Syjun Nesseriche's the Anger in the Distance: The First Rotation

By Syjun Nesseriche

He appeared as subtle as a morning fog, and took up residence in a house of mystery. Each answer he gives merely opens the door to a thousand more questions.

Somewhere something dark lurks, etching ever forward, closing in on its obsession.

Kristin, a mere girl, moves with her mother to a new life in a new town and finds an ancient secret with a terrible longing. Clearly there is no chance for a happy life so long as there is anger in the distance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 8, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469759586

Syjun Nesseriche

The author of this book was still alive when this was written.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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1

It appeared as house mostly because it had to appear as something, and a house is something we can all understand. A house is safety and security. Its the place you grew up in, and the place you left for a while to find your own path. Most importantly, a house is a home. A warm place you can always go back to if you ever loose your way.

This place wasn’t really a house, but it was a home. It was a home for our essence, or our mind, or our soul, or whatever you choose to call it.

Thomas Wolf said you could never go home again, but the truth is we all do…eventually.

If you want to know what the house looks like you’ll have to search your own mind for the answer, for it appears different to everyone. Some people embrace it, and see it as someplace happy. Others, like the girl in this story, see it and are disturbed by it.

All appearances aside, the house has a welcoming feel to it. This sensation seems to come from somewhere deeper than the walls and rooms. Its almost as if the house has a heart, and that heart is kind.

At the point where our story begins, no one besides the caretakers and the boy had lived there in quite some time. Its insides had once been full. There was never a room empty or a moment of rest for it, but now that time is far away, and those days seem more like dreams than memories.

It does remember, however, somewhere deep and beyond the walls. Sometimes you can catch a glimpse of those days. The days before everything went gray. The days when there was a brilliant light instead of a dull glow—in the days before the fading.

Sure we could start with that. We could start with the fading and a tale of betrayal and sacrifice. But all things come in their own time, and now is the time for a story of fear. The story of an anger lurking in the distance, waiting for it’s time to strike out at those who abandoned it.

Before this, however, there is one more thing that needs to be told. That is the story of the boy.

From the moment they looked into his eyes they could tell he was different. White orbs with brilliant strands of color dancing through them filled the sockets of his skull. The colors seemed to change and move with a strange life of their own. They seemed to reflect both the life inside the boy and all the ones by which he was surrounded. Sometimes they would cloud like some strange vortex slowly drifting through the galaxy. Other times the colors would be thin lines shooting across his eyes like lightning jumping from cloud to cloud. Then there were occasions when they would streak out from the center, turning slowly.

He arrived at the house late one night, sort of drifted in like a gentle breeze through an open window, wearing nothing but the skin on his back.

Daren had been lying in his bed, drifting swiftly towards sleep, when suddenly there was something with him. He opened his eyes, and glanced around the room, but nothing was out of place. There was no one there, yet he felt a presence.

At the opposite end of the house, Kerbin, the second servant, was also lying comfortably in bed when something swept over him. At first he thought he was fast asleep, dreaming in some far off distant world. Then the knock came.

He slid out of bed and walked to the heavy wooden door, beyond which was a long dark hallway. The door opened without voicing even the tinniest of squeaks.

Daren, he began confused. What are you…?

You’d better come take a look at this, he said with a voice that sounded empty and tittered slightly. It was like he’d seen a ghost.

They went to the first floor of the house with Kerbin asking, What is it? and Daren replying with, You’ll see.

For the two of them, the trip seemed to take much longer than it normally would. It was as if time had stopped and, although they still possessed the ability to move, they could feel its lack of passing like a lake that’s gone strangely calm beneath your boat.

When they finally got to the ground floor, Daren looked around like a soldier expecting an ambush. The only light was that which drifted in through the windows, a dull glow at best. Even still, that glow was enough to blanket the house in phantoms. The few light patches there were seemed alien, as if they didn’t belong here or anywhere either of them had seen. He was quiet and careful, wide-eyed and alert. If anything moved anywhere, it would not go unnoticed.

Last time I saw it, it was over here, he whispered as he took a few light steps towards the main room of the house.

What was over here? Kerbin asked.

Daren glanced around the room, but saw nothing.

Daren? Kerbin asked. I don’t know what you saw, or what you think you saw bu…

Shhh, he snapped.

I’m goin’ back to bed.

He began to turn and walk away. It was late, he was tired, and all he cared about was getting back to sleep. One step, then two, then Daren’s hand gripping his elbow and pulling him.

What? Kerbin asked annoyed as he turned.

There, Daren replied with his finger extended out towards the room.

Kerbin looked, and when he saw what that finger had aimed at his jaw dropped.

The room was about thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. There were three couches, placed so they almost formed a box, centered against the wall to their right. In the middle of that partial square was a wooden table on top of which resided an ashtray and a few magazines. There were leather wing back chairs in two of the corners, each with a small table resting at its side. Along the wall to their left was a fireplace with a window to each side, and in the two walls furthest from each other were doorways. In one stood Kerbin and Daren. Across the room thick with shadows and illuminated only by that dull glow drifting in though the windows next to the fireplace, in the opposite door was a little boy.

What the hell is that? Kerbin asked.

From the look of his crotch, I’d say a boy, Daren replied facetiously, but his face seemed to suggest confusion.

I can see that. What I mean is who is he, and what’s he doin’ here?

That I don’t know.

The boy did nothing. He simply stood there watching them with keen interest. When Daren and Kerbin approached him he did little to acknowledge their presence. They tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t answer. He just looked at them as if they were nothing more than painted figures, or something interesting  

t o look at, but containing no more depth than the face of a canvas.

What’s your name? Daren asked.

There was a silence, and then Kerbin asked, Where’d you come from?

Another silence. Daren and Kerbin looked first at each other, then around as if written somewhere on the walls was a suggestion as to what they might do next. That’s when Daren spotted the chest.

Look, he said pointing to the floor beneath the coffee table. Do you remember ever seeing that before?

They moved towards the chest with their eyes bouncing from it to the boy then back again. Upon reaching it, Daren looked down and a strange feeling swept over him. His heart raced, his nerves were shaky, and he could feel sweat dampening his palms.

Kerbin…? his voice was shaky as he began his question.

I feel it too, replied the second servant.

They looked at each other, and both saw a deep edginess in the others eyes. Daren took in a long, slow breath, held onto it for a moment, then released it slowly through his mouth. He bent to pick up the box.

It’s heavy, he said.

Kerbin looked down at the object. It was a strangely unidentifiable shade. It was as if it were the color of all the types of wood and dirt known to the world, but there was more to it as well. There was gray, like stone, but no particular stone. And it contained brightness, a light blue indigent to the sky, but at the same time it had a depth like only night can possess. Gazing upon it this intently gave him a feeling similar to the one you might feel on a plane just as it’s taking off. Something deep in your stomach pulling and pushing at the same time, then weightlessness as the ground falls away beneath the planes rising wheels.

Kerbin shook the feeling out of himself as best he could, and bent beside his friend. The chest was ten inches wide, twelve inches long and half a foot tall. Kerbin tried to pick it up with one hand and managed to lift it only slightly, even with great effort.

Told you, Daren said.

What the hell do you suppose is in it? Kerbin asked.

Don’t know, he replied humbly.

A moment passed.

Daren looked at the boy, who was paying them absolutely no attention. He was over by the fireplace poking around in the soot, and breaking up the remains of a charred log.

Wanna open it?

As they knelt there in the dull glow of the room something passed between them. It was a mutual fear that seemed to emanate from the box, not them.

Well…? Daren asked, finally breaking the silence, which had draped itself over them.

Something odd…like…I’m almost afraid to open it. It feels…like…like…

Like drowning, Daren finished.

Kerbin swallowed the acorn that had grown in his throat and nodded. Kind of. Or like its too much.

Daren looked at the boy. He had a black hand print on the right cheek of his bare ass. The contrast from his pale white skin to the hand-prints deep black seemed almost cute and made him feel like smiling.

It’s just a chest, he said in a toneless voice. A voice that didn’t believe the words it was speaking, but spoke them only because it had to say something.

You do it, Kerbin said. His eyes moved to the latch, which held the top, closed. There was a loop for a lock, but no lock was present.

Daren used his index finger to flip up the latch. Something deep in his stomach tightened and his eyes glanced at Kerbin. Their gazes locked for a moment, then drifted back down to the chest. Daren’s hand reached out. His first two fingers and thumb gripped one of the corners, then trembled slightly. He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment to regain composure, then pulled at the top—that had been far heavier than he’d thought.

I can’t… he began.

Then the box slid swiftly across the floor filling the room with the tortured scream of wood skimming wood. It came to rest at the boy’s feet. He knelt and picked it up, then looked at them with his softly glowing eyes. The streams of color danced wildly like strips of cloth in a windstorm.

It’s not for you. The boy’s voice was the strangest they’d ever heard. It contained a softness that would cause your heart to swell then melt, yet it was so confident there was no way to question anything it would say.

Kerbin and Daren looked at each other with bewilderment glazed onto their faces and burned into their souls. Then they sat and watched the boy, for whom the chest seemed light as an empty milk crate, as he looked out the window at the night beyond.

He dressed himself in pants made from satin, and long sleeved shirts made from silk. The pants were always black, but the shirts came in shades of deep red, navy blue, sea green, and plain black.

The boy also claimed a room for himself, which was fine with Daren and Kerbin because the room had been empty anyway. Then, a few weeks after he moved in, something strange happened. Daren and Kerbin began talking, and they realized they didn’t remember that room ever being there before.

A few weeks later the animals began coming to the house. Cats and rats and bats and dogs and squirrels and a hundred others that came wandering out from the woods. The strangest of them all was the vulture, which the boy took and kept in his room as a pet.

Ordinary boys want hamsters, and retrievers. We have to get the one that has a soft spot for scavengers, Kerbin said one night as he watched the boy go upstairs with a plate of meat for the bird.

For a month the boy lived there without saying a word to either Daren or Kerbin, and they did little to break that wall. They simply watched the boy, observing his behavior and hoping one day he would let them in on whatever it was he was doing there. Then one day he spoke.

My name is Matthew, he said.

Kerbin and Daren had been sitting on two of the three couches in the living room reading books when the boy approached them. Now they closed the covers of their volumes and sat up a bit.

Hello Matthew, Daren said. I’m…

I know who you both are, he said, and although he’d interrupted the man his tone was not the least bit unkind.

Okay. Well it’s nice to finally know who you are.

I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any inconvenience…

No, Daren answered, None.

Good. I didn’t want to be a burden.

Where’d you come from? Kerbin asked.

The same place all things come from.

And where’s that.

The boy smiled. In time you will be able to learn. For right now all you need to know is that we’re going to have visitors.

Visitors? Daren asked. What sort of visitors?

The sort that is welcome. The sorts that make themselves at home.

Daren and Kerbin looked at each other, but they never questioned what was said. Somewhere inside they knew.

We join our story many years later. The boy is no longer a boy, but has matured into a young man. The house has seen the brightest of days and the darkest of hours. All things breakable have shattered, and all things vibrant have begun to fade.

2

Matthew was sitting upon a black leather armchair in the immense living room of the house. He had been reading a book and sipping coffee from a navy blue mug for the better part of the evening. The gray stone surrounding the large fireplace danced with flickers of light emitted by the blaze. The two windows to the left and right of those almost hypnotic movements of flame and shadow were black with the blanket of night beyond them. Only five or six small white speckles illuminated the skyline visible through those tall rectangular portals. Light streaked across the walls like a serpents tongue flicking through it’s barley open mouth; it’s sole purpose to sense the way ahead.

The fire snapped and sent tiny meteors flying up the chimney.

The book he was reading by the light of the fire, which was the only light currently illuminating the high ceiling and spacious room, was a book about a cat that carried an evil spirit. It was a horrifying work of fiction, and there were moments in it where he was forced to look away from the page to remind him that the world he was reading about wasn’t real. That was one thing he loved about books; no matter how ugly the situation was or how bad things got they could be warded away with the simple act of closing the cover.

Matthew sipped at his coffee. It had grown too cool to be enjoyable anymore so he gulped the last of it feverishly. His eyes glanced back to the pages, but they were too tired to read anymore.

The cover closed. The cat went away. The fire cracked. The meteors took flight.

Matthew stared deep into the flapping flames consuming the three large and five small logs upon the black steal rack. Pop. Snap. Crack. The atmosphere a fire could create mesmerized Matthew. Everything felt calm and relaxed in the presence of a flame.

Perhaps it’s the way it moves, almost as if it’s alive, he thought to himself. Then he realized fire is, for all intents, alive. It’s born with kindling, consumes wood, poops ashes, and when it runs out of wood it starves to death, and dies.

Matthew closed his eyes and saw the imprint of the fire was still burned in his lids. He laid his head back and allowed himself to become relaxed, and open. Even when the image of the fire left his eyelids he could still see the light flickering back and forth through the room like a school of fish evading a shark. He took in a deep breath, held it for a second, then exhaled. With that expulsion of breath came not only air, but tension as well.

An image, brief but very real, flashed through his mind. It was that of a boy, about eight years old, tied to a bed. His arms were cut and bleeding, and he was screaming. He could hear the sounds of the demons at his bedroom door as they pounded upon the wood. He could hear their monstrous voices’ calling to him through the unopened entryway. He shrieked but no one heard.

Matthew’s eyes flew open, the fire cracked. Light danced mockingly across the throw rug at his feet.

The image had been too intense for him. He caught visions of people’s thoughts before, but he’d never encountered one so powerful. It was as if the man’s mind were a cannon, which had fired into him. He tried to regain a piece of what he’d seen, but his mind lost the thought. The only thing that remained was a thick echo of what the man had felt. It hung in him like a fog and tore at his soul with phantom claws.

The fire snapped. A red-hot meteor hit the glass barrier between the flames and the room. It hung there for a second then fell to the ashes below.

3

It had been a few days since that night in front of the fire. Matthew just came back from a deep trance. There he’d been able to enter the mind of the man who’s thought he’d caught. Going into that world was torment. He’d never witnessed so much suffering in one person before. Worse than that his mind was overwhelming. Its power was stronger than any he’d come across in a long time, and when he finally did get to the center of it he was terrified by what he’d discovered. They knew about the girl.

CYCLE ONE MESSAGE IN A DREAM

CHAPTER 1

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1

The sky was no longer blue, but an ever-fading color from red to orange to yellow to pink. Small hints of purple and whispers of gray were present in the clouds as the sun began to collide with the horizon. Nightfall was less than a half hour away.

The old seat of the Ford was becoming very uncomfortable, but in all her seven-teen years of life, Kristin had never been much for complaining, and she wasn’t ready to begin now. Sure she had been riding in the car for nearly fifteen hours, but that didn’t mean she got cranky, now did it. Besides, the ride would end shortly, and the longest journey of her life would finally conclude.

She tried to remain interested in the book she was reading, but lack of light due to the descending sun, and the fact that she had been reading non-stop for the past two hours made the words run together into meaningless jibber jabber.

She closed the book and placed it neatly in her lap while the slapping sound the closing covers made rang in her ears. It was the first sound she’d heard in hours.

The road on which they drove would soon be draped in night, not that there was much to see beyond the confines of the two white lines. A corn field lay to the left, and to the right was a fenced grass field with small patches of trees. A winding dirt path led from the road and through some of the trees to a small white farm house where a single light illuminated one of the rooms.

Kristin imagined it was the kitchen, and in her mind she saw a sweet old gray hair lady in an apron baking a pie.

A soft click broke the silence that consumed the car. The headlights now flooded the road ahead with a white glow.

You hungry? her mother asked in a kind and gentle voice.

The sound startled Kristin, causing her to almost jump.

Hum? she asked softly. Her mind had been so deep in thought she’d missed her mothers question.

I asked if you were hungry.

Not really, Kristin replied dully.

Outside the tires hummed as they spun upon the pavement at over sixty miles an hour.

Claire was excited about the move. She had longed for a change for quite some time, and she’d always wanted a house in the country, but her job never permitted it. Now, with so much of advertisement being on the Internet, she could do her job from anywhere. So she decided that was exactly what she was going to do.

There was another reason, she had to admit, she wanted out of the city. Over the past few years she’d began to worry about her daughter. Kristin had so many great things inside her, but she was so withdrawn and lacking in direction that Claire was worried if something didn’t change soon, inside her was exactly where they’d stay.

Are we going to get there today? her daughter asked with slight sarcasm.

We should, her mother replied, giving her daughter a smirk. The girl had a wonderful sense of humor; it was unfortunate that it so rarely appeared.

Kristin smiled, and small dimples formed at the corners of her mouth.

They continued moving along the road, day continued blossoming