Weaver

By JA Ellis

As a Weaver, Myra Castor has always depended on her ability to read the lines of the universe, and create new possibilities in the fabric of reality to keep her footing in a world that most people have no control over. But when she hears that her mentor, Susan, has died of a heart attack, Myra's world begins to fall apart.

Before Myra can process the news, Jack, another of Susan's students - and Myra's former lover - appears on her doorstep. He tells her Susan's death wasn't a heart attack, and when he shows Myra an anomaly - a hole in the universe - that leads to a dead world full of ghosts, Myra begins to question her perception of reality. She knows that without intervention, the lines holding the universe together will unbind, and slip away into oblivion, and their world will cease to exist.

Together, Myra and Jack work their way through the anomalies riddling their part of the universe, searching for a portal that will bring them closer to the source of the chaos. But an ambush ending in tragedy sends Myra across the universe in a desperate bid to save her world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JA Ellis
• Release date: Feb 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310203015

JA Ellis

JA Ellis was born in Guam, grew up in Sicily and Spain, before settling in Michigan at the age of ten. As an impressionable child she devoured anything by Stephen King, Dean Koontz, John Saul and Robert McCammon, which instilled in her a life long love of horror, the supernatural and anything weird. She currently resides in Kentucky with her human son and three feline children.

Book preview

Chapter 1

At night she could feel the universe collapsing.

Myra Castor had always thought of the universe as a giant ball of yarn made up of different fibers and weights, colored every imaginable hue, wrapped around each other, touching and mingling together. But at night, when she was on that fine line between waking and sleep, she felt the ball unraveling, broken lines of possibility and probability whipping and snaking around her, the destruction of a thousand worlds crashing in her mind. She would instinctively grasp at the lines, desperately trying to bring them together, to Weave them back into a semblance of reality, but they always wriggled and slipped out of her grasp. Her dreams were filled with darkness and phantoms - hungry creatures stalking the worlds. In the morning she would think back on her disturbed sleep, remembering none of the details of her nightmares, only feeling a sense of dread that evaporated minutes after waking. In the light of day she felt none of the chaos.

Myra hadn't seen and understood the world through a Weaver's eyes in a long time. The colored threads were still there, hovering in the periphery of her perception, but they didn't call to her they way they used to. They didn't tempt her to pluck and Weave those fibers of reality. It had all slipped to the back of her mind. Weaving was something she did when she was younger, like dying her dark, curly hair platinum blond, or staying up all night talking with interesting people, or dropping everything at a moment's notice to move on to a new adventure. It was something she used to do, not something she did now.

This thought struck her as she sat in the Beanery with her hazelnut latte on a warm Monday morning in June. A rising sense of dread had nagged her all morning. The bad dreams and uneasy feelings that had plagued her for weeks stayed fresh in her mind, instead of fading away as they usually did. As she drove to the coffee shop for her usual latte (something she did as an excuse to leave the house - which she did less and less these days - as much as for the caffeine), the sense of foreboding increased until she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. She had been at a red light, only a block away from the Beanery, ready to scream to relieve the pressure, when she saw the bird.

It was perched on one of the power lines lining the street. The creature was so heavy that the lines sagged beneath its weight, and the feathers were spectacularly colored iridescent green and purple. But it wasn't the size of the thing, or the technicolor plumage that made her stare; it was the creeping sensation that it didn't belong. It was unlike anything she had ever seen, or would expect to see perched on a power line in a city in Michigan. It looked like something that belonged in a tropical forest. Aside from being out of place, it felt wrong. For the first time in she didn't know how long, she reached out and tried to feel the lines enveloping it. A ball of reality completely disconnected from her own was wrapped around the bird, making it stand out against the background of the world. The bird stared back at her with unblinking black eyes as Myra leaned in closer to get a better look. Its head tilted left, then right, and then the bird took flight, its wings stretching wider than she thought possible. It swooped down towards her so quickly and so close she recoiled when she thought it was going to thump into her window. At the last moment it veered away and flew over the roof of her car. She craned her neck trying to follow the path the bird had taken, but she couldn't see it anywhere.

She was so preoccupied with the strange bird that she didn't notice the light change. The driver behind her had noticed and blasted his horn. Myra jumped at the sound, but quickly recovered, and embarrassed, she accelerated through the intersection faster than necessary. She glanced in her rear view mirror trying to catch sight of the bird again, but it was gone.

With the disappearance of the bird, the general malaise that had dogged her all morning lifted, as if the creature had taken it away on its shimmering wings.

The morning's events were still fresh in her mind, and she pondered them as she turned the coffee cup in her hands, feeling the heat of the drink through the waxed paper. She had removed the black plastic lid, and now she stared into the creamy brown liquid matching the skin on her hands. The steam rising from the open drink made her think of the way the lines of the universe sometimes floated around, untethered, just begging to be Woven into new possibilities. She blew softly at the wisps of vapor and watched them waft away from her breath. She thought about calling Susan and telling her about the bad dreams, the strange sensations in the lines, and the bird. Susan would know what to do. She would help to soothe the uneasy feelings.

Except Myra felt almost as uneasy about calling her mentor now, as she did about the snapped lines. She had been avoiding the older woman for months, never calling her, only speaking in the vaguest of terms when they did talk. When Susan had last called, Myra had let it go to voice mail, and then promptly erased the message without listening to it. It was totally uncharacteristic, something she usually would never have done to the woman she had long considered her second mother. Reflecting back on it weeks later, Myra wondered what she had been thinking, and all she could come up with was that she hadn't been thinking.

She looked at the blank screen of her phone where it sat on the table top, debating whether to make the call. Her eyes flitted away from the device and around the room, taking in the other people in the coffee shop. There was a woman wearing a dark skirt and pink blouse ordering several different types of coffee, reading from a list. Behind the counter, the barista, a new one Myra didn't know very well, was trying to keep up with all the half-caf mochas and skinny no foams. Seated at a corner booth, and trying to look inconspicuous, two men worked on their laptops, nursing dollar cups of coffee and leeching off the free Wi-Fi. It was all normal and solid. There were none of the disturbances of the night before, and all the other nights for the past week.

Myra poked around at the lines of the room, feeling for holes in the possibilities and the probabilities. She felt the way the universe hummed and thrummed beneath her mental fingers as she stroked one line and plucked at another. The feel of the lines slipping through her mind was so familiar. She felt the lines gripping the barista, and the lines spiking off the impatient office worker. The men in the corner were set on their own paths. The one with the red hair was set to have a good day. The exercise was comforting, reminiscent of the training Susan had put her through. She reached for her phone, the cool plastic smooth in her hand, and brought up her contact list. She selected Susan's number, and her finger hovered over the call icon.

She nearly dropped the phone when the violin strains of Canon in D flowed out of the speaker, and the phone vibrated vigorously in her hand. She didn't recognize the number on the screen, though she recognized the area code. It was Susan's area code. She thumbed the green answer icon.

Hello?

Good Morning. It was a man's voice. May I speak to Myra Castor?

Myra leaned back in her chair. Speaking.

Ms. Castor, my name is George Ryan. I'm an attorney, and I am overseeing the dispensation of the estate of Susan Drake.

Estate? What are you talking about? Myra leaned forward again, gripping the phone tightly. This wasn't right.

The lawyer paused for a moment and then said in a soft, calm, soothing voice, I'm sorry to have to tell you, Ms. Castor. Susan Drake passed away three weeks ago.

She squeezed the phone tightly in her hand and focused on the table top in front of her. She stared hard, trying to see into the wood, through the wood, into the very atoms that the matter was comprised of. Her mind slipped away from what her ears heard.

Ms. Castor?

Myra realized that several seconds had passed in silence. Several seconds during which she struggled to comprehend. Several seconds in which she had forgotten to exhale. She breathed out slowly. I'm sorry. Yes, I'm here. She tried to loosen her grip on the phone only to find herself gripping it tighter. What? I mean... She took another deep breath. I don't understand.

It was a heart attack. Really a shock to all who knew her. She was a wonderful woman. Myra could tell from his tone of voice that George Ryan meant what he said. Everyone who ever came in contact with Susan had liked or even loved her. She had that effect on people. You have my deepest sympathies, Ms. Castor.

Myra. Just Myra.

The lawyer cleared his throat. The reason I'm calling is I assisted Susan with writing her will, and was named Executor of her estate. You are listed as a beneficiary of her estate, and as a beneficiary you will be receiving a copy of her will shortly through certified mail. If you have any questions about the will, the inheritance, anything, please feel free to give me a call.

Thank you Mr. Ryan. I'm just.. She blanked on the words she wanted to use. I'm sorry. I'm just shocked.

As I said, it was a shock to everyone who knew her. She was only fifty-two and very healthy. I never would have thought a heart attack would take her. George Ryan stopped for a moment, and when he spoke again it was in a more professional tone of voice. Susan took very good care of her finances. There are no outstanding bills owed to creditors, so the bulk of her estate remains intact, minus any estate taxes and probate. Again, if you have any questions after you receive the will, please give me a call.

He gave her his phone number, which Myra didn't bother to write down or even try to remember. He said goodbye, she muttered something meant to be a farewell, and he hung up before she did. Myra stroked the side of her phone with her thumb as she tried to process the information.

The coffee in front of her had lost its appeal. It was barely tepid when she next touched it, and only then to throw it in the trash on her way out the door.

Outside it was warmer than usual for June. Myra unlocked the door to her red Honda and slid in behind the wheel. She put the key in the ignition and started the car, all of her movements slow and dull. Her thoughts turned towards Susan again, and the dawning realization that Susan no longer existed in the world. She had taught Myra everything she knew about Chancing, and when Myra turned out to be beyond that, Susan had helped her to find her own place.

Myra stared through the windshield at the giant brown bean with Beanery painted in red letters. Her chest tightened as if a fist was wrapped around her heart, and her face felt flushed and hot. She thought she should cry. She wanted to cry. Isn't that what you did when someone you loved died? She had certainly done enough of it when her real mother finally succumbed to the cancer that had eaten her alive for two years. She listened to the engine running, and the voices chattering on the radio, feeling empty and full at the same time, but no tears came. Finally, she slowly reached for the gear shift and backed out of the parking space.

She drove home in a daze, only registering the change of scenery when she pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript apartment complex. Myra could have lived anywhere she wanted to, money was not an issue, but she chose to live here because it was low key, and most of the neighbors kept to themselves. She parked in her allotted space, and sat with the engine running for a long time before finally sighing and turning it off. She slowly got out of the car and locked the door. The car alarm engaged with a flash of the headlights and a beep.

The interior of her apartment was cool and dark, a relief from the uncomfortable heat. She leaned against the door for a few moments, eyes closed, collecting her thoughts. With a sigh she pushed away from the door, and dropped her keys on the table nearby before heading to the living room where her laptop sat on the couch. She picked up the computer, pulled up Google, and within a minute found Susan's obituary in the Santa Barbara News. As George Ryan had said, it was dated three weeks ago. It was short, with only six lines including her age, her birthplace, and the date and time of her memorial service. It was accompanied by a picture of Susan, smiling. Her silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung girlishly over her shoulder. Despite going completely gray in her twenties, Susan had always looked girlish.

Myra closed the laptop and put it on the coffee table. The words in her head finally found a resting place of certainty and finality. She curled up on the couch and wrung her hands, picking at her cuticles. She tried not to think.

She felt a vibration in her back pocket, and it took a moment for her to realize it was her phone. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. Unknown. Myra thought about ignoring it, but as soon as the idea came, there was a sensation, like a feather tickling in the back of her mind. She knew this was a call she needed to take whether she wanted to or not.

Hello?

Hey. The voice was low and familiar. It's me.

Myra closed her eyes. In all the shock of Susan's death, she had forgotten about Jack. I knew that.

The silence that followed went on for so long that Myra thought the call had disconnected. Then: I need to see you.

Why?

I would really rather talk to you in person.

Myra's eyes were still closed. In her mind she could see him. Jack looked just like he had the last time she'd seen him six years before: blond hair sticking up in back, a wiry frame with broad shoulders and slim hips, and those sparkling hazel eyes. She didn't bother asking how he knew her phone number. It was one of Jack's talents. He could find just about anyone.

Is it about Susan?

There was another long pause. Do you know what happened?

Heart attack, they said.

Jack sighed. Yeah. Look, I really need to see you.

Myra squeezed her eyes shut. You know where I am?

There was a muffled voice, a deep man's voice. Jack said something she couldn't quite catch before answering. Yeah. Give me thirty minutes?

Thirty minutes. Of course he was so close. He had probably just been waiting to call her. I'll be here.

Chapter 2

She anxiously awaited Jack's arrival, pacing her apartment from the sliding balcony doors to the front door, and back again. A few times she actually wrung her hands, twisting her fingers until her knuckles popped. On one hand this was Jack, one of her closest friends, a fellow student of Susan's. On the other hand this was Jack, the man she had loved and shared so much intimacy with for years, the man she had walked out on with little explanation or warning, and hadn't spoken to in six years.

She didn't hate him, never had any ill thoughts or ill will towards him. It was just that Susan was right about Chancers and love: it was a Very Bad Idea and Myra had seen that before Jack.

Susan had kept her apace with news of Jack, and Myra was sure she had kept him up to date on her own whereabouts. She knew that when he had returned from Australia he sold the condo in LA, and continued to travel, meeting new people, and having his own adventures. For her part, Myra had wandered around for a few years, feeling lost and adrift without Jack to guide her, before finally returning to Michigan and settling into this apartment where she had been for nearly three years now.

And it had been months, maybe even a year, since she had thought about him for more than a moment, just as it was with Susan until today.

She knew Jack was at the door before she heard the doorbell ring. He gave off a strong energy from always working the lines, and she could always feel him coming. She stopped, her hand on the door knob, feeling Jack through the door. It was a warm, familiar sensation.

She took a breath and pulled the door open.

Hi. He stood on the landing, wearing a thin white t-shirt and jeans, looking pretty much the same as when she'd last seen him, except for one thing.

You grew a beard.

Oh, yeah. Jack rubbed his chin. The beard was a shade darker than the hair on his head, and had a reddish tint to it. She wondered if his face was still boyishly round underneath.

They stood, looking at each other for a few seconds. Myra tried to get a read on him, tried to figure out if he was angry, or hurt or sad, any emotion that might give her an idea of where they stood, but she got nothing from the lines surrounding him. Going from the look on his face, she saw he was relieved to see her. Finding herself again, and trying to hide her embarrassment at her behavior, she motioned him into the apartment. I'm sorry. Come in. I was just kind of surprised to hear from you. As he passed her, she caught the scent of sweat. It wasn't a bad smell, but it brought back memories.

Were you really that surprised? he asked as she followed him into the living room.

She opened her mouth to say yes, but stopped. As always he had a way of pointing out what she truly thought. After hearing about Susan, no. Not really.

Jack stood in the middle of the living room, looking up, down, left, right, apparently taking in the beige carpet, the white walls, and the TV on its stand in the corner. He seemed to be looking for something, but what it was she couldn't tell. She glanced around the room wondering if there was something out of place that might catch his interest, but there was nothing.

Did you want something to drink? she asked.

He turned and smiled. Jack had a smile that instantly put people at ease. She couldn't help but smile back through her anxiety. Water. With ice. It's hot out there, and the air conditioning in the Jeep is kind of jacked up.

Myra filled a large plastic cup with ice and water from the tap in the kitchen, and brought it to him. They sat in the living room, she on the round Papasan chair and Jack on the sofa. He drank the ice water quickly, and made a face when the brain freeze hit.

Did you come here about Susan?

Jack nodded.

What happened?

Jack turned the red plastic tumbler in his hands, the ice making a wet rattling sound inside. Officially? Heart attack.

The official cause meant nothing. Chancers were the type of people who lived to be a hundred and one, while smoking a pack a day, drinking copious amounts of liquor, and riding motorcycles without helmets. Their lives were filled with risks that would eventually catch up to - and kill - a normal person, but Chancers always managed to beat the odds. They read the lines of the world and pulled possibilities, probabilities - luck - from thin air. The universe protected them even when they weren't protecting themselves. But even if Susan hadn't been a Chancer, Myra would have doubted the explanation. Susan was a vegan, and got plenty of exercise.

What's the unofficial reason?

How have you been? Jack asked. He was smiling again - he was always smiling, it was one of the things that had hooked her - but, there was concern below the upturned mouth.

Myra cocked her head at the sudden change in subject. Fine, she answered slowly. Why?

Jack shrugged. Well, you know. It's been a long time. And you stopped talking to Susan recently.

His tone made the last sentence a statement, but her guilty and grieving mind turned it into an accusation she had no means to defend herself from. She couldn't look him in the eye when she responded. Yeah.

To her relief he didn't ask for an explanation. She was really concerned about you these past few months.

She sat still, her face a mildly interested mask, but inside she squirmed.

Have you noticed anything weird lately?

Weird?

Jack put his cup on the coffee table in front of him and rubbed his hands on his pant legs. The lines. Haven't you been feeling the way they're breaking and falling apart?

Myra pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged in her chair. Lately - very recently - I've been having bad dreams. I'm dreaming that the lines are breaking, leaving big spaces between the worlds. There's darkness, and chaos.

Jack nodded. It happens when you're falling asleep, or waking up? Is it strongest right there at the edge of your dreams?

Yes. But when I'm awake I don't feel anything. At least I didn't until this morning.

What happened this morning? Jack asked.

When I woke up I couldn't really feel the broken lines, but I knew they were there. And then I saw a bird.

What kind of bird?

Myra described the out of place tropical bird, and when she was done Jack nodded. It came through from another world.

How does that happen?

Jack ignored her question. How long have the dreams been happening?

Maybe a month? She chewed her lip. Six weeks? Right about the time she had stopped answering Susan's calls.

It's been happening a lot longer than six weeks. Jack picked up his cup and tipped it towards his mouth. He crunched ice before continuing. I've been aware of it for over a year, and Susan - who knows how long she knew.

What did she know?

The universe is collapsing on itself.

Myra stared at him. It was such an impossible statement.

Don't believe me?

I don't understand. How can the universe be collapsing?

I don't understand the mechanism myself. Susan seemed to have only the faintest idea of how it worked. She once said it was like the lines were being bundled up and then snipped, leaving big gaping holes in the fabric of the universe. But how, or why - if there even is a why - she didn't know.

She didn't tell me any of this. Why didn't she say anything to me about it?

Jack smiled sadly. She did. She told me it was like you couldn't comprehend what she was telling you. She would ask you how the lines felt to you, and you would tell her about the weather. Seeing her face he hurriedly added, She didn't think you were doing it deliberately.

Myra looked down at her hands in her lap. Her throat tightened as she thought of all the times in the past few months she had talked to Susan without really talking to her. She vaguely recalled changing the subject multiple times during a phone call, but the memory was hazy, as if she had been on a sedative of some sort. I barely remember talking to her, she muttered to her hands.

It's all right. At the time Susan thought you were better off not knowing, anyway.

Myra sniffed. The tears were finally coming as she thought that perhaps during one of those calls, Susan had been warning her, or asking for help. And she just ignored her. She cleared her throat and looked away so she didn't have to see Jack's face.

I just... she paused to clear her throat again. It's just been a really fucked up day.

No shit, Jack replied, and she couldn't help but smile.

What really happened to her?

"Nothing I can point to. By all signs it was a heart attack, but we both know that's unlikely. Things are getting bad, Myra. People are disappearing, dying. The ones who are still around are completely oblivious. I've visited a dozen different Chancers in the past month, and not one of them will admit anything is wrong. I think some of them can't admit it. Like there's a block they can't see past. It was the same with you, but I sensed when you finally started to break through. That's why I called you today."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. Jack's face was telling her something that wasn't reaching his words. She watched his eyes, the way the lines at the corners crinkled, not with a smile, but with some sort of tense emotion. When did those lines appear? she thought with surprise. Those lines worried her. He was worried, scared even. Jack never got scared. Why did you call?

I think Susan knew the source of the collapse, and had some idea of how to stop it, but she never had a chance to tell me. I wanted you in on this. She told me you weren't ready, but she always believed in you.

If the universe is collapsing, I don't see how Chancing will help.

It's not Chancing we need, Jack said. Look, what I do is just pull lines out of the existing fabric. What you do is create new fabric.

That's not what Weaving is. It's not a new reality. Jack had never quite gotten this point, no matter how often it was explained by either her or Susan.

"But