Dimensions

By Ray Wenck

Bennet just inherited a house. It isn't much of a house but he has no place else to go so it is a palace to him. But something strange is going on inside the house. The interior changes in size.

Confused but curious, he explores further but can find nothing wrong—until the paintings on the walls begin speaking to him. Is he going insane? As he digs deeper into the mystery, he finds secret papers and a map locked away in a safe that tell of a strange dimension hidden within the house.

Unsure if it's a hoax, Bennet decides to find out. What he discovers is an entire network of worlds. Some are friendly, others are just interesting, but some are deadly and their inhabitants will hunt you all the way home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Wenck
• Release date: Jul 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201745622

Ray Wenck

Ray Wenck was an elementary school teacher for 35 years. He owned and operated an Italian restaurant for 25 of those years. When not writing his hobbies include baseball, cooking and playing the harmonica.

Book preview

Dedication

This story is dedicated to all who see themselves or are seen by others as different. We all are but acceptance is important and should be given freely.

Acknowledgement

This is perhaps the strangest story I have written. I have no idea where the story line came from, it was just there, in my head, pounding to be let out. Out it came. As the words appeared on the pages, I had to think back about whether I was drinking the night before but alas, it was not the excuse I was hoping for. I might have concerns about what I was on if I did that sort of thing, but no reason or excuse can be found for the bizarreness of this tale. The fact that it came from my head gives me pause to consider how strange I must be. At least I can say it’s because I’m a writer.

I wish to thank Steve Wilhelm for his editing and Get Covers for the cover design.

In this strange year of Covid-19, being forced to stay inside has allowed me to write and publish a lot of stories. Please take a look at my website raywenck.com to find a list of titles and sign up for my newsletter.

Enjoy and as always, read all you want—I’ll write more.

Dimension

1. dimension (n) pl. dimensions: A specification of the spatial and directional limits of a given space, designated by a number representing the maximum number of lines in said instance of geometric space that can possibly exist such that the angle between any one of them and any other one of them is a right angle (also designated by the minimum number of points needed to define it minus one).

2. dimension (n) pl. dimensions: A category of related units of measurement that can be converted to one another from one another.

3. dimension (n) pl. dimensions: An alternate universe or a parallel universe, the latter usually referred to in fiction.

CHAPTER ONE

It was a small, ugly house, so why did the thought of entering cause Bennet Wilson such dread? That was easy to answer. His father had spent the last years of his life in this house. In fact, he rarely left, becoming more reclusive with each passing year. But that in itself wasn’t the reason for his hesitation. His father had also died in this sad excuse for a house, just five days ago.

The well-dressed woman standing to the side released another sigh, this one louder than the previous two in case he hadn’t heard those. He had. He’d merely chosen to ignore them. For the third time in the last minute, she glanced at her watch. Bennet wished he hadn’t taken the attorney’s offer of his assistant giving him a ride. It was obvious she hadn’t done so voluntarily. She made it clear her time was more valuable than his. Her presence and demeanor made seeing the property for the first time in three years that much more dreadful.

Ellen Crane was a tall woman perhaps in her late thirties. She wore a light-blue business suit, high heels, and what Bennet assumed was an expensive hairstyle. If one dressed for success, she had reached her idea of that level.

Without looking at her, he said, You don’t have to stay.

She frowned. Mr. Crawford’s instructions were quite clear. I was to stay with you until you entered the house, something that cannot be achieved by your standing on the sidewalk. Her tone reminded him of a teacher he’d had in elementary school, although the grade level escaped him. She had that same quality of subtle reprimands. It was just as annoying now as it was then.

Winston Crawford was his father’s attorney. He tracked Bennet down to tell him about the will. Bennet hadn’t known his father died. Now he felt guilt over not visiting him when he got out of jail. That won’t be necessary. I’m not sure yet whether I’m going in.

She cocked her head to the side, like a confused puppy not understanding the command. Even her tone altered. I don’t understand. It’s your family’s home. That was the purpose for this trip. Why don’t you want to enter? Because your father passed inside?

Bennet didn’t get the notion she was being rude. The question sounded more like she was curious about the reason. He faced her and offered a thin smile, extending his hand. Thank you for the ride. I do appreciate you taking the time.

But . . . Mr. Crawford was rather insistent.

I won’t tell if you won’t, he gave a conspiratorial smile.

She frowned and placed a keyring containing more keys than the house had doors into his palm. It appeared she wanted to say more but must have realized the futility of her words. She forced a smile and strode back to her shiny new Lexus.

Bennet watched her go, giving a wave as she drove away. Once out of sight he returned his attention to the house and the burden it presented. He took a step forward onto the narrow, somewhat uneven walkway to the house and then froze. Had the temperature dropped with that one step? No, like everything else about the memories of this house, it was his imagination.

To test that idea and prove the silliness of his apprehension, he retracted the step. Huh! It did feel warmer on this side of the grounds. He looked up at the assortment of trees near the front of the property. That must be the reason. The trees blocked the sun. It made perfect sense. The odd mix of pine trees, oaks and maples added to the look of neglect the house showed from the curb.

His father had not been one for yard work or upkeep. If anything needed to be done, he hired the job out. Though whatever the repair, it had to be drastic for him to make the call. Not that he didn’t want the house to function; his main reason for letting things go was because he didn’t want people on his property. His reasons were always vague. It wasn’t that he feared robbery or vandalism, or even that he was afraid of being murdered in his house. The only time Bennet remembered his father making a comment, it was he feared discovery.

Discovery! Of what? They had little money or wealth of any sort. Few items of technology offered temptation. If someone broke in to steal anything of value the complete lack of those items might guilt the crook into leaving something instead.

It was as confusing to Bennet then as it was now. And his father remained the biggest mystery. Since the day they moved in, something about this house possessed him like a supernatural entity. He never explained his actions or his reasons. Bennet wasn’t sure even his father knew what they were. He was just different once they lived here. From the stories he heard from the attorney, his father became even more obsessed just in the past few years after Bennet moved out.

Gathering his nerve, Bennet stepped across that invisible line onto the property. With a reasonable explanation of why it was colder corralling his nervousness, he walked toward the small, square, concrete porch. Did the air smell different?

With an annoyed shake of his body, he tossed off the inane notion and reached the porch. Even knowing the growing anxiety was nothing more than a childhood monster under the bed fears, he still had trouble lifting his leg to climb the cement stairs. Instead, he stood on the walkway and surveyed his new home.

His home. Ha. What a joke. For how long? He couldn’t afford to pay a mortgage. At his father’s request, the attorney had paid the mortgage with money left with him specifically for that task. Bennet had a little less than one month to live there before the next payment was due. At least he’d be off the street for a while.

A thought stopped him. Why leave money for the rent with an attorney? Did his father expect something to happen to him? Then the breath of death caressed his skin and goosebumps erupted. Was his father ill? The thought upset him. If he had some disease Bennet wasn’t there to help him through his suffering and the last moments of his life.

He stared at the porch as guilt swept over him. A weight seemed to land on his shoulders. A tear escaped his eye and meandered down his cheek. He wiped at it angrily though whether that anger was directed toward his father or himself wasn’t clear. He glanced away for a moment then refocused on the house pushing all other thoughts aside.

The house had four rooms plus a bathroom. A living room, kitchen, and two tiny bedrooms made up the six-hundred square-foot interior. The exterior measured twenty-three by twenty-six feet. There was no basement. A one-car detached garage stood to the side and behind the house.

The gray aluminum siding had lost much of its color. Two of the black shingles decorating the two front windows were missing, leaving one on each. Several of the gray-black shutters were missing.

The flower beds on either side of the porch were overgrown. The only thing resembling a flower was the dandelions that looked like a bright yellow carpet. The grass needed to be cut and the trees trimmed. One of the oaks looked half dead. The barren branches hung over the roof like a pending guillotine.

The fence on the right side had fallen and one of the window panes was cracked. For a man with no source of income, the needs of the house were overwhelming. That was just on the outside.

He forced his legs to rise and climbed the two steps to the porch. He opened the screen door sans screen and aimed a key at the lock. Bennet realized then he had no idea which key fit. There had to be thirty keys on the ring. He knew in his heart he would have to try them all, likely finding the right key on the final try. It was just the way things went for him. Once he established which key opened the door, he was taking it off the ring to avoid the same problem over and over.

Bennet thought it a positive sign when he shoved in the thirteenth key and it turned in the lock. It opened with a hiss like the connection broken on a vacuum-sealed door. His imagination heard a whispered Yes, on the released interior air.

He stood on the porch examining the space as if expecting someone to appear or some strange occurrence to defy logic. Nothing. Truth be told, it was a bit of a letdown and anti-climactic. What had he expected? The ghost of his father to appear?

He stepped inside and like every old-time horror movie he’d ever seen, the door closed on its own.

CHAPTER TWO

The door did not slam shut but the click of the latch seating startled him, sending an eerie chill through his veins. It was enough to make him want to bolt from the house. No, he had to face down his unwarranted fears, go through the house once, then close it up and put it on the market. Not that he expected it to sell. The house needed work and didn’t have curb appeal. The small size would limit the number of interested buyers. A family of three would struggle here.

Other than living here himself the options were limited. He moved through the living room and stood in the doorway to the kitchen. It needed a lot of updating. A rattling sound drew his curiosity. He traced it to the refrigerator. He snorted. This was where a gruesome discovery was made in horror movies. He shrugged off the notion and reached for the handle. If it was such a ridiculous possibility why am I hesitating? That thought annoyed him and he opened the door. The space was nearly empty save for a few basics. Someone must have cleaned it out after his father’s death. Butter, ketchup and mustard, mayo, strawberry jam, and four bottles of Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale. The bottles were in the door and the cause of the rattling. The sight brought a smile to his face. Dad didn’t go for many frills but good beer was one of them.

Bennet closed the door but then opened it back up and removed a bottle. He searched the drawers for an opener. Not finding one elicited disappointment. He set the bottle on the counter. How did his father open them? Oh well. He picked the bottle up, set the edge of the cap on the end of the counter, and just before slamming his hand down on the bottle noticed the magnetic opener on the side of the refrigerator.

Of course.

Two healthy swigs later, he continued his tour of the house. The bathroom held the usual assortment of toiletries. Nothing much had changed there except he noticed his father had installed one of those handheld shower sprays. A bracket had been attached to the wall to hold the head. Knowing how inept his father was at handyman chores he wondered if he had hired someone to install the bracket. He touched the bracket. It wobbled. Nope. Dad did it himself.

He moved down the hall and paused between the two closed bedroom doors. The one on the right had been his room for the short time he lived here. Bennet turned the knob and pushed the door open. It still had the squeak.

As the room was revealed, he noticed the changes. His bed was gone. It took up much of the ten by eight-foot space. Without the bed, the room appeared larger. His cheap four drawer dresser was still here but had been moved to the opposite wall. One of the new objects was an old wooden desk. The kind teachers used to have in the front of the classroom. He wondered where his dad got it. A cheap bookcase was next to the desk. From its unbalanced look, Bennet decided his father put that together too.

Bennet entered and did a complete circle taking in the walls. None of the posters that had adorned the walls survived the transition. No surprise. Whether because he disliked Bennet’s choice of art or his father was too angry about him leaving, the posters’ life expectancy had been short.

He stopped at the desk. Papers and bills were in neat stacks at the back corners. A daily planner was propped against the back wall. Huh! What could he possibly need that for? The man seldom left the house. He reached for it and stopped. His curiosity was not that acute.

He turned to leave and spotted the closet. It was small like everything else and had no door, just a curtain that hung from a rod. The curtain was bowed outward like something was too big to be stored there. Bennet pulled the curtain back and his jaw dropped. It was a safe. A large metal rectangle that stood five feet high. Apparently, it was used. The shiny black surface was chipped in many places exposing the silver metal beneath. Four deep grooves ran down the right side. They reminded him of claw marks.

On top of the safe was a long, heavy, sheathed knife with a polished wood handle and a serrated edge on top, like a saw blade. Next to that was a leather holster, empty. Where was the gun? For that matter, why did he have a gun? Knowing his father, he probably found it discarded someplace and thought he’d have a use for it. That made more sense than him having a gun. Still, the knife was a surprise.

He set the beer on the safe, picked up the sheath and slid out the blade. It was wide, with a curved end that came to a sharp point. Why would his father need a knife? What happened in the years since he left? After his mother died his father’s behavior became increasingly strange but had he fallen into paranoia?

A knock on the door startled him. In the two years he lived there, Bennet could only remember three times when someone came to their door. Two of those times had been Girl Scouts and the third had been bad.

He walked to the living room and peeked through the dingy curtain. A policeman stood on the porch. Oh, sweet Jesus, not again. The cop's eyes wandered over the front door then stopped on the window. Bennet stepped back as the curtain fell into place. That was dumb. The knock was more insistent the second time.

Bennet moved to the door and opened it. The policeman nodded at him then took a hurried step backward, drew and pointed his gun at Bennet. Bennet felt a vice constrict his chest. His breaths burst from his lungs in short sharp expulsions. His hands went up instinctively.

The cop’s narrowed eyes were locked on his. Put the knife down. Now. Don’t make me shoot you.

Shocked by the words, Bennet glanced up to see he still held the knife. Oh. Oh. Okay. Don’t shoot. I forgot I had it. He slowly bent and set the knife on the porch, then straightened and backed away.

The cop kept his eyes on him. The gun never wavered as he stepped forward and snatched up the knife. You have any other weapons?

No-no. No, sir.

Come down here.

Bennet complied. He didn’t need any more complications with the police. On the walkway, the officer said, Turn around. Bennet did. Kneel down. Bennet did. Place your hands, palm down on the porch. Bennet did. Brusque hands professionally patted his body. His wallet was removed from the back pocket. The officer backed away. Bennet heard him say something into his mic but his mind was so befuddled by this sudden turn all he heard was Requesting . . . A brief exchange occurred in which the officer gave his name to whoever was on the other end of the radio. He signed off. Okay Mr. Wilson, why are you here?

I-I live here. Well, used to.

Used to. So, you broke into this house. Why did you have a knife? Was it to harm someone? To me?

What? No. I . . .

The radio squawked and the officer answered. He asked a question, got an answer and signed off. He stood silent for a moment then said, You only been out a week and already you’re in trouble.

Bennet sighed. Once you were a convicted felon nothing ever got easier. Look, I can explain if you give me a chance.

Oh, you’ll get your chance alright. A hand snaked around him, snared his right hand and bent it back. The bite of the cuffs hurt. Once his second hand was secured behind his back the officer said, I’m going to assist you up.

With his help, Bennet stood. Okay, let’s go.

What? No. I didn’t do anything wrong.

You’re on parole and I found you in a house that isn’t yours and carrying a weapon.

I didn’t break into the house.

He pulled him along down the walkway. Then how did you get inside?

With the key.

The officer paused. What key?

The one in my right pants pocket.

The officer dug into the pocket producing the key. Where did you get this?

Bennet was growing angry. That was a problem. Only bad things happened when he got angry and he had no desire to go back to prison. In a sharp voice, he said, From my attorney. He emphasized the word my. He gave it to me after the reading of my father’s will.

The officer turned him so they were face to face. What are you saying? This is your father’s home?

That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s what I would have told you earlier but you decided to cuff me instead. He felt the pressure in his veins. The tightness of his muscles. The tension in his jaw.

You had a knife. I wasn’t taking chances on an unknown situation.

Okay, I get that, but all you had to do was give me a chance to explain. My father died. He left me this house. A thought struck. How did you even know I was here?

A neighbor called and reported a suspicious person had broken into the house. What was the knife for?

He felt the pressure ebb. I found it inside. It’s an unusual item for my dad to have. I just discovered and picked it up when you knocked.

The officer nodded. He turned Bennet around and unfastened the cuffs. Okay, Mr. Wilson. I apologize for the misunderstanding. Make sure you don’t leave the house carrying that knife.

He nodded, not trusting his anger to make things worse.

He handed Bennet his wallet. Sorry for your loss. He turned and left.

CHAPTER THREE

Bennet waited for him to drive away before re-entering the house. Once a police department supporter, after being falsely accused, arrested and sentenced, he no longer had any respect or confidence for any portion of the legal system.

He set the knife down, picked up the beer and polished it off. He exited the room, went into the kitchen and opened a second. He was halfway done when he stopped. The beer was too good to gulp it down.

With his foot, he dragged a chair out from under the table and sat. It took several minutes for him to push the incident aside and become calm. He was so different now from the shy, awkward boy he was before incarceration. In prison, he was angry all the time. The unfairness of his imprisonment and what he was forced to face and endure changed him forever. He learned to fight, to protect himself, to survive. The anger became a part of his being. Even now that he was outside and free, he couldn’t go far without a flare-up. Often for no reason. Like a love he could not function without.

He finished the beer and left the bottle on the table. He had a long walk back to the motel and the room he shared with another recent parolee. It was time to leave. As he reached the door he hesitated and glanced down the hall. He still hadn’t looked at his father’s room. He sighed. No need. There was nothing for him here. He’d sell it cheap, take the money and move on. Preferably to another town in another state in a different section of the country.

He was pulling the door closed when he heard a ringing sound. He froze, confused at first, then recognized it as a phone. Bennet walked back inside and followed the ringing to the kitchen. Mounted to the wall was a red phone with a long cord. Other than a telemarketer, who would be calling?

Bennet lifted the receiver. Yeah.

Mr. Wilson? A male voice said.

Who knew he was here? Who’s calling?

It’s Winston Crawford, sir. Just calling to make sure you got into the house alright.

Yeah. I’m in. Obviously since I’m talking to you on the house phone.

Good. Good. Have you given any thought as to what you want to do with the house?

Yeah. I’m probably going to sell it.

Oh, he dragged the word out showing disappointment. I’m so sorry to hear that. Your father did so hope you would stay there and take up his work.

Work? What work? My father hadn’t worked since my mother died. He fell apart soon after. He lost his job, our house, and everything else. It was why we moved here in the first place.

I’m aware. But moving there was the best thing that ever happened to him aside from you and your mother. He told me that often. Whatever your father was doing it had to do with that house.

Really? he looked around. Whatever his work was certainly didn’t have to do with renovations.

Yes. It is true. He found something there he very much wanted to share with you upon your return. It is a shame you were not able to arrive before his passing. So much was lost, I think.

Well, whatever his work was I see no sign of it here. I’m just going to sell. I can use the money.

Such a shame, but you see, as part of your father’s wishes, selling is out of the question. If you have no interest in the property it is to be boarded up. It was his wish that you lived there, and if not you, then no one will reside there again.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me? Bennet exploded. So, I can’t benefit from this at all?"

No, sorry. Your father wanted his work to be protected. He wasn’t sure others would, ah, appreciate the extent of his discoveries.

Discoveries? What are you talking about? There’s nothing here.

And things aren’t always what they appear to be. Why don’t you take a day or so to decide? Perhaps spend a night or two and give me your decision then.

Bennet was too flabbergasted to speak. His life was one shitty break after another. Finally, he said, Yeah. Sure. Whatever. And hung up.

He stood for a moment replaying the conversation. Discoveries? What the hell was Crawford talking about? What possible discoveries could his dad have made here? Nothing he’d seen so far. He shook his head. Just another line of BS his father spewed and the attorney fell for it. Angry, he stormed out of the house slamming the door shut. He marched down the walkway to the sidewalk not sure if the door was locked but not caring.

As he walked, he fumed. He couldn’t catch a break. From one injustice to another. As if prison wasn’t bad enough. As if being an ex-con entitled him to a job and a bright future. In the short time he’d