The Somnibus: Book I - Finding the Mark (A Paranormal Thriller) (2 page)

-Chapter 3-

T
he next morning, my eyes opened to the sideways view
of the Berber carpet. Daylight pushed its way through the blinds and into the
bedroom. I struggled to a sitting position and sat with my back pressed against
the wall. My mother’s stone lay on the floor next to me. I took a moment to
collect myself before heading to the bathroom to clear my mind, placing the
green stone in the nightstand. I’d never had such a realistic nightmare.

I stood in front of the mirror examining the hatch
marks on my cheeks from my
night spent
face-down on
the floor. I splashed cold water on my face and caught a glimpse of my right
hand. An oblong patch of fresh, pink skin appeared in the center of my palm –
no pain, just tightness. Realization sank in that what I’d gone through the
night before might not have been a dream, but may have been, in fact, a reality
I couldn’t explain.

Making my way to the shower I stepped inside,
clothes and all. Not the kind of shower you take to get clean, but the type
meant to help you sort things through. My head hung as the hot water rinsed over
me, and I removed my clothes. I placed my palms on the wall beneath the
showerhead and stood there as the water flowed down my body. My mind struggled
while trying to make sense of what had happened. The hot water ran out before I
had any answers, and gooseflesh forced me from the stall.  

I stepped out of the shower and looked for any
other damage, aside from the pink mark in the center of my palm. Nothing else
seemed out of the ordinary.

Sufficiently revived, I made my way downstairs and
checked my cell phone: 9:30 a.m. Barnes would be there at ten so I made a cup
of coffee to take with me. I planned to leave before the auction at 11 a.m.,
wanting no part of watching the vultures circle our home.

As I drank my first cup, I made my way back into
my parents’ room. A box full of pictures sat on the top shelf in the closet.
Taking it down, I set it on the dresser, and paused, hoping it wasn’t
those
types of pictures. I half expected the contents to scar me for life.

The box
was filled
with
regular pictures, but also Polaroids of different people and places. My parents
were often with large groups of strangers. A tall, thin man, slightly older
than my parents, appeared in nearly every shot.

I flipped some of the pictures over, searching for
a date, or maybe notes as to where or when they
were taken
.
The dates ranged from the mid ’80s up until last year. At the bottom of the
pile were pictures of my mother as a child. She sat in front of a cake with a
large wax number three in the center. Nana and Grandpa were in the picture,
along with people I didn't recognize. My eyes narrowed, and my skin quivered as
I focused on one individual, a man standing next to her. The sunken eyes and
hollow cheeks were familiar.

My heart raced when I shuffled through the stack of
pictures. I pulled one out dated 1980 and set it down next to the one of my
mother as a child. Nothing made sense.

The same man stood in both,
one
dated 1963 and the other 1980. He’d not aged in the 17 years between images, an
exact duplicate in both.

I grabbed the box and rushed downstairs to lay the
pictures out on the kitchen table. As I passed the front door, the bell rang.
Barnes stood outside, silhouetted alongside some other suit. I went to the
kitchen and grabbed my car keys and laptop, before opening the door.

Pushing the box under my arm, I stared into their
counterfeit grins. Their false greeting was the last thing I needed.

“Good morning Mr. Black,” Barnes said. “I’d like
you to meet ….”

I left the door open and brushed past them before
jumping down the steps of the front porch. “I’ll be on my cell if you need me.
I left the house keys on the counter. Let me know when it’s finished. I’ll have
everything out by the end of the week.” I opened the driver’s door of my Jeep.

“Michael, this is unfortunate, but I assure you
the bank….”

His voice cut off as I pulled the Jeep door closed
a little harder than necessary. I took the two pictures from the top of the
pile and set the box down on the passenger seat and flipped them over, trying
to make sense of the dates. 

Cars lined the street outside of my house, so I
decided to grab a bite to eat. I wouldn’t watch as they stole my parents’ home.
The house disappeared in my rear-view mirror.

I sat at Panera going through the pictures, the
strange man in almost every one. I finished going through the box and put the
ones that caught my attention to the side. Squeezing my eyes and pinching the
bridge of my nose, I shoved them aside and flipped open my laptop.

Figuring I may homeless by the end of the week, I
thought it best to find an apartment. While I had the classifieds up, I decided
I had better find a job too. It would be hard to pay rent with my looks, at
least rent for anything worth renting.

My parents told me they would take care of me
while still in school, but I’d struggled since losing them. Having never held a
real job for more than a few
months
the thought of
having to provide for myself overwhelmed me. I’d taken the summer semester off
to get the house and my parents’ things in order. I had a couple of months
before classes resumed, so that was as good a time as any to get started with a
new job.
Hopefully
there’d be enough money left over
from the auction to live on for a while after paying the mortgage to the bank,
but I had no idea how much to expect, or how long it would last.

The search for a job went as well as the search
for the apartment did. Everything was too expensive and I didn’t find any jobs
listed that seemed to be the right fit. I closed my laptop and put the box of
pictures under my arm before heading out the door.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the parking
lot searching through the photographs. I smiled as I sorted through the
pictures of mom and dad, they looked so happy, but something kept pinching part
of my mind. The stranger was always there, hovering around mom. My skin became
hot when the thought crossed my mind that maybe my mother and that other
guy
had a different type of relationship.

Shuffling through the pictures again something
caught my eye. The group stood facing the photographer. Some waved, and others
just smiled at the camera. The creepy
guy
had his hand
raised, and there appeared to be a mark on his right palm. I pulled the picture
closer but couldn’t quite make it out. I glanced down at my palm, and my heart
rate skipped a little faster.

I drove to the department store at the other end
of the shopping center. I took the picture inside with me and headed to the
area where they sold reading glasses. When I held a magnifying glass to the
picture, the glass revealed an oblong mark in the center of his palm. I opened
my right hand to reveal a similar mark.

Hurrying to the truck, I rechecked the
photographs. My mother’s palms appeared normal in the pictures, and I found
nothing strange about my father or the other people in the images. The creepy
guy
seemed to be the only one with that blemish.

I jumped when my cell phone chirped from the
passenger seat. The caller ID lit up. I didn’t expect his call so soon.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Michael.
It’s ….”

“I know who it is,” I interrupted. “Well, what’s
left?”

“I think you’re going to be surprised. It’s not
final yet, but after the note is paid off, and the fees are cleared away….”

“Of course, the fees,” I again interrupted.

He cleared his throat before continuing. “As I was
saying, after everything is paid off, you should get a check for around
$400,000.”

I waited for him to correct himself. The house
appraised at $350,000 last year and had a remaining mortgage of $50,000 on the
property.

“Are you there?”

“Ummm yeah.
How much?”

“I thought you’d be shocked. It appears as though
the buyer wasn’t interested in the lowest price. When the bidding opened at
$75,000, a hand went up immediately. The offer was for $450,000. Well, needless
to say, that was the fastest auction I have ever attended. No other offers were
made.”

My attitude toward Barnes and the situation took
an abrupt turn for the better.

“Who was it?”

“A pleasant gentleman, Mort
Bell.
He’s been a long-time
customer at the bank, kind of a quiet person. He’ll be coming by the house
tomorrow and wondered if he could meet you.”

“For $400,000, I’ll take him to dinner and hold
his hand, maybe more.”

He laughed on the other end of the line. “Well, I
don’t think that’ll be necessary, but I’ll let him know you’d be happy to meet
him tomorrow. Is two o’clock okay?”

“That’s fine. It’s not like I have to work or
anything.”

“Okay, I’ll let Mr. Bell know you’ll be there. I’m
glad it worked out. Truly, your parents were good people.”

I hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Thanks. I know I’ve been a bit of a prick through
this, but I hope you understand, it’s the situation, not you. It’s nothing
personal.”

“No problem, Michael. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

I had no idea what I would do with the money, but
the urgency of the job search was gone and I still needed to find an apartment.
I spent the rest of the afternoon scrolling through the classifieds, searching
the next higher price range, but nothing too expensive. A few places were
available, so I called and made an appointment for the next morning.

I drove back home. The house now belonged to
someone else, and I felt like a trespasser.

B
arnes left plenty of food in the fridge after the
auction. Cheese and cracker trays were stacked in the mostly-empty space, while
the other section held ice-cold bottles of Bud Light. I didn’t drink often, but
that night it seemed only appropriate. It was a bittersweet moment: I had an
answer for my immediate financial situation, but it had come because of the
death of my parents.

I emptied several bottles in celebration of my new
financial position, and with the hopes of drowning some of my sorrow. It wouldn’t
be enough money to live on forever, but it would certainly hold me afloat for a
while.

After the fifth empty bottle found the recycling
bin, the celebration ended. My mind’s eye flashed happy memories of my
childhood. 

I pictured myself playing on the tire swing out
back, and Dad doing yard work while Mom pushed me. It was never high enough.

“Higher, Mommy!”
I would shout while the wind raked through my
hair.

She would say that I nearly touched the sky. As a
child, I thought I did touch it, at least once.

My mind broke free from the memory, but so did the
tears. The recollection of my childhood, mixed with alcohol, overwhelmed me. My
emotional see saw deposited two more bottles in the recycling bin before I’d
decided I’d had enough.

My feet carried me awkwardly up the stairs to my
bedroom. Sliding open the drawer to my nightstand, I pulled out Mom’s stone,
and held it tightly in my palm as I bounced my way from wall to wall back
downstairs. I cried all the tears I had and passed out in the recliner, stone
in hand.

I woke in the middle of the night with my hand
burning and bright lights zooming toward me. Wind blew past me as the lights
streamed by. The honking of cars finally broke the haze of my mind. I found
myself standing in the middle of the interstate with cars rushing by at a
violent speed. Eyes darting back and forth, I looked for a safe way to run. My
mind ordered my body to get the hell off the road, but it refused. I had no
control of my actions, my bare feet seemingly cemented to the asphalt.

My feet straddled the reflective white line in the
center of the road. The sound of a big rig horn raised my chin, a giant truck
bearing down on my left side. Staring at the grill of the fast-approaching
truck, I thought if I just stayed on the centerline, maybe he would miss me as
the other cars had.

As that thought settled in my mind, my left foot
picked itself up and took a giant step to the left, my right foot followed. The
truck’s wheels locked, its ass end swinging wide, sure to swipe me from the road.
The driver had no choice but to hold his course because cars were on both
sides. He could kill many innocent people, or just the asshole standing in the
middle of the road.

I closed my eyes and waited for the impact. The
blast of the horn grew louder while the ground shook as the tires struggled to
find traction. Suddenly, my eyes flew open and my feet broke free. Relieved to
have control again, I leaped to the right as the deafening horn and 18
screaming tires faded into the distance behind me. More cars headed toward me,
with horns in full concert, but I maneuvered my way to the safety of the
shoulder. The driver saved his rig and somehow avoided everyone else on the
road.

I stood well clear of the road while my heart
settled from my throat. My head spun, trying to put together the scattered
pieces of the last few minutes. My stomach twisted and spilled the Bud Light
and cheese from earlier onto my bare feet. I stood in the unkempt grass wearing
only a grey pair of boxer briefs and a fresh coat of wretch on my feet.

As I smeared the vomit from my chin, my mind
scrambled to remember how I’d ended up on the highway. The death of my parents
and packing up the house must have left me exhausted, the combination of those
things causing me to sleepwalk.

The lights from town sparkled in the distance, and
a jet scraping overhead told me I was near the airport. The reflective green
sign of an exit lurked down the road, maybe a mile away.

Following the exit ramp, I walked toward a
convenience store with a cab parked out front. The driver stood outside his cab
smoking a cigarette and I contemplated whether I should approach him or not.
I had no choice
,
I had to get home
.

“Can I get a ride home? It’s been sort of a tough
night.”

The driver surveyed me while taking the last drag
of his cigarette. He emptied his lungs before he replied.

“That’s obvious,” he snickered. “Where you
headed?”

“5612 Tumbler Drive.”

“Hop in.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground.
“But get in the back.”

I grinned and hopped in the back of the cab.

The vehicle headlights splashed onto the porch
when we pulled into my driveway, the front door hanging open. The driver waited
while I went into the house, found my wallet on the kitchen counter, and went
back to pay him. On the way back outside, I noticed my mother’s stone lying on
the floor next to the recliner in the living room. Picking up the stone, I went
outside to pay the driver. I handed him a twenty for the fare, and an extra ten
for not asking too many questions.

I headed straight to the shower. As the grime and
puke swirled down the drain, the confusion continued to spin in my mind as to
how I’d ended up on my little midnight excursion. Again, I landed on the only
logical conclusion: my drained mental state contributed to my sleepwalking, and
that’s how I’d made my way onto Interstate 95. I stepped out of the shower and
went to bed. I had to catch a couple of hours sleep. It was 4 a.m., and I had
an appointment at eight to see an apartment. My eyes shut as soon as my head
hit the pillow.