasn’t steered me wrong my entire life.
But that doesn’t mean I reserve the right to feel frightened when the monsters do come out. I am writing this now from the safe confines of the cloak. Armed with nothing but a flashlight, pencil, and this notebook in which this is written, I am here to make a record every detail of this demonic infestation of the house. Every creak, bump in the wall, or suspicious smell will be duly recorded and should this blanket not be sufficient protection, I will at the very least mapped out the movements of these shadowy beasts.
It’s raining tonight. The clouds collected ominously in the sky the other day and grew dull silver this morning. The rain is relentless and drops the size of large corn kernels are continuously rapping against the glass of the window. Water is spilling in sheets off of the neighbor’s roof from what I can see under this glorified blanket. The moisture in the air is cold and fresh and tempts my heavy eyelids to droop down until sunrise but I need to prove to everyone that these creatures are here.
A few minutes have passed and I can hear creaking. I cannot be entirely sure as to where it is coming from but it is most definitely coming towards me. That’s strange since these things are prone to already be in this room. But maybe I was just fortunate enough to—whatever it is; it’s right beside me this very instant. My breath has escaped my lungs and took away any opportunity to scream but I assure you the desire is there… The cloak seems to be working as I remain hidden—No! There’s been a breach! A large muzzle with a cold nose is within the confines of my protective cloak. I must—Oh, it’s just the dog.
At least now I’m not alone. There is a creaking coming from the window. I hope I can keep this mutt quiet while I note my observations. That creaking could be the house settling. I’ve mistaken the odd cacophony that occurs within the halls of a time tested wooden structure as this one for these monsters. There is another creaking, like a door slowly swinging open. It could be the door to the hallway, perhaps it is the closet and every fiber of my terrified being trembled with hope that it was the former. At the very least, the former provided some sort of impromptu escape plan.
The howling is beginning and I swear I can hear the breathing and growling of hungry beasts enshrouding me. Scratches at the window grow louder with every passing second. Logic made feeble attempts to convince me that the scratching was merely branches brushing up against the window and the howling nothing more than the wind outside the house. But my heart beating its way out of my ribcage and the cold sweat running down my back convinces me otherwise. Wrapped in my cloak, I shut my eyes so tightly that the bridge of my nose is nearly numb. But I assure you I can feel them around me, surrounding me in their own blanket.
Then, something familiar yet frightening finds its way to my ears. Footsteps! They are approaching gently and rhythmically down the hallway towards me. I am holding the dog tightly in the hopes that that will scare away whatever is after me. A tear is about to roll down the side of my face when a voice comes from those footsteps.
“Honey?” Mom? “Is that you underneath that blanket?”
“Dad said it was a cloak!” I reprimand her. “He said it would keep away the monsters!”
“Oh yes, the one’s in the closet? I remember now. Well, that works just fine, but remember if it ever gets too scary here you can always run over to sleep with your father and me.”
“Thanks, mom. But I have to stay here tonight.”
“I know. I’m proud of you; staying in your own room all by yourself for the first time. You’re such a brave little boy. Now, I’ve got you’re hot chocolate ready if you still want it.”
“Extra marshmallows?”
“Extra marshmallows.”
It looks like the monsters’ attempt at taking me into their dark kingdom from the confines of my closet have been thwarted again. But needless to say as long as I have my blanket—I mean my cloak—my dog, and a nice cup of hot chocolate, those shadowy creatures are no match for me.
“I may be convinced to do it,” Karyn’s voice was a touch sarcastic but dripping with snootiness and as usual had inflections that hinted at disdain. Without the bejeweled adornments and bloated trust fund, she would still be pretty but her chocolate colored hair and honey hued eyes would lack a shimmer that can only be provided by her own sense of self worth.
“It’s only for the fundraiser, you understand,” Charlotte added. In contrast to Karyn, Charlotte’s voice was soft and sweet, meant to dance in the open air rather ring across the marble floors and oak wood walls of fancy ballrooms.
“My dear child,” Karyn would always use the word “child” with someone she felt was her subordinate when in reality Charlotte’s family was worth more than hers. “I can have you walking, talking, and breathing like the rest of us socialites but you have to be in it body, mind, and soul. I’m not even sure why you’re bothering to try given your last encounter at Alice Grey’s debutante ball last year.”
The incident at the debutante ball earned Charlotte quite the reputation among the elite. Said celebration took place just outside Montgomery, Alabama where the Grey fortune had started and continued to grow. This would have been the first highbrow social even in Charlotte’s life: the details of which will be revealed shortly. It would only be fair to first explain the history of this character who finds herself a pariah among her so called peers.
Her father, Dr. Francis Stoker, had just come across a wealth of money having patented a formula to aide in the treatment for cancer. Before that time, Charlotte and the rest of the Stoker family lived in pleasant anonymity in New York City’s Long Island. Charlotte Stoker is the only child in the household and was raised by her mother, a sweet and thoughtful housewife from the Midwest.
Though raised by sweet and, by every definition of the word, conservative mother, Charlotte was allowed and often times encouraged to question everything from authority to status quo. The result was a child who was as precocious and outspoken as she was beautiful. When she wasn’t running around the playground pretending it to be some fantasy country that existed in the confines or her mind, she was often found reading quietly in the library buried beneath pile of books that she either just finished reading or planned to read. Admittedly, she was a favorite among the librarians.
It was no wonder that with a mind as unique and intelligent as Charlotte’s constantly found her at odds with her new group of friends. The culmination of which is the aforementioned debutante ball of Alice Grey. The stuffiness of the air inside the grand ballroom of the gargantuan mansion, not to mention the humidity of a hot July afternoon, drove Charlotte to act her usual self; that of a normal seventeen year old girl. Less than an hour after the evening began she was found climbing the grand magnolia trees. But it was jumping in the lake while wearing her gown that captured the attention of the attendees.
Of all the heirs and heiresses that graced the Grey mansion that evening, Karyn Worley was the closest thing Charlotte found to be a “friend.” But even then, Karyn was only considered as such because she was the only one courageous enough to approach the new girl; the result of a lost bet from earlier in the night’s festivities. One may ask what could have happened to bring Charlotte, the independent fair haired sapphire eyed beauty from Long Island, to put herself in a position of inferiority to that of Karyn. The reason is a tall broad shouldered young man with chestnut hair and green eyes named Jonathan Sayre. Normally, Charlotte would not go out of her way for the simple attention but she felt that desperate times called for desperate measures.
“So will you help me out, Karyn?” Charlotte pleaded.
“Well if we’re going to do this we might as well start with the wardrobe,” Karyn walked into Charlotte’s closet and glided her finger superficially over the gowns and dresses that were hung precariously by wire hangers. “Oh, this won’t do.”
“What? What is it?”
“Even if we do find a dress fine enough for you to wear there is no way I am going to allow you to wear anything slung so messily onto a wire hanger.” The word “wire” left a bad taste in Karyn’s mouth.
“So what do we do?”
Karyn made no response and took out her phone and dialed intently on the touchpad. Her eyebrows raised when the desired application popped up on the screen of the phone. She turned the device around and showed Charlotte images of her entire wardrobe.
“You look about my size so I will let you borrow one of my dresses until you get a decent ensemble in that ghastly excuse for a closet.”
Charlotte gracefully waved her slender fingers across the touch-screen and looked at the multitude of dresses that Karyn owned. There were dresses for the most elite events and the most casual, the most complex to the simplest designs. Some of them were adorned, almost dripping with jewels, others made of the rarest of fabrics. Colors from one end of the spectrum to the other and for the first time in her newly found privileged life, Charlotte’s eyes widened; her irises quivered with envy. The design of the dress was simple but radiantly beautiful and was of a shade of rose that had made Charlotte’s eyes bluer than they were the day she was born. It nearly made her weep. Karyn saw the look on her face and peeked at the dress on the phone screen and nodded in approval.
“I must say, Charlotte,” Karyn said with a subtle smile, “for someone who has not been with high society for long, you’ve got some good taste.” She took the phone from Charlotte’s hand and pushed a button or two and was talking to someone on the other end for a few seconds. When she hung up, she explained, “Someone will be here within the hour to bring the dress. That way we can see what it truly looks like on you before the fundraiser. Now, come along. We’ve got a long way to go.”
Karyn dialed a few more numbers and within 15 minutes of pushing “End” on her phone, a small army of makeup artists and hair stylists barged into the Stoker penthouse apartment. Amidst the whirl wind of hair and makeup products, the troops set to make a new woman out of Charlotte Stoker. Her rosy cheeks and curious eyes were buried underneath layers of powders and cream. The springy golden locks that floated about her elegant neck have been singed and iron out and slashed into a neat bob that ended abruptly just beneath her earlobes. And among the chaos, Charlotte somehow still heard Karyn’s pretentious screech of a voice dictating more and more instructions.
“Oh and those songs that you’re constantly humming to yourself,” Karyn commented.
“But my grandmother taught me those songs.” Charlotte pleaded.
“And I’m sure she’s a sweet lady,” Karyn patronized, “but you’ve got to stop and think about what others are thinking. Everyone in every event is judging you and you must act accordingly if you’re ever going to become one of us.”
“It’s just for this one evening, Karyn.”
“Oh, honey. I told you. You have to be in this one hundred percent.”
“So much for ‘To thine own self be true.’”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s Shakespeare,” there was no response, “Hamelt? Do you read any books?”
“That’s it! That’s what’s missing. You’re always burying your nose in those nasty old books. What do you need to be any smarter for? After your father’s research, you’re set for life.”
“I want to enrich my mind. There’s no crime in that, is there?”
“Not so much as a crime; more like a taboo. It’s no wonder you never know what we are talking about at these parties.” Karyn randomly picked up a fashion magazine with what seemed to be French written all over the cover and handed it to Charlotte, “This is your new bible.”
“But this doesn’t interest me much, I’m afraid,” Charlotte protested.
“It doesn’t have to, my dear.”
It’s only on the surface and only for this one night, Charlotte thought to herself. I just need to get the attention of Jon Sayre and then I can drop this façade. I can always change what I wear, though that is such a beautiful dress. I can always wash off makeup and the curls of my hair is not permanently gone, neither is its luxurious length. And as far as this new reading material… I suppose I can stand it for now. The pictures are interesting, and these cities that these articles are about do seem exotic. It wouldn’t hurt to curb my curiosity for a little while.
A few more minutes pass and Charlotte found herself enjoying the company of the small army and strangely, even the presence of Karyn has become somewhat pleasant. Haughty is hardly ever used to describe the innocent lilt of Charlotte’s giggle until she found herself chortling at something witty, urbane, and which was in all likelihood, possibly gossip. There was a gentle rap at the door. The dress had arrived. The smooth silky rose fabric flowed out of the delivery man’s hands as he presented it to the two young ladies. Karyn beamed with pride as if she had sewn the dress herself. Mouth agape, Charlotte walked slowly to the dress and touched it softly.
Karyn insisted she try it out that instant to which Charlotte gleefully squealed and ran to put it on. She felt the smooth fabric flow on her soft creamy skin so gently and elegantly. And the color was more vibrant yet delicate, a hundred times more so than Karyn’s phone could accurately depict. Charlotte had begun to lose herself in the chaos of her father’s fortune for the first time since being supplanted by it and dared herself to actually enjoy the moment. She could feel the dress clinging ever so gently with her every moment that she nearly forgot to check herself in the mirror.
With a smile plastered on her face which was caked with a thick layer of makeup, she tugged playfully on her newly cut hair. It was almost as if she was subconsciously hoping that this would cause her hair to grow back quicker than anticipated. She caught a glimpse of the dress on the mirror, which served only to cause her smile to grow until her eyes slowly rolled upward. As her reflected self met eye to eye with her actual self, the makeup began to run as she gently wept at the image before her. As beautiful as the Charlotte Stoker in that dress appeared to be on the surface, the girl who stared back from that mirror was someone entirely unfamiliar.
Replace that tepid pool water with the icy loneliness of the blue atmosphere and the pillowy clouds of moisture cooling the soft skin of your eyes and nostrils and lips. And that would be a fraction of the incredible sensation of human flight. All around you is pure freedom straight from the source: the heavens themselves!
My first flight happened at the tender age of six. It was a hot summer afternoon and the heat rose from the ground, showered from the sky, and blew in from the sides along the backs of a dozen breezes as if from the desert. I was too tired to get up and find a pool or lake to jump in having spent my weekly allowance chasing the ice cream truck around the neighborhood and enjoying the spoils of catching up with it. But I so badly yearned for the relief of the water splashing against my face so I closed my eyes and pictured myself floating.
I used every fiber of my six year old imagination to feel myself floating, fighting with all my soul to defy the restraints of gravity. As I opened my eyes I could feel the clouds running over my knuckles and between my fingers truly thinking I had transported myself to a swimming pool only to find that I was flying through the sky. My disbelief promptly alerted gravity to my misdoings and my first flight ended with my face being planted into the firmament.
A few scrapes and scratches later I managed to master the art of flight only to be grounded at the age of thirteen not by the FAA or an angry parent but by peer pressure. When I was thirteen I was called a “freak” for the first and last time. I’m not sure what it is about that age that somehow makes the opinions of others weigh heavier on my young mind, but it was definitely heavy enough to keep me from taking flight again for more than a decade. There was, I’m ashamed to say, a point in high school where I didn’t just deny that I knew how to fly, but I forgot that it was even a possibility. I was too concerned about what others thought to focus my energies on what truly made me happy.
I didn’t remember what it was like to ride along the back of the winds again until my junior year in college. Interests change when you’re learning to become an adult, when you grow into the person you know you will become. But one thing always remains the same. There will always be that one part that yearns to crawl back to those summer days when the only worry was allowing ice cream to run over the edge of that waffle cone and onto your hands.
If there was one reason that convinced me to start flying again it would be the night I fell in love with the young woman who was to be my wife less than a year afterward. “What is your biggest secret?” she asked. “What is the one thing about you that makes you utterly happy but, for whatever reason, is something that you’ve hidden away until someone like me digs it out of you?” I told her to close her eyes. Reluctantly but amused she relented and closed her eyes. I wrapped my arms around her and gently pressed my lips against hers.
She didn’t even feel her feet leave the ground and if I’m being completely honest I didn’t notice it either. With a shudder she opened her eyes and gasped when she saw that we were quite literally dancing on the clouds. It was cold that night, I remember. Even more so for her, being her first flight and all. With the air as thin as it is at those higher altitudes, the blood freezes much more easily. Her cheeks grew rosy, so I brought as back to finish the dance on the ground. That’s when I knew I loved her, when I realized that she was the one to spend the rest of my life with. It’s a good rule of thumb. Someone’s only worth being around if you can fly freely around them without feeling like a freak.
The glowing inconstant moon was engulfed by the black pillow clouds; its dessert was the twinkling stars sprinkled through the violet night sky. What little moonlight was present fought its way through the clouds in a silver veil and shone in streaks upon the vast valley below making all the buildings shine a soft, blue. The mountains and valley floor emanated with dark purple as waves of heat from the morning sun escaped from beneath the dirt and into the air warming the streets of the town.
Lonely and shimmering, the stars froze in the vacuous black of space as the lonely quiet town they twinkled over yearned to feel a fraction as cool as they were. The roads leading into and out of the town were punctuated with yellow dots of that came from the traffic lights that lit alongside them. The howl of the summer breeze blew dust from one end of the valley to the other interrupted by the occasional train, usually a freight train this late in the evening, roaring by.
The put-putting of that dilapidated faded tan pickup truck signified that Robert had finally returned home after another long day of work. His house was of a simple design to reflect a lonelier period in the town’s history. It looked as if a hollowed out cube emerged from the grains of dust and brittle shrubbery of its environment and Robert made a home of it.
For the past 27 years, he had set out to work at 7:30 in the morning and headed back home pulling into the driveway at approximately 6:45 every evening. It was a pattern he started when he was just 17 years old and had barely deviated from it ever since. But today he came home nearly three hours earlier than usual dragging with him his metal lunch box, his flannel shirt thrown over his shoulder, and the worst news he has had to bring to the wife in 27 years.
The factory from which Robert returned was the latest victim of greed, but no one outside the town would have known. Men in three piece suits and slicked back hair saw fit to buy out the competition in the small towns, their remorse neatly buried in the sands of that barren valley where nothing grew but their already fat pockets.
Normally, any other man in the town in Robert’s situation (which was more than half of them) would refrain from showing up home early. Instead they filled their times with the same substance with which most folk would drown their sorrows. But that was a vice that Robert had given up many years ago upon feeling the miniature grip of his newborn son wrap around his calloused thumb. With a deep breath he rubbed the back of his neck and leaned his head back looking towards the thinly veiled moon overhead.
Almost out of reverence, he bowed to the haunting blue and white light that glowed upon him and rubbed his brow. It was almost as if Robert was attempting to squeeze out some amount of tears that had dried up long ago. The lump in his throat would have been easier to handle with some bourbon, and the temptation crawled up his neck as a hot, tingling bead of sweat crawled upwards along his spine.
He approached the walkway reluctantly and his hands felt heavy as he lifted it to open the front door. The air inside was cool, almost chilling in comparison to the dry heaving heat outside. There was a faint smell of smoke as if candles had just been lit and just as quickly been blown out. He looked in the kitchen felt an ominous heat from the oven. Peeking inside, he could see that the roast had just been placed inside less than an hour prior to his arrival.
Robert was a quiet man and never wasted a single word unless the situation called for it. He searched the pantry: empty. The backyard: barren. The hallway leading to the bedroom was dark and menacing but subtle breathing can be heard at the end of it just beyond the bedroom door. Robert was a smarter man than his quiet sensibilities implied and his heart sank as he walked towards the master bedroom.
Hoping to stall the inevitable he opened his son’s bedroom door and found the little one fast asleep still in his school clothes. The sweet look on the boy’s face brought a smile to Robert’s tanned and worn face. He softly stepped to his child and gently kissed him on the forehead. The boy winced as boy’s do when being kissed on the forehead. Another deep breath and Robert turned to the hallway and inched his way to the master bedroom.
His fingertips barely touched the door as it silently swung open and reveled the epitome of his worst fears comes to life behind it. Robert had no idea who this other man was, nor did he care to find out. His heart shriveled into the recesses of his ribcage. The lump in his throat grew larger. And his fingers wrapped into a tightly wound fist. Vertigo replaced any of his senses in that very instant and all he saw was a blanket of white.
Robert did not remember hitting him. The stranger, unclothed, lay in a pile in the corner of his bedroom; jaw sickeningly askew with blood dripping from the side of his lip. Robert’s hand was hot and cold and numb. It didn’t hurt until he unraveled his fingers loose. The stranger’s blood was dripping from his large knuckle. Robert’s wife was crying. Was it out of guilt? Remorse? Was she regretting that her infidelity was discovered? Robert didn’t know. And, frankly, he didn’t care.
A cold chill pierced through the summer heat and dragged down Robert’s spine. The sweat began to collect on his face as he ran to his truck and jumped in. All the way, whimpering, but never crying. His eyes drew back and tightened as if going into a dry heave. It was his body’s vain attempt at weeping. With a screech, the truck sped from the driveway.
Somehow he found his way to the church and saw some of the town’s elderly marching slowly out the front door. He ran into the building and the cool air seemed to calm him for the time being. Its grand structure was cold yet comforting. The shadows of the columns and pews danced on the earthen walls against the faces of saints and the heavenly hosts in rhythm with the dancing flames of the candles. Alas it was empty but he took a seat, unfolded the kneeler and began to pray. Words that only he and God could hear were silently whispered into the still air to which the stale smoke of incense still hung.
His face was hot and red as the glass that held the candles in that church. Blood began to trickle down his chin when he bit down on his lower lip, still not able to cry. He awoke some hours later. A gentle hand nudged him out of his dream. It was the priest whose eyes twinkled with pity but whose brow furrowed with the sternness that was usually reserved for the sinful. Behind the priest was the sheriff who kindly asked Robert to leave. The broken man nodded and obliged the officer.
As he slumped back into his pickup truck, Robert slid the key in its place and the engine rumbled a muffled growl under the hood as it turned over. His eyes were frustratingly sad and yearned to be moistened even by a single tear. The synthetic leather of the steering wheel was hot and burned his forehead so he lifted his eyes up over the dashboard and facing east looked into the vast nothingness of the town. The dawn bled through the satin sky of night as a crimson beacon for the new day making matte obsidian shadows of the jagged mountains that surrounded the valley. The night sky met the morning sky in a streak of white cutting across.
Robert clicked a button and turned on the radio. Through the static a DJ’s voice could be heard: “That was ‘Richard Cory.’ Let’s keep rolling this early, early morning show with the next track off of Simon and Garfunkel’s classic 1966 album, ‘Sounds of Silence.’ This song’s called ‘A Most Peculiar Man.’” The somber rhythm of the melancholy acoustic guitar melted Robert’s shoulders away from his neck.
With a gentle rumble the truck sped away from the church and towards the edge of the town on the west side of the valley. At 80 miles per hour, Robert seemed to be running away from the sun, which was listlessly climbing higher into the sky with each passing minute. In just over two minutes, he had arrived at his intended destination. The orange sky just barely outlined the railroad crossing. The tracks extended out to infinity on either side of the pickup truck.
The music faded out into the warming morning sky as Robert reached over and turned off the radio. His face grew hot and red as he felt the tracks beneath him rumble violently. In the distance, the warning horn of the 6:00am train howled as it usually did. Another burst of the horn sounded, this time longer and it grew louder trying to capture the attention of the pickup truck’s driver. The howling turned into screeching as sparks flew violently from the brakes of the train. Robert’s face was wet with tears that finally came streaming down his reddish purple face and he let out a scream into the sky that could be heard from the town. With a loud crash of steel and glass, it all ended for the man whose only intention was to be the bearer of bad news and not the recipient of it.
