found this not only odd but discomforting. Perhaps this wasn't a hunter's cabin after all. Perhaps it was merely a storage shed.
Except for a chair, it was unfurnished and empty. The floor was made of dirt. He looked at it. The dirt—in what sunlight filtered in from outside—was very dark. He bent over, touched it, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. The dirt was smooth and soft, like pudding. There was no graininess to it. Odd , he thought.
A long rectangular patch of bright sunlight illuminated it and, ironically, made it difficult to see, because of the near total darkness in the rest of the place.
He got down on one knee and saw that there were no footprints in the dirt, not even his own.
He swept his hand lightly over it. Marks appeared in it from his fingers, but then, in moments, were gone, as if he were sweeping his hand over the surface of a pond.
He straightened. He felt dizzy; his footing was suddenly uncertain, as if he were on an invisible tightrope.
He needed to leave this place. He felt unsafe in it.
He lurched forward, toward the door, toward the daylight, but got nowhere. As he approached the open doorway—as he put one foot in front of the other—he got no closer to it. The doorway was nearly close enough to touch; he thought that he could leap through it. But he was stuck. His feet moved, he had forward motion, but he thought that he might as well be trying to move closer to a mirage.
He stopped moving. He was still dizzy, and he knew its source, now. Uncertainty. This place was an illusion—the walls, the doorway, the dirt. It existed only because he thought that it existed, because it insinuated itself on him.
It was a mirage, an illusion, and he was stuck in it. And whatever the reality was here, he was stuck in it, too.
Or it was holding him.
~ * ~
Sam Goodlow woke on his little green cot in his office on the south side of Boston and knew that he was dead.
There were no two ways about it. He was dead, and he was still on the earth, and regardless of the fact that things were not supposed to be this way, it was the way that things had turned out, and he knew—without knowing why he knew—that there was nothing he could do about it.
He was on the earth. He was stuck here, something was keeping him here. He could feel it. It was like a physical weight, a strong hand on the top of his head holding him down.
He sat up on his green cot and swung his feet around to the floor. They hit with a satisfying whump . He smiled.
He opened his hands and brought them sharply together. They made a clapping noise.
He smiled again. "Good," he whispered.
He had things to do. And sooner or later he thought he would find out what those things were.
~ * ~
"Mr. Biergarten ?" Ryerson heard from outside the cabin.
Ryerson called back, "Stay away. Don't come in here, Mr. Lutz."
"What's wrong?" Lutz called.
Ryerson stared hard into the tall sunlit grasses beyond the doorway. He hoped to see Jack Lutz. The man would be an anchor for him, a real part of the real world that he—Ryerson—usually inhabited and so badly needed now. But the sound of Lutz's voice indicated that he was not close by.
"Mr. Biergarten ?" Lutz called.
Ryerson leaped toward the doorway. He went through it, through the yellow police ribbon.
"Jesus Christ!" Lutz shouted.
Ryerson found himself in sunlight, in the tall grasses outside the cabin. He heard Lutz coming toward him. "Mr. Biergarten , are you all right?"
Ryerson was on his stomach. He glanced behind at the cabin doorway, then at Lutz, who was above him now. "Don't go in there, Mr. Lutz."
"You're bleeding," Lutz said.
"I am?"
"Yes. Your forehead."
Ryerson touched his forehead, looked at his fingers, saw — blood, remembered hitting the doorjamb. "It's okay," he said.
Lutz produced a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Ryerson, who took it and dabbed at the blood with it.
"You'll need stitches," Lutz said.
Ryerson looked at the cabin doorway
Except for a chair, it was unfurnished and empty. The floor was made of dirt. He looked at it. The dirt—in what sunlight filtered in from outside—was very dark. He bent over, touched it, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. The dirt was smooth and soft, like pudding. There was no graininess to it. Odd , he thought.
A long rectangular patch of bright sunlight illuminated it and, ironically, made it difficult to see, because of the near total darkness in the rest of the place.
He got down on one knee and saw that there were no footprints in the dirt, not even his own.
He swept his hand lightly over it. Marks appeared in it from his fingers, but then, in moments, were gone, as if he were sweeping his hand over the surface of a pond.
He straightened. He felt dizzy; his footing was suddenly uncertain, as if he were on an invisible tightrope.
He needed to leave this place. He felt unsafe in it.
He lurched forward, toward the door, toward the daylight, but got nowhere. As he approached the open doorway—as he put one foot in front of the other—he got no closer to it. The doorway was nearly close enough to touch; he thought that he could leap through it. But he was stuck. His feet moved, he had forward motion, but he thought that he might as well be trying to move closer to a mirage.
He stopped moving. He was still dizzy, and he knew its source, now. Uncertainty. This place was an illusion—the walls, the doorway, the dirt. It existed only because he thought that it existed, because it insinuated itself on him.
It was a mirage, an illusion, and he was stuck in it. And whatever the reality was here, he was stuck in it, too.
Or it was holding him.
~ * ~
Sam Goodlow woke on his little green cot in his office on the south side of Boston and knew that he was dead.
There were no two ways about it. He was dead, and he was still on the earth, and regardless of the fact that things were not supposed to be this way, it was the way that things had turned out, and he knew—without knowing why he knew—that there was nothing he could do about it.
He was on the earth. He was stuck here, something was keeping him here. He could feel it. It was like a physical weight, a strong hand on the top of his head holding him down.
He sat up on his green cot and swung his feet around to the floor. They hit with a satisfying whump . He smiled.
He opened his hands and brought them sharply together. They made a clapping noise.
He smiled again. "Good," he whispered.
He had things to do. And sooner or later he thought he would find out what those things were.
~ * ~
"Mr. Biergarten ?" Ryerson heard from outside the cabin.
Ryerson called back, "Stay away. Don't come in here, Mr. Lutz."
"What's wrong?" Lutz called.
Ryerson stared hard into the tall sunlit grasses beyond the doorway. He hoped to see Jack Lutz. The man would be an anchor for him, a real part of the real world that he—Ryerson—usually inhabited and so badly needed now. But the sound of Lutz's voice indicated that he was not close by.
"Mr. Biergarten ?" Lutz called.
Ryerson leaped toward the doorway. He went through it, through the yellow police ribbon.
"Jesus Christ!" Lutz shouted.
Ryerson found himself in sunlight, in the tall grasses outside the cabin. He heard Lutz coming toward him. "Mr. Biergarten , are you all right?"
Ryerson was on his stomach. He glanced behind at the cabin doorway, then at Lutz, who was above him now. "Don't go in there, Mr. Lutz."
"You're bleeding," Lutz said.
"I am?"
"Yes. Your forehead."
Ryerson touched his forehead, looked at his fingers, saw — blood, remembered hitting the doorjamb. "It's okay," he said.
Lutz produced a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Ryerson, who took it and dabbed at the blood with it.
"You'll need stitches," Lutz said.
Ryerson looked at the cabin doorway
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