Death, and the Girl He Loves

I held the pencil with my left hand. I tried to examine that hand, to look for a clue, but I reached over for a glass first and took a long draw of a fiery liquid. Whiskey. It was smooth and felt good when it hit my stomach. The prophet was coming. I’d seen the signs, and she was actually coming. The only one who could stop him, according to the grimoire, was on her way.

I’d have to make sure she got my message, but how? If I only knew who she was. If I only had those kinds of connections, but the Order of Sanctity was a tight-knit bunch. They weren’t telling me anything. Idiots. I was only trying to help. I would give it to one of the members and hope it eventually ended up in the girl’s hands. She could decipher it. Only her.

After slamming the snifter down, I went back to the drawing. I didn’t have much time. He was beginning to suspect. But the drawing tilted. No, everything tilted until I could hardly work. I’d drunk too much that evening, and my drawing was not coming out as planned. I decided to give it a try anyway.

I lifted the journal, perched it on its side, and flipped through the pages, slowly at first, then again only faster. The images blurred together, blended to form the message, and I smiled. Right up to the minute my stomach lurched and I threw up over the side of my desk.

I rocketed back to reality, my head thrown back, my legs kicking out, my muscles straining to break free, but at least this time I seemed to have a little more control. Or so I thought until I, too, heaved, and the contents of my stomach raced up the back of my throat. I barely had time to pitch my torso over the side of the bed and empty my stomach onto a throw rug.

It was not pleasant.

I fell back onto my bed afterwards, swearing never to drink whiskey again as long as I lived. In a valiant effort, I gathered my strength and rolled off the bed. After tossing the rug onto the fire escape, I hurried to my bathroom and brushed my teeth. I could still taste the whiskey, could still feel it coursing through my veins.

But I hadn’t really drank it. I tried to remind myself of that when I staggered back to my bed, woozy and weak, and took the journal again. Then I copied the man in the vision. I turned it onto its side and flipped through the pages. It was like watching a movie backwards. I did it wrong. Holding the book high in the air, I turned it over and fanned the pages again. A picture materialized. It was dark. Blurry.

What looked like a simple line in one image became part of a bigger picture when blended together with other lines from another page. What looked like a simple box formed a house of some kind. No, a building. Other lines became a van. Curves became a face at the end, as though someone were looking into a camera. And then it stopped as abruptly as it started. That was it? A van? A face? What on earth?

In the back of the book was what looked like a compass, but underneath was a map. I realized it was a map of New Mexico. Four towns were circled forming north, south, east, and west. Lines from each, one horizontal and one vertical, formed a crosshair. And right in the middle was the Abo Canyon, where the mission ruins were located. Where Dyson originally opened the gates of hell.

Someone was trying to warn us, but who? And what exactly was he trying to say?

I tried the journal one more time in an attempt to figure out that very thing. If it was about the gates, we were finding his message far too late. It had already happened. I breathed deep and concentrated on the book. The fanning pages lasted only a couple of seconds, like a really short movie. I flipped through them again, this time concentrating on the van. It had lettering, but I’d barely caught a glimpse before the movie ended. So I tried again. Each time I would see a little bit more, another piece of the puzzle would fall into place, until I could make out the lettering on the van. The eyes on the face, and I couldn’t help but notice those were the same eyes I’d drawn that very day. They were Dyson’s, but the van read SYDOW ELECTRIC.

I rushed downstairs. Ms. Mullins was there, sitting at the kitchen table with my grandparents, Betty Jo, and a couple of the church elders. Kenya had been napping on the sofa in our living room. She stirred when I yelled across the room.

“I figured out the journal!” I said, excited beyond measure. I hurried to the computer Grandma had set up as her little kitchen office, sat down, and typed in “Sydow Electric.”

Everyone gathered around me, even a sleepy Kenya, but the sheriff became especially interested.

“Where did you get that name from?”

“The journal. It’s a movie. It’s like a really short animated movie. But it’s a message to us. The guy was drunk, though, so I can only attest to one thing. I am never drinking whiskey.”

“Pix,” Grandma said, kneeling behind me. “What are you talking about?”

Kenya rubbed her eyes. “I fell asleep, sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’ll be punished later,” I said, trying to figure out why she was apologizing.

Jared came in then, soaked to the bone. He flashed a grin as rain dripped off his hair and down his face. Wet looked so good on him.

“It’s raining?” I asked, and everyone gawked at me.

“Didn’t you hear the thunder?” Mac asked.

“Oh, no, but I’ve been busy.” When Jared winked at me, I repeated my earlier statement. “I figured out the journal!” Then I went back to my search as they took turns with the journal, trying to see the movie.

I paused and took it from them. “Like this,” I said, showing them how to do it.

Granddad tried next but soon pressed his mouth together in disappointment. One by one, everyone tried it, but no one, not even Jared, could see the movie. Weird. I saw it clearly now.