Thus Arrived The Lights

By Peter Schnake

Decades after Nancy Myers is threatened to keep quiet about travels she can’t remember, struggling magician, David Aguilera, and Richard Jackson, a pilot on thin ice with both his boss and wife, are sole witnesses to strange lights while their plane plummets. Miraculously surviving the fall, David can’t stop talking about the Virgin Mary appearing to him--and some people don’t like it. David’s priest condemns him while the televangelist and his atheist co-anchor play him for ratings. Meanwhile, fired for his part, Richard and his wife just want to be left alone but are denied the privacy they seek by both the Queen of Media hounding them and the ufologist raving about things too wild to be true. Nerves unravel, skeletons surface and forces vie to destroy truth before it can be revealed.

Warning: contains violence, sexual situations, and strong language. Not intended for children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Schnake
• Release date: May 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476119489

Peter Schnake

Peter Schnake lives and writes in Lincoln, Nebraska. Although stories had a bad habit of interrupting his life and possessing his pen, he didn’t write in earnest until a bout of seizures in his early twenties caused him to reexamine his priorities. Now he devotes as much time as he is able to his writing and hopes soon to make it a full-time occupation.He believes that stories should surprise and move. Language should be precise and clean and images should evoke and provoke. He believes that happy endings are not always the best endings, and that sometimes a great story dissatisfies.His writing spans genres, from the dark and brooding Southern Gothic style of “American Alligator,” to the suspense-filled and intimate thriller, “Thus Arrived the Lights.”When not writing (or drinking coffee) Mr. Schnake enjoys stargazing and watching the Food Network.

Book preview

Thus Arrived The Lights

by Peter Schnake

copyright 2012 Peter Schnake.

Smashwords Edition

Scripture quotations taken from the KJV and the 1984 NIV.

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

The cover utilizes a photo courtesy of bigfoto.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Part I: Ye Shadows Lift Thine Eyes

Do Not Tell Anyone

Life On Another Planet

Misdirection

Home

Flashblind

After Image

Men In Black

Order

Queen Of All Saints

Departure

Convergence

At The Top

Out There

Clair/Obscur

On Air

Long-Distance

Cielo Vista

Part II: And Their Faces Shall Be Radiant

Taken

Fear Not

Strangers Knock

Requiem

I Don’t Want To Remember

Invocation

Tell Me

Agoraphobia

Our Lady Of Lights

Conspirators

Cover-Up

Flash Back

Big White Room

Mine Eyes Have Seen

The Glory

Also By Peter Schnake

About The Author

Connect With The Author

Part I:

Ye Shadows Lift Thine Eyes

Do Not Tell Anyone

Nancy hated this time of year. The ever encroaching night blotted out even the memories of azure skies and a sunset’s delinquency. Soon, the few hours of light which managed to escape autumnal prison would appear as malnourished and gray as the proletariat bundled against cold and against comrade, who offered neither smile nor scorn upon passing. Yes, a gray world approached with unstoppable momentum.

Yet tonight, as she stepped out of the office, a sweet scent of decay assuaged her discouragement. The incense of browning leaves atoned for the sins of the season.

The trees knew, they knew fall’s only salvation, the one thing which roused her excitement and simmered it for a month: Dynasty returned tonight. Dynasty made it tolerable to be the one left to lock up the office.

Alas for the days when a handsome lawyer would linger to keep her company, hoping to taste her lips, to cup her breasts. They abandoned her on time these days, or earlier. She had earned their trust, they said, and deserved the responsibility. She descended alone into catacombs of filing cabinets while they fled to young wives, younger mistresses, or barely legal venery. Let’s face it, Nancy, you’re no catch.

She leaned against the door and ran a hand through her relaxing curl. The sooner she got into the salon the better; something desperate needed to be done to her perm.

Five years ago, with only the swing of her hip she could have turned Scottie’s head so fast he’d need surgery to repair his vertebrae. Back then even Christopher’s jaw would slack when he’d pass her desk. More than once she’d had to wipe up his drool. But Scottie was obtuse. He’d been at the office three months, the newest lawyer, fresh from the university, and he still didn’t know her name. Called her Ma’am. Sting of death.

She turned the key in the lock and tugged on the handle to double check the deadbolt.

Now she got her kicks through Fallon. Fallon would never let herself go, Nancy. Not like you have. She knew how to get a man’s attention.

The other girls at the office preferred Pamela Sue Martin as Fallon and were quite vocal about it. But Emma Samms outshined her. She was so much more delicate, so real, much more human. Nancy kept quiet. The girls didn’t care what she thought. She was too old to warrant an opinion on Dynasty.

Oh, Fallon, would you even be in my life anymore now that The Colbys was canceled? What a finale that was! And how would everyone make it out of the fire at La Mirage? Or would they? What’s going to happen to you?

She bit her lip in expectation and made her way to the lone car under the lamppost. Even from the office steps, the hail damage was plainly visible under the light. One of these days she’d have to get that fixed. She rolled her eyes. Who had that time?

The capital looked lovely in the gloaming. The luminous obelisk towered above downtown: a beacon for lost wagon trains and spectral perambulators in search of rest.

Her heels echoed across the pavement and reverberated against the office. She couldn’t wait to get them off. Dumb Scottie. What a waste of pain.

Her neck hurt too. A dull throbbing blossomed at her hairline. Stress headache. She massaged but the pain persisted.

As she singled out her car key, she saw the shadow on the pavement. She turned and dropped her keys.

Nothing was there.

Surely she had seen a man’s shadow, his head and shoulders at least. But that was impossible. The light came from the lamppost in front of her. Someone behind her couldn’t make a shadow.

The hair at the nape of her neck wouldn’t lay flat.

Hello? she said.

Her voice emerged higher than she intended. Come on Nancy, pull it together. She scanned the entire parking lot: empty.

Surely she was just imagining things. There was nothing to fear.

She laughed at herself and picked up her keys. This was why she didn’t like the autumn: the deceptive darkness.

She hurried to the car. The noise paralyzed her when she reached the door—like footsteps, quick and light.

She whirled. It was nothing but a fleet of dried leaves scudding across the cement.

She exhaled her tension, turned back to her car and jammed the key into the lock.

Then she saw the reflection in the window: the man behind her. A pale man in a black suit. The lamplight caught only the shape of his shoulders and the point of his chin. The rest of him melted into darkness.

She pivoted slowly, too scared to scream.

The lamp above popped. The bulb shattered like diamonds. Darkness engulfed the entire parking lot.

Do not tell anyone of your travels, he said.

Nancy had no voice to scream. She fought to breathe.

Who, who are you? she said. Her voice wavered. Her chest heaved so violently her vision spun. She reached to steady herself with the car door, but it eluded her. Had she turned? Was she reaching in the wrong direction? She looked for the familiarity of the glowing capital, but it had vanished. The whole city must have gone dark.

Do not tell anyone of your travels, he said again. Had he moved, or had she? His voice surrounded her. It was directionless, mechanical and lifeless.

I don’t have any drugs. Do you want money? Here, take my money.

She fumbled with her purse. Her fingers shook more than obeyed. She couldn’t find her wallet. Forget it! She flung the whole purse at the darkness.

Have you told anyone?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, leave me alone.

We are watching you. Do not tell anyone.

She stepped back; her calves brushed the car door. Her hand roamed blindly until it found the keys hanging in the latch. They resisted turning.

Tell anyone what?

You have been warned.

She pulled the door handle, but it was locked, and the keys wouldn’t turn. They wouldn’t come out of the lock. She pulled harder. She hoped their jingle wouldn’t disclose her actions.

I know self-defense. Please. Leave me alone.

Do not tell anyone. We are watching you.

The keys pulled free and Nancy swung with all her might at the darkness behind her, hoping at least to scrape a cheek or gouge an eye.

The light above her suddenly flickered on. Nancy stood alone in the parking lot, flailing at nothing.

She spun around. Alone. She spun around again. Nothing. Just her. She flung her keys into the glass on the pavement and sobbed. The side of the car bruised her arm as she collapsed and slid to the concrete.

Damn that Scottie for not staying late with her tonight. Damn her own unattractiveness. Damn everyone. Damn everything.

The lamp hummed unintelligently above.

Life On Another Planet

Mike squinted. The row of lights separated into individual discs. He relaxed his eyes and they blurred together. Their halos stretched and overlapped. Like small suns their rays fanned, sliced the darkness of the studio, concealed both the cameras and operators beneath their skirts.

That curtain of light, that limit of all things visible, veiled not just the cameras and whispering crew, but the ten faceless million stretched on their living room sofas, one hand in the chip bag. Let’s be realistic, Mike. Eight million. But eight million isn’t paltry. Never forget about the faceless ones. They’re almost more devoted than you. You show up for the paycheck. They tune in, devotedly, just because. And they are the ones who might catch a grimace, a roll of the eyes, a stifled yawn. One must be on one’s best behavior in front of those lights.

Mike sank deeper into the wingback, crossed his legs and smiled modestly for the red light on Camera Two.

Tonight’s question comes to us from Dorothea in Norman, Oklahoma, said the other man on the blue dais. Great city, Norman. Have you ever been there, Mike?

Mike turned to the white-haired man opposite him.

No. Read the question, Dale.

Dale smiled. Mike smiled back. They had to. They were on camera of course. They were being watched. It was a game they played every night on the large blue oval in front of the bright lights: sparring for the upper hand.

Oh of course, Dale said, mocking self-deprecation. His chair dwarfed him. He wasn’t a small man, no one would have thought so when passing him backstage, only the wingback was too large, or the seat not firm enough. Dorothea writes, ‘what does the Bible say about life on other planets? Can you believe in Jesus and believe in aliens, too?’

Aliens! Where do people get this stuff?

Dorothea, that’s a great question. Dale gestured with his blue note card and fingered his chin. And we’re going to answer it.

Mike turned to the camera and read from the prompter. Or at least I’m going to answer it, he said, and Dale’s going to talk about God for a while.

Dale smiled.

Why don’t you start, Mike.

Mike smiled back. He adjusted his collar. The lights flared, their halos stretched and rotated in unison. Mike could hear their hum, like a contented cat, or a high voltage fence. The electronic whisper made him not so lonely for one hour each night. Dale was no comfort, could be no comfort, but the lights, yes, they provided something.

Dorothea, Mike said with a smile to the camera. I don’t think it will surprise you that as the show’s atheist in residence, I’ll tell you that you can believe in anything you want.

Mike glanced at Dale. Dale smiled without a hint of reaction. He resembled a mannequin or ventriloquist’s dummy in the chair with his frozen smile and iconic hair slicked to his scalp like a plastic toupee. He sure had strength to hold his tongue. He usually didn’t let this much get past him without comment.

You can believe in God, you can believe in aliens, or even that the aliens are God. It doesn’t matter what you believe. It won’t change reality. Reality is what we know—what we know to be true. And we know very little.

Both men laughed gently at this.

I can assure you that there is no God, Mike said. You can see the evidence clearly around you: pain, suffering, war, famine, senseless killing.

His smile contracted, perfectly planned, perfectly skilled. He felt the camera zoom. The blackness in front of him dilated. Award winning stuff.

And we have no evidence of extraterrestrial life. They have not come to earth and made their presence known. But they have not made their presence unknown, if you follow me. They could be real, they could be not real. We don’t know. So you go ahead and believe in them if you want to.

He nodded to Dale.

Dale?

Dale shook his head. How much hairspray had James used? One whole can? Two?

Mike, Mike, Mike. Such a cynic. You’re always talking about what we know by what we see. Yet, I see so much more evidence in the world which points to God’s existence and to his creation of the world than to his nonexistence.

Dale snuck a sip of water.

You only have to open your eyes, he said, setting the glass back on the end table between them. The eye is such a marvelous machine. There are so many intricate parts that could not have come together on their own. By chance. The eye could not have designed itself. It demands a designer.

Dale struck his blue note card strategically against his leg.

And that is who God is, a designer. Once you start introducing aliens, the issue of sin is raised, and that’s a big issue. Sin entered the world through one man, Adam, and has been passed down ever since. If there were a race of alien beings, where do they fit into God’s plan of salvation? Are they without sin? Do they need Jesus, too? Do they know about Jesus’ death and resurrection? It raises some very difficult questions foundational to Christianity. I just don’t think aliens and extraterrestrial life fit in.

Yet, Mike smiled, you believe in a creative God.

Dale’s eyes narrowed; his smile remained frozen, polite.

Yes?

Mike had gone off-script and hit a nerve, but Dale let him proceed.

If your God is so creative, as you suggest, why would he stop after six days of creation? Why would he create only the things found on this earth and go no further? Why not create tens of millions of inhabited planets with all sorts of extraordinary creatures instead of just one?

Dale scrunched up his face and fingered his chin: calculated, masterful. Great television. After only a moment, he turned back to Mike.

Love, I suppose.

His face was soft, Christ-like. Damn, he was good.

Love?! Dale, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Emotions have no place in a logical discussion.

Mike, Mike.

The softness of his face contradicted his stiff hair.

There’s no need to use such language. We’re just two men talking.

Mike tugged at his collar. The lights felt hot.

*

Why do you watch that garbage?

I like it. It’s intelligent.

He appraised her lounging frame, rotating his cap on his finger. Sure, her legs were phenomenal, but he wanted to see her eyes. Even if they burned with lingering hatred, he’d take a single glance.

He cleared his throat.

She kept her face to the fishbowl glass of the TV. The two men argued heatedly as if the fate of the world hinged on their persuasion.

It’s bullshit, he said.

Richard! she said, guiding a strand of hair behind one ear.

Damn it, Emily! Look!

It’s sensationalism, he said. It preys on your emotions.

Are you saying I’m emotional?

He checked his watch. He had to get going. It wouldn’t look good to arrive late on his first day back from suspension, but not like this, not without closure. She didn’t have to look at him. He’d take the flare of her nostrils, anything.

I’m leaving now.

Emily didn’t move.

I said, I’m leaving now.

I heard you.

Aren’t you gonna ask when I’ll be back?

Fine, she said. Her voice was flat. Unemotional. When will you be back?

Richard played with the rim of his cap. White women were trouble.

Forget it, he said. He picked up his bag.

She turned to him.

Where are your stops?

Her eyelids half-concealed fraudulent jewels. The dull glass no longer allured.

Bunch of places.

What state is that in?

She smiled. He did too. Maybe it was over. Maybe it was back to normal.

Can I have a goodbye kiss? he said.

She returned to the glow of the TV.

Kissing is for emotional people.

She aimed the remote; Dale and Mike’s arguing grew louder.

Richard swallowed and left the apartment.

*

And we have our first caller of the evening, Dale said. John from Texas. John you’re on the air.

Heavy breathing cocooned them in scratchiness. Dale twitched his head ever so slightly and smiled at the cameras. Mike wondered if anyone else saw it.

Hello, John, Dale said. You’re on the air.

The raspy breathing persisted.

Do you have a question for us, John? Mike said.

The voice which issued from the trusses matched the breathing: scratchy, itchy, uncomfortable.

Darkness is the easiest place for evil to hide, it said.

Mike smiled at the cameras and nodded thoughtfully.

There is a great deal of darkness between the stars, the voice said.

Click. Dial tone.

Cut it, Rob! Dale shouted at the darkened figures behind the cameras. His anger flushed through layers of makeup.

*

Crouched against the end table, John replaced the phone in the cradle and flicked the cord off his shoulder. His heaving breaths negotiated a more relaxed cadence.

He had actually done it. Actually called America’s Voice. Actually called another living person. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe the world wasn’t so scary. The eighties were a long time ago.

A thin band of streetlight sliced through the blinds and across his shirt. He passed his hand through the beam; glinting particulates swirled in its wake. The light didn’t hurt him.

He smoothed his matted beard.

Maybe it was time to open the shutters.

Baby steps, John.

He passed his hand into the light again. The beam conformed to the curve of his palm. He curled his fingers but the incorporeal omen escaped his grasp.

He jerked his head when the phone rang. The ribbon of light quivered on his shirt as he fought to breathe.

It rang again.

Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.

He lifted the phone to his ear.

Hello, he whispered.

The voice was mechanical, robotic.

You should not be talking. We will come for you.

He threw the phone into the cradle and scooted away from the end table. The light hit his eye but he didn’t care as long as the phone didn’t ring again—as long as he was safe.

The light blinked: a shadow passed the window. The doorbell rang.

John held his breath and bore into the side of the recliner. The shadow passed into view of the window again and paused. A faceless man peered through the slit in the blinds.

Misdirection

Alex concentrated harder. David knelt at the end of the bed and waved his hands back and forth with a flourish. They became merely a blur of skin: tan hands in front of his tan chest. His nipples flashed between his fingers. Alex sat straighter against the headboard and scrunched the pillow under his back. With a snap of his wrist, David produced a single playing card between his thumb and forefinger: the seven of diamonds.

Is this it? David said.

Alex shook his head. David wrinkled his eyebrows.

It’s not?

Alex shook his head and grinned.

David sighed. Let’s try this again.

He waved his hands again, back and forth, slow and fast, varying the speed, casting a spell—a trance—on Alex. Alex willfully submitted. Again, David snapped his wrist and plucked a card from the air: the three of spades.

Alex bit his lip to suppress a grin and shook his head.

David tossed the card onto the folds of the disheveled sheets.

One more try?

His eyes brooded, dark, intense.

Alex shrugged.

David’s hands cast another spell. Alex avoided the ensorcellment and watched David’s eyes. They almost smirked in pleasure. His eyelashes compressed burnished bronze. David snapped his wrist. Alex’s gaze meandered down to the card: Queen of clubs.

Alex smiled and nodded. Took you a while.

All part of the act.

How’d you do it?

David flipped the card to see its face.

The Queen, huh? he said. Interesting.

Alex clicked his tongue. Don’t give me that. Tell me.

David crawled up the bed and flopped down, half on top of Alex, half next to him.

A good magician, he said, muffled by pillow, never reveals his secrets.

Alex pulled at a strand of David’s hair and tucked it behind his ear.

I’m not going to tell anyone.

That’s what they all say.

But I love you.

They all say that too.

Please?

David rose to his knees and immured Alex’s eyes with a ravenous stare.

Do you mean it?

Who am I going to tell?

No, he said, shaking his head. Do you really love me?

Even there in David’s bed, in the faux-dusk of papered-over windows, even in