Broken Symmetry

BROKEN SYMMETRY

  WILLIAM J. GRABOWSKI

  Oblivion Press

  2014

  BROKEN SYMMETRY

  Copyright © 2014 William J. Grabowski

  Cover photo © 2014 by William J. Grabowski

  This digital edition © 2014 Oblivion Press

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9749628-7-0

  “The underlying oneness in all confusions.”

  —Charles Hoy Fort

  The Book of the Damned

  Some people, I’m told, are lucky. They see things.

  Gray Mercer, Rob Penfound, and Darcy Patel saw—

  Never mind; we’ll get there.

  And lucky? I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.

  I did.

  But I’m not lucky.

  ***

  PHILLIP BOWLES: Thursday, November seventeenth, two thousand thirteen. Phil Bowles and Jim Neff here for BNI, interviewing Mr. Gray Mercer, fifty-seven, in his home, regarding his experience in West Edge Park on Monday, November fourteenth at approximately two ayem.

  Mr. Mercer, please tell us what took place.

  GRAY MERCER: [Clears throat] Sure. I’ll try.

  PB: Take as much time as you need.

  GM: Thanks. I appreciate that—still feeling a little shaky.

  PB: You sound better than earlier, during the pre-interview.

  GM: Hmm...debatable. Glad you think so. Oh boy.

  Had a late night, was walking home from work—programming for CyberSun Biotech—and passing a maintenance shed in the park. An odd feeling hit me [shakes head]. Hard to describe, but I’d compare it to anxiety, like expecting something.

  PB: Expecting what?

  GM: Can’t say. The park is pretty much safe even at that hour. I’ve never in ten years had any trouble there. Never been afraid to cut through after work. Sorry to be so vague. In a nutshell, I felt watched.

  PB: Watched. Would you expand that for us?

  GM: Okay. Jeez, didn’t think this would be so difficult. Uh—yeah. The sensation was akin to that of having a stranger glare at you for no apparent reason.

  PB: Okay.

  GM: Yeah. So I stopped, glanced around and listened. An odor in the air—something burning...real nasty, like roasting wire or plastic. Thought it might be coming from the shed.

  PB: Had you ever smelled this odor in the park?

  GM: No. Concerned me, though, so I moved closer to the shed, looking for smoke, any sign of fire. Quite a powerful reek. Stopping at the rear wall, I heard something humming and stepped around to the door. That’s when I...when [sighs].

  JAMES NEFF: It’s okay. Take as long as you need, Gray.

  GM: Thanks. I mean that. Don’t like thinking about it. But I saw. Wasn’t tired or stressed-out, either. In fact, except for the weird sensation, I felt pretty good.

  JN: What did you see?

  GM: What I saw, well. Something stood on the shed roof. Tall. Broad—much more so than a man. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open, thinking no, no, no. The thing might’ve been eight, maybe nine, feet tall. In the dark...I don’t know. Hard to be sure, but certainly it was much larger than any man could be. I froze. Frankly, I was scared so bad I cried out [gazes at ceiling]. Anyone would’ve, seeing that. Oh God.

  PB: Are you all right?

  JN: Gray?

  PB: We can break if—

  GM: No. I mean yes, I’m okay. Best to get this out now. [Long pause] All right, I know I’m not troubled, or mentally ill. My position requires a twice-yearly psychological/physical evaluation. CyberSun’s a government contractor.

  JN: Understood, and noted.

  GM: Thanks. The confidentiality of this is vital.

  JN: And we’ll abide that.

  GM: Okay. What I saw was an awful thing. Just...awful.

  I’ve never hallucinated, never used drugs, and I rarely drink. This thing saw me. And its eyes—looked like eyes, anyway—glowed like molten metal. Orange, with a blue tint. Orange, mostly. That was all too clear. Yeah. Can’t rip it out of my mind—my dreams. Christ.

  Something on its back. Hate to say it, but I think they were wings. Never felt such terror. Like you’d explode. I couldn’t move.

  PB: The entity. What was it doing?

  GM: Nothing. Just standing there, glaring down at me like it was waiting, or testing my nerves. In that case I failed. Got dizzy and suddenly nauseated, with roaring in my ears. I wondered whether someone was messing with me. Prayed for this, actually. For some demented kid, one of those horror movie special-effects geeks.

  Anything...anything but that fucking monster. Man, I need a glass of water.

  PB: Absolutely. Let’s break.

  ***

  GM: Since that night I haven’t been well. My doctor says I’m showing symptoms of malnutrition and—get this—evidence of radiation exposure. Can’t see how either of those is even remotely possible. Radiation! And my diet is healthier than that of most of my friends. The radiation-thing scares the shit out of me. That’s nuts. How could...[shakes head].

  PB: We’re going to help you with that.

  GM: [Weeping] Oh God, oh God...thank you. I just wanna be done with this.

  JN: We’re absolutely here for you.

  GM: I sure hope so. My work—they can’t help. You know that.

  PB: Yes.

  GM: [Whispering] It spoke to me. In my head. My mind.

  PB: It spoke. What did it say? What did it sound like?

  GM: You two are very thorough, I’ll give you that. I hope this interview is a one-time thing.

  JN: It’s okay.

  GM: No, it’s—

  JN: We can stop.

  GM: No! It said to me: “I saw your son.” The goddamned thing said that, and in my mind it sounded like a drowning dog. Crazy. But that’s what I heard. Jesus Christ! How did it know? How? Oh God, Jerry. My Jerry....

  PB: I think we should stop, Gray.

  GM: No. No. I want an answer. There must be a way to find out how—why it said that. Tell me. Please.

  PB: Gray, look, you—

  GM: I won’t. Let me go on.

  PB: [Guardedly] All right. You look very tired.

  GM: Now there's an understatement. First my wife, then my son. She took off. Two years later, Jerry died. Or, rather, was killed. The right way to put it. That asshole Boy Scout activity leader got the urge for some rack-time with the girlfriend, abandoning his troops. They found Jerry, later, broken at the bottom of a ravine—animals had been at him.

  Ever wanted to kill a man? I mean really do it?

  PB: I’m so sorry, Gray. What a terrible thing. We ought to stop for today, pick up later if you care to. Don’t you agree?

  GM: I do not. Let’s finish this.

  PB: Your call. We know how hard this must be.

  GM: You don’t, sir. We’ll leave it at that. Can’t help my feelings.

  I keep telling myself there must be a reason this happened to me, seeing whatever-it-was; hearing what it said. I’d give anything, do anything, to know why. I’ll die trying. How does it know such things? What is it? Why does it exist?

  PB: No one knows. All we have are theories, ways to talk about it.

  JN: But we’re here to bear witness and help as much as possible. We don’t have all the answers. No one likes to think about these things, but the worst part is being alone with it—and you’re no longer alone.

  GM: Yeah. I understand.

  PB: Others have had similar encounters. Did you know that?

  GM: Yeah. Some local kids.

  PB: They’re trustworthy, too. We spoke with them, but you stood much, much closer to the entity. You’re one of the very few.

  GM: Lucky me.

  ***

  It did not know wh
at it was, where it came from, or why it existed.

  But it knew everything about the others.

  Where they lived; what they did; what they thought.

  And their fears.

  These drove them, more than anything in their lives of patterned, organized dullness. When they encountered it they came apart, terror seizing both mind and fragile flesh—consuming them.

  When this happened, it saw everything.

  Their dread. Lies. Illusions.

  Love; what they feared losing. How profound this fear! That they bore it and lived still....

  To some, very few, it spoke. In this it had no choice.

  And in the night, still nothing could be secret. There existed no barrier it could not penetrate with the swarming charge behind its eyes. The devices with which the others communicated were as open and transparent as the very walls that sheltered them; as defenseless against manipulation as their frenzied minds.

  How they suffered.

  It could soar the poisoned sky, sink into pungent black earth where lay their dead, solemn and rotting.

  It did what it did. Would continue until whatever drove it ended.

  Then, perhaps, it might understand.

  ***

  I switched off the recorder. Gray Mercer fixed me with a cold stare. “Sure wish I felt lucky, Phil.”

  Jim eyed Mercer as if anticipating violence.

  Mercer, I knew, would not act out. After a decade in the “business,” we knew how to read an interviewee; eyes, face, body language and posture often signified more than words could carry. Jim was overly tired, wary of his perceptions. You had to be careful. But I saw Mercer as sad, confused, and afraid—far more tired than Jim.

  I said, “Gray, have you read any books about the paranormal? Anything on the Internet?”

  He squinted, drew a deep breath. “Never. Nor would I. You can’t believe that crap.”

  “But you saw something you can’t explain, you—”

  Jim shot me a glance: Back off.

  Mercer clenched his teeth and stood. “Enough of this.”

  He looked as if he might collapse. “Gray,” I said, “how about we go grab some food?”

  He paused, sat, face pinched with whatever roiled behind it. “Food. I don’t know. Might be a good idea.”

  He gave a forlorn smile. “C’mon,” I said, “I’m buying—what do you think?”

  Mercer nodded. “Okay.”

  Hearing this Jim visibly relaxed.

  Mercer headed for the stairs, stopped short, and regarded me with eyes shiny and red. “Just need to wash my face.”

  Jim stood. “Great. You like Mexican?”

  “More than I can say.”

  ***

  As we finished our chorizo and steaming tortilla soup, my cell phone chirped. I excused myself, stepped into the coat-check nook and took the call.

  There had been another sighting.

  A private investigator, this time.

  Immediately I got back to the table, told Jim the news.

  Mercer blotted his mouth with a napkin. “Hey,” he said, “maybe I’m not crazy after all.”

  “You’re not,” Jim said. “Me and Phil are, though.”

  Mercer laughed.

  Good. I feared treating him rudely so offered to interview the subject myself, but Mercer and Jim had finished eating and voiced no objection to leaving.

  ***

  We drove Mercer home. I hoped my impatience didn’t show. At the office I grabbed extra batteries for our gear, miffed that this small—and vital—detail had been overlooked. Not even one second could be wasted. Witnesses must be interviewed as soon as possible. Memory can be treacherous; particularly when there is trauma.

  ***

  Private detective Rob Penfound, 43, proved to be another good witness.

  We met him at his spacious loft on Burke Street, a home clearly arranged by a minimalist sensibility: racks of free weights; narrow kitchen bright with good-quality knives and cookware. Some may have found the place lacking in warmth, but in me it evoked a Zen-like calm.

  We were offered coffee, for which I was grateful. Jim had faint purple patches under his eyes, and our heavy lunch must have been dragging him down.

  Penfound sat on the edge of a black futon, no-nonsense posture as disciplined as his military-cut hair. The kind of guy who usually intimidates me. Not this afternoon, though.

  Penfound’s soul—and his fear—shone in his eyes.

  He said, “I read in the Daily Register about the sightings. Man. Had myself a good laugh—you know, ‘What the hell, people!’ I’m a real skeptic. Spooky stories make me cringe. Not anymore.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Jim said.

  The other nodded, sipped bottled water. “Can’t believe I’m doing this. Got your number from the local police—great conversation, there.

  “I was working a potential divorce case, surveilling a woman—for once—whose husband suspected her of extracurricular activity. Well, guys, he was correct. Am I offending you?”

  “Not at all,” Jim said, “life happens.”

  Penfound chuckled. “That it does. Anyway, I followed the wife to Proxy’s—that hell-hole next to Luciano’s Pizza—where she hooked up with a man waiting in the lot. They embraced.”

  “Her lover,” I said.

  “Can’t make that assumption. Could be her brother, a close friend, you can’t tell. Sounds like bullshit, I know, but it’s true. Mistakes have been made. But this one turned out to be the real thing.”

  I felt sluggish. “Sorry, Rob. Jumping the gun. We appreciate your being efficient. Facts are what we need.”

  “Not a problem. Okay. After dark they left the bar, drove in his car to the Blue Pool Motel, and did what people do there. Like minks. I used a parabolic microphone.”

  Jim clunked his mug onto Penfound’s teak coffee table. Penfound gazed at the table. “You familiar with the parabolic mike?”

  Jim and I nodded, knew the device—a small dish-like “gun” with a grip and projecting rod—is capable of detecting and amplifying sound from wherever it is aimed. It can “hear” even through walls.

  “They were going at it,” Penfound went on, “so I had what I needed to establish a case, when an extremely loud shriek came through—popped my headset. Good thing, because my eardrums would’ve ruptured. Just incredibly loud. Even my teeth ached.”

  Jim scribbled in his notebook. “Were you injured?”

  “Nah. Set me back a good thousand bucks, though.” He drank the last of his water. “Refills?”

  We both needed one and said so.

  Penfound switched to an energy-drink. “A couple seconds after the shriek, I saw a flash above the motel. Lightning, I thought, not realizing how rare that is in November. Weird. It hung in the sky for five, six seconds...then vanished. Poof. Don’t have to explain to you guys how sensitive the P-mike is. Thought I’d caught a lightning-blast. Wrong.”

  Penfound squinted, replaying the encounter in his mind. Jim said, “Were there any odors?”

  “No. Wait. There was something, which I thought was the fried circuitry in my P-mike. Probably was that.”

  He was stalling.

  The unknown stood in shadow behind his ordered life, and Rob Penfound fought against rising fright.

  Softly, he said, “Then the real fun started. At first I thought I was having a seizure...just like my father used to. Flashing lights could bring one on, but I have no history. I’ll tell you, this fear came. Totally goddamned inappropriate—and I saw a tall, bulky shape standing at the motel’s south end.

  “Really rattled me, but even so could’ve been some big-ass drunk taking a leak. That’s what I told myself.”

  Penfound shook his head and stood, stepped across the room and plucked something from atop a bookcase. On his way back he gazed at whatever it was he held. “What I saw,” he said, “looked kind of like this.”

  Penfound handed the object to me. “Just imagine one,” he went on, �
�with no neck or ears and about nine feet tall.”

  “Let me see,” Jim said.

  I passed it over, and he scrutinized the thing as if it might be priceless. “Hmm...an owl, huh?”

  ***

  It liked the broken, worn-out places; vacant buildings and their silent desolation. The abandoned.

  Such spaces rang vivid and true, mirroring the misery, the secrets, of those who once occupied them. The watched.

  And those who had ended.

  The ended. Lost, raging and afraid, lingered still. Across ages of gnawing vigilance, it recognized them as earthbound wraiths. Prisoners of untold cravings, of guilt and indulgence.

  How they howled their terror; their lacerating ruin.

  It manifested before them, and they feared its scrutiny. Some, little more than swarming debris, flocked to it as if an end to suffering. A hand to feed hungers blacker far than outermost space.

  Those who could manage spoke nonsense: Help me, God...Gabriel...Satan...Mother... Father....

  Hailing and blunt, the words sank like stones into oblivion.

  Pattern-less among pattern-makers, it gathered only chaos. Waves, convections, pulses. Even this proved difficult.

  But it was learning.

  ***

  I recalled what Gray Mercer had said about his sighting in the park. “An owl,” I said.

  Rob Penfound took the white porcelain figure, returned it to its perch atop the bookcase. “If I knew of a better example, I’d give one.”

  I said, “Rob, how far were you from what you saw?”

  “Forty, fifty feet. Close enough...”

  “It was dark, I know, but could you see a face?”

  Abruptly he glared at me. “Hey! What I really want to know, guys, can you tell me if this thing is real? Can it be touched?”

  Jim nodded. “It’s real. What it might be we don’t know—we’re trying to determine that. Spend the better part of our lives running around at all hours. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Penfound gave a grim smile. “Amen to that, brother. You said it’s real...well, what do you think it might be?”

  I swallowed hard, drew a deep breath and sighed. “Our investigations and research point toward a nonhuman intelligence, one capable of assuming physical form—however temporary that may be. And more. These entities are tricksters. People see different things.”

  Penfound sipped from his Red Bull. “How can that be?”