1995

By D. A. MacQuin

A secret government group has been kidnapping people with extra sensory abilities. Was Caroline Hauser one of their victims?

1995. Caroline Hauser is an aspiring writer and recent college graduate who moves to New York City's Lower East Side. Caroline’s latent psychic abilities are unleashed as she senses a malevolent presence nearby. Then she disappears.

2005. Caroline’s computer hacker brother, Alexander, discovers that a secret government group has been kidnapping people with extra sensory abilities. Was his sister one of their victims?

Thus begins Alexander’s journey to rescue his sister as he embarks on a journey that reveals the nature of spirituality, evil—and Caroline’s power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Jul 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682611777

Book preview

PRAISE FOR 1995

"With her debut novel, 1995, D.A. MacQuin has penned an intimate and insidious tale of dread that will have readers jumping in fear at the slightest whisper. From the very first paragraph, she lures us in with meticulous characterizations and intricate details, gradually increasing the claustrophobic sensation of paranoia as each page is turned. It all culminates in a truly gripping climax, leaving no doubt that MacQuin is a talent who has a brilliant future as a novelist

- Pete Kahle, author of The Specimen

A dark, paranoid thrill-ride. You’ll sleep with the lights on, questioning the fabric of reality.

- Christian H. Smith, author of The Black Monkey

An intensely all-consuming read as you burrow into your own beliefs about good and evil. This book will shatter your reality and have you questioning something you’ve avoided your whole life...is evil real?

-A. Giacomi, author of The Zombie Girl Saga

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A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

Published at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-1-68261-176-0

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-177-7

1995

© 2016 by D.A. MacQuin

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Christian Bentulan

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

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"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell,

a hell of heaven..."

—John Milton (Paradise Lost)

CONTENTS

Part One

Part Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

About the Author

PART 1

May 25, 1995

College sucked. It was good of my parents to fly in from Missouri for the graduation ceremony even though I told them they didn’t have to. They hate New York City, and the ceremony didn’t entail going on stage to get your diploma like a normal graduation. Hunter College is so big that the dean calls out the name of each department, at which point you simply stand up while people applaud. The actual diploma gets mailed to you.

I felt a little embarrassed that I had no one special to share this day with, other than my parents. I literally had no friends at school, which sounds terrible on paper, but I don’t think it was completely my fault. I wonder if my parents felt sorry for me.

My mistake was not joining anything. I suppose I could have joined a club or something. When I moved to Manhattan by myself for college, I thought it would be easier to make friends. My reasoning was, I’m going to be surrounded by people constantly—how hard could it be to meet people?

Words can’t express how excited I am to move into my new apartment in the East Village! I love the vibe of the East Village with all the hip young people, cafes, and cool thrift shops. A change in atmosphere is exactly what I need.

June 2, 1995

I absolutely love my new place! It’s on a quiet tree-lined street. I got everything moved in yesterday with the help of movers. I’m now in Tompkins Square Park taking a break and people watching.

There are definitely more homeless people in the East Village as opposed to the West Village. And it’s filled with gutter punks—the kids who dress like punks and squat in buildings or sleep on the streets.

June 4, 1995

Every day I job hunt for hours and hours till my brain hurts. When I’m not job hunting, I wander around and discover new parts of the neighborhood, like a beautiful public garden with gravel paths and benches surrounded by trees. Today I was walking down St. Marks where all the dreadlocked guys utter Smoke? Smoke? I’ve considered buying since I’m running low, but I’m not used to the neighborhood yet. Some of them could be cops. I already miss my dealer in Washington Square Park. There was something comforting about seeing him play chess with the old guys or drinking coffee while reading on a park bench. The park was like his office. Turns out, I might not have to pay him a visit. Today this good-looking dreadlocked guy with a West Indian accent chatted me up while I perused a table of Philip K. Dick books. He called himself Orpheus. I’d noticed him on St. Marks before; he’s friends with all the skaters who hang out there. After we chatted a little, he offered me a free little baggie of weed. I guess I lucked out today. I was flattered when he flirted with me, but I could tell he did that sort of thing a lot because he’s cute and always has weed.

What good timing. It’s Friday so I’m gonna get super baked and read Flow My Tears The Policeman Said.

June 5, 1995

I embarrassed myself today. I was going for one of my long walks. I took a turn down St. Marks, and when I got to the stoop where all the skater guys congregate, I did something impulsive. A skateboard came rolling my way, and without really thinking I hopped on it and said to its cute blond owner, Mind if I try? I guess I just felt like flirting. The owner of the board sort of jogged over and said in a firm voice, Can I get that back please? He could barely look me in the eye and sounded sort of embarrassed for me. I said, Sure, sorry, and walked away as quickly as I could without jogging away.

Actually, the guy was cool the way he handled it. He didn’t say it loudly or anything. I’m pretty sure none of his friends even noticed. But I imagine they had a laugh about it when I was out of earshot.

I walked straight home and contemplated my actions. When I first saw the cute blond skater guy, my brain thought, He looks friendly. I’ll bet I can talk to him. Who doesn’t like a cute, nice girl who wants to talk to you? I guess I think of skater dudes as being relaxed and cool like the ones I knew in high school. Kind of like hippies.

I realize now how pretentious I was. Sometimes my ego gets inflated for no particular reason. It’s not like I’ve had a real boyfriend for four years. That guy didn’t even consider talking to me at all. He probably felt sorry for me, or wondered if I was retarded. A retarded little hunchback with no social skills.

I went to my full-length mirror and pulled down the top of my sundress to look at my back. I don’t know if it was my imagination, but the curve looked like it was getting worse. Sometimes I think I’d rather have a straight, normal back than be smart, or even pretty. I feel like if it weren’t for this one thing, I could be happy. Perspective keeps me sane. The blind person says, If only I could see. The quadriplegic would be happier to be a paraplegic, etc.

If I’d been really hot, he probably would have talked to me for sure. I don’t want to be dogmatic, but it seems like everything must be easier if you’re a really attractive girl. All you have to do is smile and be remotely friendly, and people will gravitate to you. I would go one step further and say that you don’t have to do anything—people will want to be around you, your phone will always ring on weekends, and you’ll always have the comfort of knowing you won’t end up alone. I’ve seen it a million times—men doing discreet double takes at women. I understand the feminist notion that I shouldn’t strive so much for the male gaze. But there’s also the issue of human nature. We’re social beings and I get lonely. I learned in an anthropology class that men are predisposed to observe women’s waist to hip ratios to determine nubile fertility. So it seems like it’s genetically determined that we attract men based on our looks.

At least my dream of being a writer isn’t hampered by looks. You don’t have to be gorgeous to be a writer.

June 7, 1995

I put in my usual hours of job hunting and went for a walk. The job hunting is starting to get really annoying. It’s like throwing your resume into a black hole.

There was a nice distraction today when I ran into Orpheus talking to this homeless guy I always see on the corner of 6th and A. He’s an older guy with gray hair. He remains stationary on that corner, lying on his side on a big piece of cardboard. I assume he can’t walk because of the wheelchair nearby. I’ve wondered about him since I moved here.

Orpheus said hi to me when I walked by and introduced me to him. His name is Dutch. There were two gutter punks hanging out with him, a guy and a girl. The girl had a striking resemblance to Drew Barrymore but was even more beautiful if you can believe that. You’d have to be gorgeous to still look good in dirty clothes and matted hair. She and her boyfriend were both super

nice.

This was the first time I’d ever actually talked to homeless people. They seemed pretty normal. Of course I wanted to know what Dutch’s deal was. How does he get away with living on the street and staying in one spot? Where does he go to the bathroom? And does he ever get in that wheelchair? Orpheus gave Dutch two joints for free, the kids gave him food, and people in the neighborhood—normal folks, not just homeless—often congregated around him. The odd part was, he always seemed happy and calm. He seems to have a Zen-like approach to life, devoid of angst.

This made me think about how strange and interesting the East Village is. Maybe I should get a camera and document my observations.

June 8, 1995

Finally, I got an interview to work as a receptionist. Actually, the interview was at a headhunter, and not the actual place that would be hiring, which is Interview magazine! I was so excited to hear this. I used to have a subscription to Interview.

The woman who interviewed me was really nice, and I think I came across as professional. She said nice things about Hunter College, but I detected a placating tone, as if it’s politically correct to compliment the CUNY system where poor inner-city people go, not that I’m one of them.

I’m not embarrassed that I went there because my professors were excellent. You’d have to be solid to teach at a university in Manhattan, right? But I suppose I’d feel more confident if I’d gone to NYU or Columbia—not that I could’ve necessarily gotten in. (My SAT scores were good, not great.) I went to Hunter because it was cheap. I went over to Amelia’s house after school where we both looked through a college catalogue and dreamed about our lives after podunk Helman. I was excited when I saw how inexpensive Hunter was. Why did I choose the cheapest? So my parents wouldn’t be mad at me. So I could justify asking them to send me to college all the way in New York City while imposing as little as possible financially. Anything to get here. It’s all I cared about at age 17 and 18. Actually it’s still all I care about. For a brief time I considered moving to LA but decided I might get lost in a sea of people more attractive and obvious than

me.

As I was leaving the office after my interview, my mood took a downturn when I overheard one of the headhunters say in the hallway that Liberal Arts majors are pathetic because they have no clue what they’re doing in the work force. I know I shouldn’t care what some random person thinks, but I don’t like being judged for not fitting into a perfect mold career-wise.

Maybe it struck a nerve because Mom and Dad (mainly Dad) think my Psychology degree was a waste of time. Not everyone can follow Dad’s footsteps like Alexander. He might make lots of money as an IT guy, but he doesn’t appreciate literature, jazz, film, or aspire to do anything artistic. He shines in their eyes even though he’s not particularly nice.

June 9, 1995

It was thunder storming hard last night. It made me wonder how Dutch was doing out there. So I went out to say hi to him this morning and brought him a bottle of water and a granola bar. He was asleep under a big plastic tarp. Next to him was a skuzzy looking bearded guy sitting in the wheelchair smoking a cigarette and sanding a big walking stick. I introduced myself and asked him if he was friends with Dutch. He said his name was Jim, and that he’d been friends with Dutch for many, many years. He said he was traveling, and just got back to the East Village recently. He added that he tries to find plastic tarp for him whenever it rains. When I noticed that he’d brought a bottle of juice and some chicken in a plastic take out container, I asked him how Dutch lives. Does he ever leave this spot? How long has he been there? How does he eat?

Oddly, he said that Dutch has been in that exact spot for a decade, he never leaves, and he is completely supported by the denizens of the neighborhood who bring him food and drink. Even the cops leave him alone. This is all because Dutch is beloved—an asset to the neighborhood who’s treated with respect. I watched Jim gather up empty pint bottles of Dutch’s Wild Irish Rose wine and take them to the corner trashcan.

Dutch is an oddity to be sure—perhaps the type of person who can only exist in New York City at this particular place and time. Maybe there were other men like him in ancient Rome or wherever, who were supported by the public and respected as great sages.

Dutch was hung over and a little out of it when he awoke. When he peeled the plastic tarp down to his waist, the moldy b.o. smell that emanated out towards me was incredible, but I acted like I didn’t notice. Even though he obviously felt shitty, he cheered up quickly when he saw me. It’s amazing how cheerful he can be awakening in the hot sun under a plastic tarp. Just when I think I’ve seen it all, Dutch asked Jim for a plastic bag and proceeded to discreetly have a bowel movement under the tarp while asking me questions about my life, like what my passions were, where I was from, etc. When he finished, Jim took the bag to the corner trashcan as if this were a perfunctory task.

June 10, 1995

It’s another hot and balmy Saturday night. I hear the laughter of young people like me outside my window, but I’m not one of them.

I’m starting to get those depressive feelings again. It doesn’t help that I didn’t get the job at Interview. When I showed up for my interview there, everyone seemed snobby. The woman who interviewed me barely made eye contact with me, as if I had no chance. I am constantly confused about how I’m perceived. Maybe there’s something I’m not getting about interviewing well. I try to be as articulate as possible, I smile, and project enthusiasm. Am I missing something here?

I started thinking about Sam again. With him, everything felt good and right, like courtship from another era. He struck me as an old-fashioned gentleman—not at all like other boys my age. I figured it was a New England thing. I still miss his roommates in Williamsburg. (Sometimes I think I like Brooklyn better than Manhattan if you can believe that.) His friends were goofy, down to earth people like my friends from back home. Not once did I ever feel uncomfortable. I never had to censor any of the silly, dirty remarks I’d blurt out while we watched movies in an MST-3000-like fashion. I could tell his friends thought I was funny, and I really thought I’d made friends I was going to keep.

I still think about that time when we were walking down Bedford Ave. and he casually mentioned he was marriage-minded. This memory haunts me because I thought he was talking about me. I kept my enthusiasm to myself so I wouldn’t scare him away. I’ve never discussed things like this with any guy.

I hate still feeling pissed off about things he did. Especially the time we were eating at a diner and he shyly asked, Do you see yourself in a relationship with me? It made me transform everything I had been optimistic about into something real. I also hated that he asked me to go home with him for Christmas, further raising my expectations.

It still blows my mind that he broke up with me over the phone. The sad part is, I still miss him.

June 11, 1995

I’m not proud of what I did last night, but it happened. It’s the sort of thing that happens when you’re alone—when there’s no one around to judge. I went to the bar down the street and sipped on a gin and tonic. I don’t even like drinking; I just wanted to have a reason to sit there as if I were waiting for someone. I wondered if any men would talk to me. If anyone asked me what I was doing there alone, I could just say I felt like having a drink. Nothing wrong with a girl having a drink alone at the neighborhood bar, right?

Well, one guy did approach me. A big Scottish guy named Derek. He was well over six feet tall, with dark brown hair and green eyes. I’m always a little surprised when tall guys like me, but I see it all the time—giganto men with tiny little girlfriends. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, which I find sexy. Men are in their prime when they’re in their thirties. He said he worked in finance.

I was halfway intimidated by his looks and halfway annoyed by the