Even if all the other details are more fantastic, more terrifying, and more difficult to live with - what strikes me most at the beginning was the cold. That night, even with a fire set, the cold was like being alone on a flat midwestern plain in the dead of winter. It felt like being the last one left with the last gasp. No sun. No light. No stars.
I didn’t consider myself experienced even after fifteen years on the job. It had been a bad night to be a detective, but truthfully, most nights were bad anyway. I dusted the light snow off my jacket and placed it around the chair at my kitchen table, rubbed my temples and moaned as if the sound could somehow comfort the silence of my home.
When I had taken the job in Oakwood Falls the town wasn’t growing, but it wasn’t dead either. There were two detectives then. Now the population was a few hundred less, and I was the only detective. The divorce came later. Later enough that I could still feel the happiness in the walls, the warmth of it, like steel that is cooling when removed from a forge.
I grabbed a can of something. I rarely looked or even cared to see the labels. It was food and I would eat it.
The phone buzzed at my hip, but by the time I went to answer, the caller had realized they had made some mistake and hung up. Still, looking through contacts I found her name. Wen. The impulse to call, especially on such a cold night. The impulse to-
And suddenly everything was white, and I was above the clouds, and soaring higher. There was some speckled blue like a bird’s egg, but the rest was dense cotton, and some kind of horn from a distance, blaring. Deep voices penetrated the depth of time itself and I began to laugh as the clouds broke, and multiple colors of silk cloth streaked across the sky, and all manner of creatures, multiple arms and legs, wide spanning faces. Some were smiling and some were screaming. And a voice among them said,”The plum that falls from the trees splashes red upon the ground.”
And there I was again, in the kitchen of a small home in Kansas, alone.
I braced myself against the island in the kitchen’s center, and staggered my way to the chair with my coat, sat down and leaned forward catching my breath in stalled increments. Picking up the phone again, I called an ambulance.
--
I never minded small spaces. Crawling under a house or being stuck in an elevator never bothered me. Sometimes, even being buried alive seemed almost cozy. But a lack of answers, an open question, something moving like an eel on the tip of the tongue without any concept to to give it closure - these are the truest terrors of the world.
I asked the doctor, a middle aged woman who seemed concerned in a distant way, making calculations somewhere else, “Look, it has never happened before and I’m positive I wasn’t dreaming. I’m not religious and I am even less superstitious.”
“Well,” She paused, as if searching for more questions she also couldn’t find, “I am sorry Mr. Kelt. I can find nothing out of the ordinary with the tests we’ve done. Look, I want you to set up an appointment with a neurologist in the next week. You should rule out all possibilities, if only to give yourself some kind of comfort.”
I shrugged, “I’m afraid comfort is in short supply these days. But sure- do you have a recommendation?”
“Dr. Cabe West is wonderful. They’ll help you set it up on your way out.”
I nodded as my eye caught what I had assumed was her wedding ring. But this ring shone in a five colored band, and there was some kind of script I couldn’t define in three letters. My stomach turned when I saw it. But the night was cold, the air was dead and still, and there was nothing to do but return home. No answers.
I stood, felt dizzy for a moment, and then began to walk out of the office and toward the exit.
--
The sun had risen but the cold remained. It was bitter and unmoving. Slate remarked on it as we drove over.
“Can you believe this, Kelt? Mercury stuck in the negatives and not a damn reason for it that I can see.”
“Arctic blast,” I murmured as I stared out the window of the cruiser.
“I don’t know about all that,” She said with a half-tilt of her head in my direction, “All I know is it is too fucking cold for Kansas in November. Not natural!” The last part broke the mid-afternoon haze as she lightly struck the wheel with her palms.
Cherry Slate was not much over five feet, but she was stout and powerful in build, strong in a surprising way for any fool that had a mind to cross her. And though her language and mannerism could be crass and blunt, her mind was sharp. If Oakwood hired a second detective he would recommend her.
Everyone called her Slate. No one ever called her Cherry.
“I can’t disagree with that,” I said, as I rolled down the window, lit a cigarette and prepared for what was ahead.
“Can’t they promote their own goddam detective?” She asked and she shook her head in disappointment, “I mean, we gotta drive out there, it’s neighborly, it’s nice, it’s the right thing to do or whatever but- Steve didn’t retire that long ago. Deputize him and save me a drive and a morbid afternoon.”
Steve Soung had been the detective in Gold Harbor for thirty years, a town with no gold, and no harbor anywhere. When he retired, they hadn’t hired anyone else. Perhaps they felt there would never be a crime there that warranted it. Today had proved them wrong.
The cruiser pulled into the weed overgrown lot of the Bluebird Motel. Several other cars were already there, lights flashing on a couple of them, and some officers working in front of a room on the lower floor, to the far right of the office. I had expected to see some death chasers outside the tape, but there was no one but the bundled up and badged, the unhappy workers in human misery, weathering the hours of ice.
I had barely exited the cruiser when retired Detective Soung approached me with a big outstretched hand and a wide smile on his face.
“Tom Kelt! As I live and breathe!” He emphasized the last two words like nails hammered into a board. I shook his hand. There was something crushing about his grip, even though he wasn’t using much pressure in the gesture.
“What do we have here, Detective?” I asked.
“Oh, no. No no no. I am retired and just meeting you here as a courtesy.” He smiled but I didn’t respond and kept my gaze.
“Well uh… some domestic problems I think.” He pulled a bit at the back of his neck and I could tell from his expression that he was disturbed. A groan came from somewhere, slow and clicking and wet.
“What the hell was that?” I said, looking around for the source of the death rattle.
“What the hell was what?” Steve asked, as he also began to look around, and finally looked to his side where Officer Slate was walking toward him.
“Am I missing something?” She said and looked from the retired detective to myself. Then both of them began to look at me for answers. And again, I didn’t have them.
“Nothing, I guess.” To stave off further questions I began to walk toward the scene.
When I got there a small forensic team from Oakwood had already begun to meticulously gather and mark evidence. Small bags and cards with numbers set up in a scientific way around a ghastly, but clear scene. I wondered why they had even called me.
On the carpet, stretched out toward the door, was a thin woman in her mid twenties with short, nearly shaved hair and tattoos on her arms and legs. She had on shorts and a sports bra, and there were two gunshot wounds in her back.
The room had two twin beds, and on the one closest to the bath and shower lay a man half sprawled, two decades older than the woman, with long hair matted with blood where he had shot himself, gun still held loosely in his dead hands.
“Who were the lovebirds?” Slate said unsympathetically.
“Why assume that?” I said, somewhat sarcastically, and somewhat in the hopes of leaving the door of possibility open.
“Two bags. Both unpacked,” She pointed to the floor between the beds, “And half a box of condoms on the nightstand.” She shrugged, “I mean, unless there are sex workers around these parts that go about with luggage-” She smiled and looked at me with a quizzical expression that seemed to ask me if I knew more than she did.
“Yeah, well, I am going to look around anyway,” I said, determined.
I began my search as I had for years, examining the bodies with gloved hands, sifting through what the working team had already marked, and then moving to the unexamined areas. The bathroom and shower looked in working order. There were no signs of any other kind of struggle or fight anywhere. Yet, in the back, to the left of the small closet, was another door.
“Does this lead to another room,” I asked to anyone who might know. Steve Soung looked toward the open door of the motel room, out toward a short man in jeans and a t-shirt, pacing and looking sick.
“Hey, does the door in the back go to another room?”
The short thin man looked up with hollow eyes, “What? Oh. No, that one goes outside.”
“This motel room has a back door?” I asked incredulously.
“They all do here.” He said in a soft voice, looking down toward the ground.
I looked toward him for a while in an empty state of disbelief. I thought to ask why, but I’d had enough of a lack of answers in the last day, and I felt I’d only be getting more. I turned back toward the door and opened the inside lock and stepped outside. There was a small concrete step in front of the door that led down into overgrown grass.
I walked down into the grass, stooped low and for no reason at all, passed my hand through the leaves. Standing back up, I walked a few feet forward, and heard the same groan as before, slightly louder, and this time, I felt pleasure, inexplicable and sudden.
I turned on my heel back toward the door. It was closed. Everything had gone silent and the temperature had seemed to drop. I unclipped my pistol from its holster at my side instinctually, and placed my hand on the hilt.
“Officer Slate! Steve!” I called, but there was no echo. In fact, it seemed as if no sound had come from my throat. Looking around I noticed a small patch of red on the ground, just a few drops in a bed of snow melting into the earth.
With caution, I walked toward the red stains, and saw a path made of droplets that led up to a hill behind the motel. My heart-rate increased as I walked the trail, following the dread path. Once I ascended, I looked forward and saw a plum tree, and I heard the voice again, unable to to tell if it was a memory or speaking again:
“The plum that falls from the trees splashes red upon the ground.”
There, where the trail led to the base of the tree was a fat red plumb, broken open and bleeding, wet and appearing like a small heart.
“KELT!” Slate’s voice broke the silence and I looked over and saw her standing about ten feet from me, exasperated and slightly angry. “What the fuck are you doing up here? Why didn’t you answer me?” I looked back toward the ground. There was only grass and a small amount of snow. There was no tree and no drops of red, only an empty field bordered by some barren trees in the distance.
“I thought I saw something,” I said in a broken voice, still looking in the direction of what I had seen.
“Did it impair your hearing?” She said, “Look, get yourself together, detective. I think we have what we need here. We identified them. Jim Espie and Kat Parr. Missing person was filed two days back by his sister, both from Chicago. Just got word from the PD there.”
I nodded and said, “Let’s go. Maybe we can file the report, send it to Gold Harbor and still get home at a decent time.”
“Works for me…” She looked at me again with a curious and concerned look. “Ya weirdo.” She added in a friendly way that masked her questions.
–
The sun had begun to set. The cold was no worse and no better. I walked to my car outside the station. It took a few turns at the starter, but the engine was fortunately resurrected. I felt my phone buzz and went to pick it up. Another hang up. Just as before I looked up Wen’s name in my contacts.
I returned my phone to its place and began to drive the short journey on the road through the flat dead plains toward my home.
“Hey, hey, hey!” I saw Slate slightly jogging toward my window and rolled it down.
“What’s up?” I said, looking in her direction.
“Kelt, look, I’d be a shitty cop and a shittier friend if I didn’t ask. Are you alright to drive? Back at the Bluebird you seemed-”
“I’m really alright, Slate. I just didn’t sleep much. You know the last year with Wen and-”
“No, no. I know. I don’t mean or want to get personal, buddy.” She said, “But look. If you need me you can always call. I can beat you at cards. Maybe that’ll make you feel better.”
I smiled, “See you tomorrow, Slate.”
She nodded, tapped her fingers at the bottom of my window, then turned and walked in the direction of her own car.
–
After I watched Slate drive off, I sat in my own car for about half an hour. I couldn’t place why I didn’t want to drive, or move, or even think. My body felt filled to the skull with cement. Finally, slowly, as the light of the sun passed under the horizon, I began to back out of the parking space, and make my way into the night.
A little over half-way to my home, in the distance, I could see the emergency lights of a small sedan. I began to slow down and pulled to the side of the road. Before getting out, I surveyed the scene. In the short distance ahead I could see what appeared to be a Native American man in a fine suit, with turquoise earrings and some kind of amulet made of the same, leaning over the opened hood of the car. The license plate indicated a rental.
I got out of my car and walked ahead a few steps, “Sir, could you use any help?” I asked in a neutral tone. The face appeared from behind the hood, thin, with a long chin and dark eyes, black hair tied up in a top knot. His face was at ease, and looked genuinely glad to see me.
“Oh! Wonderful!” He said and placed his hands together. “Things a rental.” He said pointing at the car. “And more importantly, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
I grinned and said, “Well, I can’t help you there, but I can give you a ride if you need. Is there anyone I can call? Are you from far?”
He laughed lightly in a high tone, “Farther than you might think, my friend.”
Then he said, “I am here on business. But someone I know lives close and I’m staying with her. I’d appreciate the ride if you really don’t mind.”
I couldn’t quite place the accent that barely traced through his speech.
“Sure, if you need help calling a tow I know a guy. I’m local police and I can help you get your ride to a mechanic, no charge.”
“Sent straight from the Ushnisha.” He said.
“What?” I replied, not understanding the term.
He shook his head and laughed again in that same high squeaky pitch.
“No worries Just gratitude.”
–
“You came all the way from Sikkim?” I asked, “I don’t mean to be rude but… it’s been a long time since my high school geography class. I’m not even sure where that is.”
He waved it away with his hand, “No trouble. Easy to forget what we cannot see. Gangtok is far from the eyes of many.”
“You said you are here on business? Oakwood Falls is many things, but an international hub for commerce it is not.”
“It has to do with,” He paused, “The land.” He seemed to be considering his words for the first time and the ease of his voice had parted for something else entirely, something like distrust. “There is an old family plot here I guess you could say. Some distant relatives and friends that moved this way a generation back.”
I didn’t exactly pride myself on knowing each of the inhabitants of Oakwood, but I couldn’t recall immigrants coming from anywhere for nearly a decade. I considered that the roots of the life of the town were long dead
Then the horns began again and I was flying. There were fewer clouds now, and suddenly I was looking at the great multicolored city of silk cloth and I could see its shape now formed in the sky ahead of me. A rainbow parasol the size of a great castle, spinning and casting off lights. The chants began once again as I flew closer. I could see the ground far below and it seemed to be slithering and moving in a strange and unprecedented way. My breath caught in my throat and I felt I was falling into the folds of silk.
And then, something else-
It smelled like a boneyard, and it broke through like a sudden crash of cymbals. The sensation of crawling ants as I felt it moving across my legs and looked down, under white robes, to see it pulsing its way up my feet and shins. At first the substance looked black and beneath the surface, but as I peered closer it was the color of plum wine, and it moved across the top of my skin and not under it. I heard a kind of laugh escape my throat and felt fingers, long and tubular, touch my chin.
Looking up I saw a kind of man, but tree-like, with four branch-like arms and three faces. He was half decomposed, in some places showing skin and in others black rotten bark. On the right eye of his central face was sewn a kind of canvas, and upon it drawn a crude sun.
The music now had gone cacophonous, and the horns blared a terrible sound, overwhelming with sorrow.
“The plum runs red and is almost dry.” He said in a soft whisper. “And the earth drinks up its life.”