Odd Sense

By A.F. Blom

Holden Bairifay, a published author, denied the world he created ever really existed. His book is simply a work of fiction, except for one small thing, it’s not. It’s a world he had visited as a young boy, a world opened to him through the pages of a magical book. Holden clings to the idea that it was merely a haunting dream, one that ended in pulling his own lifeless body from a pond—admitting otherwise would mean he is losing his mind. Who would blame him? He was never the same after his mother’s sudden death when he was a child. Still, he felt the need to keep a white-knuckled grasp to reality, or at least what he believed reality should be. That is, until he finds himself back in that world, met with a murder and a stranger who wasn’t a part of his original storyline.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781633388659

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Odd Sense

A.F. Blom

Copyright © 2019 A.F. Blom

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2019

ISBN 978-1-63338-864-2 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63338-865-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Counting Days

Sunny Skies And Cloudy Minds

Encounters

Rumors Abound

Questions Undercover

Chasing Rabbits And Whatnot

Shared Books

Connecting Dots And Drawing Lines

Living In A Seldom State

To Catch A Pretender

Talking With A Vile Tongue

Order A Red

Traveling Memories

Coffee Shops And Gossip Spots

Unplanned Dinner Parties

Break-In At The Apartment

The Monster Among Us

Restless Nights

H And E In Search Of F And S

Winter Moon On A Calm Night

Warehouse And Gunfire

The Sinners’ Deed

Separation

Clarity

To the wonderful people who make up my culture. Stepping out and becoming vulnerable with you all by sharing dreams, has only impressed upon me how blessed I am to have not just support, but loving honesty, and excitement from the ones around me.

Mireya—for helping a novice writer, find my voice.

My family—for the questions that brought my loose ends together, and the notes that helped me figure out the questions I myself had. (Mama)

For taking the time to write their own outline of my characters so he could keep it all straight (Dad), and for the crazy random people I grew up under one roof with who inadvertently influenced how my brain works.

To Jake—our carousel of progress has been my light, and you are my John Wayne. I am forever yours.

1

Counting Days

It’s day number 358, almost a year since they moved into the crooked little white house. If you were to go and stand on the street looking up at the place they now called home, you’d see how it leans slightly to the left, as if it were trying to kiss the garishly green house that sat beside it.

Holden’s not outside on the street though. If he were, his hair would be dripping wet from the pelting rain that has insistently plagued them for the past week. No, instead, he’s sitting at the front of his bed, forearms resting heavily on the windowsill. He’s staring through glass pane, wondering about the inside of the green house next door. It sits so perfectly in his sight line. Curiosity was an ever-present friend to him, and he could feel it now, boiling like a kettle. Holden could climb right inside that little green house by just crawling outside his window and shuffling across the leaning roof of his home onto the other. They were practically touching after all. Then all the mystery of it would be lost. Tongue glued to the side of his mouth, brows furrowed in a mixture of boredom with his own surroundings, and a curiosity about the room he stared at every single day. This is nothing like home.

It’s day number 358 when he decides to open his creaking window, slide his foot through the opening and set it securely enough onto the roof just outside. He loses a little bit of his stomach, using his hands to steady himself more. He crouches down on all fours, taking a moment before crawling closer to the green window. He’s near the edge of his roof, peering over to the ground below. There aren’t but six inches between him and the window, six unregulated inches. He shakily places his hands on the rain-streaked window, then leaning over, he places his face on his hands to get a better look. The room within is nothing like he had imagined it for the past almost year. Nothing at all. On every wall, there were black-painted bookshelves from floor to ceiling. In the middle of the room stood what looks like a sturdy table, only a single dusty book sitting on it.

Being a boy of only fifteen years of age, he has an overactive imagination, so to say his curiosity made him do it will be something he sticks with until the day he dies.

His hands move down to the wooden window frame, giving it a push with hope in his heart. The window jumped up a crack, just enough for him to slide his fingers under for a better grip. He steadies himself on the roof a little better, then pushing his fingers in the gap, he shoves the window up. It gave way easier than he was expecting, making a loud noise of wood sliding on wood, so he quickly ducks under the frame to hide. He gives it a minute, the rain still pelting his head, before coming back up. He peers into the room, but not a soul had entered.

He quickly slides his legs through the window, tipping them to the ground and then letting his weight fall until he is completely inside. He turns around to shut the window, leaving it cracked to give him a quick exit.

Silently, he walks around the room, fanning his hands in the air to dry them before touching anything. Once they seem dry enough, he slides his fingers down the spine of each book on the shelf closest to his reach. Holden circles the room, until he is finally facing the book on the table. He steps closer to it, wondering why this book was the only one out of place. It was the most delicate book he had ever seen, with deep green trimming making a lace design against the black backdrop, and hints of gold were flecked in random parts of the cover.

On further inspection, he noticed something sticking out of the book, as if holding the place for whoever was reading it last. He flips it open to that spot and finds a picture of a dark-skinned man and a little girl. Studying the photo further, he noted that the man is the same one who lives in the house he is currently intruding on. He doesn’t know the little girl though. He turns the picture over, and it reads Orlagot. A lifetime ago.

Orlagot? I don’t know that city. Setting the picture down, he turns to the book, and in the middle of the page there is only one word: YOU. He traces over each letter with his pointer finger and then turns the page over. To his surprise, it shows a picture. To be exact, a picture of a meadow streaked with clear moonlight.

Holden turns the pages one at a time; suddenly, he looks up, aware that he is not where he was before. He blinks his eyes quickly, wondering when it was he might have fallen asleep to wake up in this dream. He was no longer in the room of shelves and books and the table. He was no longer just a few feet from his leaning house. He was altogether removed from anything familiar. The room he was now standing in had large planked wooden floors and walls painted a dusky yellow.

His breathing deepens as he looks around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It feels like a dream. Beside him stands a rectangular table that is a little off-kilter, and when he looks down, Holden sees the book still in his hands. He sets it down before looking back over the room. There is a fireplace before him, rocks making up its structure. He reaches out, touching the cold and grainy feel of them as he turns and scans the rest of the space. Two chairs on either side, one holding a blanket that looks plush to its touch, and the other one is bare but worn in. Looking to his right, he finds a door left cracked open. He walks closer, reaching out, but he stops, taking another look around before pulling it open to the outside world.

The sun is set, and moonlight fills his sight as he looks up to the stars and breathes in the crisp air. He closes his eyes for a second, allowing them to adjust to the darkness before opening them again. He sees then a small worn-in path leading to a pond about twenty yards away. In his normal life, he would have questioned the what was happening, but it seemed as if he was dreaming, though it was the most real dream to him.

He takes small steps out onto the path, following it closer to the water. He stops in his tracks when he sees a woman sitting down on the grass. She feels familiar to him, but Holden can’t place why. She’s older, probably twice his age if he were to guess. Which he was. She’s holding on to her knees, staring blankly at something, as he walks up behind her.

What’s your name? Holden asks boldly. She turns around, her face streaked with tears clouding her deep brown eyes. He seems to have startled her because she stood abruptly, looking him up and down. He offers up his name, trying to come off as friendly. I’m—

I know who you are, She says. Why does he never remember?

You do? he responds.

Yes. Why did you come here again? She seems almost impatient with him.

Again? he sputters.

She looks at him, judging his reaction to her question. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, placing a smear on her blue dress. The way her brown hair falls over her face makes him look into her eyes and smile, trying to wedge his way over her invisible wall.

Why were you crying? he asks.

She waits a second before pointing to the pond. He follows her hand until he sees what she was seeing, his heart beating with the terror filling it.

I don’t know how to stop it, she says, her shoulders drop with the confession. She crumples to the ground again as he runs over to the water, and dives in, swimming until he reaches their foot. He grabs it and turns back around, swimming for the shoreline again. Pulling the person onto the grass, he flips them over onto their back, hoping there was a chance of saving them. But upon seeing the person’s face, Holden falls back in shock.

He sits there for a second, letting his breath try to find him again, and inhales sharply, holding it in until his lungs start to burn. "That’s me. Well not me me, I’m right here, but that’s me. I know it. How? How is that me? Holden grabs his own chest to make sure he is still there, This is a dream. This is a dream. I’m not going crazy. I just have to wake up. How do I wake up? There’s no way that’s me, I’m thinking crazy." He whispers under his breath. He crawls on all fours back to the person, well himself, on the ground, and places his hands on their chest to feel for a heartbeat. Nothing. He brushes the man’s hair away from his face, hoping that maybe his eyes weren’t seeing right. His eyes did not deceive him though, because laying there dead in the soggy grass was him, but older and more tired looking.

He doesn’t know why, but tears swell up in his eyes. It was like he was feeling a loss he’s never felt before, hitting him like a sudden pang of hunger, and it wracked his chest a few times before he could get it under control. He stands up then, walking back over to the girl.

You can’t keep doing this Holden, She admonishes him. He looks at her incredulously, Doing what? Dying?! He throws his hands in the air, Who are you? She doesn’t answer. She’s just sitting on the grass with a dazed look on her face, unblinking. Is that me!? Holden yells again.

I don’t know how to stop it, she whispers.

His shoulders slump as he takes a seat beside her.

How is that me? Holden yells at her.

Who? She meets his gaze, and holds it.

The guy dead on the— he turns to look, but the body is gone, stopping him in his sentence.

She says nothing, just continues to stare blankly into him as tears begin to pool in her eyes. I can’t keep watching, she whispers and pulls in a heavy breath as she stands. She starts walking back to the house, and Holden follows after her.

It doesn’t make sense, but this is a dream. It doesn’t have to. So Holden follows after her, walking quickly to catch her stride.

What’s your name? Holden asks again.

He can feel her roll her eyes even though he didn’t see it. It’s Scottie. She throws the back door open and marches to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.

Holden walks in after her. As he turns to close the door, he catches his reflection in a mirror and jumps at the person looking back at him. The reflection wasn’t young Holden, but the older Holden, the one he just pulled from the pond.

What the hell? This is a dream. You just need to wake up. He whispers to himself in another reassurance.

Why do you keep doing this? Scottie scolds him as he walks over to a pile of logs and throws one on the dying fire. She takes the prodder and pokes it until it sits in the best spot to catch fire.

Holden pauses in his thoughts, not knowing how to react. He feels like he just walked in on a conversation that’s been going on for years. Excuse me? He finally squawks out.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she glares at him, seemingly trying to burn something into his chest.

Who are you? he asks quietly, trying to calm her. She doesn’t reply.

It doesn’t matter, she says.

He notes her tempered reaction and decides not to press further.

Okay. What can you not stop?

I can’t stop you from coming here, then she adds like an afterthought, And from dying.

His throat catches at the last part of her sentence, and he clears it.

Her admission makes his stomach knot. Why not?

I’ve tried. Nothing works.

Her candor makes him uncomfortable.

He runs his hands through his hair. Dropping his head, he lets it hang on his shoulders. He’s about ready to wake up. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying his best to awaken his conscience again.

Do you want to help me? she asks.

He looks up at her, gazing at her expression, waiting for her to say something more, but she is waiting for him to answer. He’s growing frustrated with her, but his nagging curiosity gets the better of him once more, and with no more thought, he simply asks, How do I help?

You have to go back first.

Back where?

Go back to where you came from. And then don’t come back. Maybe that will work. Maybe you might remember me. She crosses her arms over her chest solidifying her thoughts.

How do I do that?

You have to finish the book. She stands then and walks to the table where Holden’s book was still lying. He follows after her, letting the firelight be his sight. He trips over something and falls into the corner of the table, a sharp pain jabbing his side. It was the pain that made him realize he was not dreaming. He looks to her to fill in the words that he can’t yet speak. She takes in his expression and asks, Do you know now?

I’m not dreaming, he admits out loud, fear swelling in his belly.

We have to save you, she says, taking his hand and placing it on the open page of the book. His gaze follows her hands. Open your eyes, she says.

They are open, he responds, looking back to her, but where he should have found her face, he instead was met with the black bookshelves, back in the green house and the rain still dripping on the roof. He drops the book from his grasp, stepping away as if it could swallow him up again. His breathing is erratic, because he can’t get the picture of his cold dead face from his mind.

Holden hears footsteps approaching, and he darts to the window, pulling it open in a quick motion and jumping out as fast as possible. Holden flattens himself on the roof, trying to stay out of sight. He waits a minute before popping his head back up and looking through the window once more, seeing that no one has entered.

He steps over the six-inch gap and climbs back to his room, changing from wet clothes, feeling a deep shiver start in his soul and making his skin crawl.