Invisible Sun

By Andrew Housley

Bent to the point of breaking, Ian stands at Lake Pontchartrain's edge in New Orleans, spiraling after his brother Hugo's suicide. Everything sinks around him—the city, his faith, and perhaps his life—as he untangles the reason behind Hugo's fatal decision.
In Invisible Sun, Andrew H. Housley probes mental illness and the painful consequences of choice. He questions brotherly bonds, belief systems, and interconnectedness with profound intricacy, immersing readers in a world where reality blurs. Housley's storytelling peels back the human psyche, exposing raw emotions. This haunting tale captivates as a broken soul seeks solace and understanding, diving deep into a reflection on resilience and choices.

Will Ian find the truth he seeks, or will he be consumed by the shadows that threaten to swallow him whole?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Housley
• Release date: Oct 17, 2023

Andrew Housley

Andrew H. Housley, a versatile author and storyteller, explores life's depths through words. His debut novel, Waiting Impatiently, described as "thoughtful, raw, and downright engaging," offers an introspective journey with self. Splitting his life between Atlanta and New Orleans, he embodies the Renaissance spirit, guiding others as a yoga teacher while nurturing his spiritual path.'Invisible Sun' follows the story of Ian, who stands on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans, grappling with the devastating suicide of his brother, Hugo. As Ian unravels the mystery behind his brother's tragic decision, he finds himself questioning his beliefs and the very fabric of reality itself.Andrew H. Housley's storytelling prowess shines in 'Invisible Sun' as he peels back the layers of the human psyche, revealing raw and profound emotions. This haunting narrative captivates as a broken soul seeks solace and understanding, delving deep into a reflection on resilience and choices.SPR Editorial Review hailed it as "a powerful, soul-baring novel that will be intimately relatable." Housley masterfully unravels the complex tapestry of brotherly bonds, belief systems, and the intricate web of interconnectedness. Readers' Favorite described this absorbing narrative as "a tough read in the best possible way," blurring the lines between reality and illusion, leaving readers enthralled.Fans of Andrew enjoy listening to his regular podcast, "No Expectations," where he, along with co-host Jen S., delves into life on a holistic spiritual journey – from Yoga to Zen.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Come on, it’s safe to come in, he said from the safety of the house’s gallery shade. I could see pockets of sweat stains under his left arm as he raised it and motioned to me. The August evening sun unleashed the last rush of its dying rays through the windshield of my car with furious and full-throttle vigor. I pushed open the car door, stepped onto the thick grass, knowingly unprepared for what I was about to witness.

A large fig tree with its broad, green, mitten-shaped leaves pawed at the corner of the house and appeared to flirt with the roof’s brittle asphalt shingles. Swaths of dirty white paint had fallen away from the wood siding, exposing an unprotected, brittle, charcoal-gray interior. Inside the rusty wrought iron fence, my feet wobbled on the uneven loose brick walkway before I climbed a short set of narrow stairs to join him.

The brutal sun reflected off the oval, gold-plated badge that he wore on his hip. Hello, son. I’m Detective Labat. I was assigned to this case. We spoke on the phone. I didn’t offer to shake his hand. Do you have any questions for me before we go inside?

Did they clean anything up since I was here last time? The question tumbled out.

No, probably not. You’ll have to hire someone to do that sort of work, son. With his right hand on the doorknob, he looked over his shoulder at me to say with little reassurance, It’s not that bad, before turning the handle to open the door. As we crossed the threshold, the endless and relentless power of the sun poured over our backs, casting long shadows into the tiny front room of the house. The air inside hung stale and still with the smell of corroding metal. Cheap wooden kitchen chairs lay spilled on their sides. Shallow pools of burgundy blood coated and penetrated the grain of the honey-colored hardwood floors. Messy drips and washes of the viscous fluid in the shapes of foot and handprints painted a message of chaos across the planks. An unclothed, polystyrene mannequin stood against the wall, her eyes done up for the day, witnessing the scene with stone-faced indifference and a thousand-yard stare. She couldn’t seem to comprehend what was plain to see. In this cramped front room, the fragility of life clashed with the inexorable march of fate. Death arrived, did its damage, and left in a hurry. In its wake, it left behind the signs that life had helplessly, frantically clawed at its face, only to lose the day. It never really had a chance.

So, it’s pretty much the way we left it when you were here last time. Obviously, the body was removed and taken to the morgue, Labat stated, his eyes scanning the room.

I nodded.

We searched the house and found a few bottles of pills and some handguns. The pills were mostly Vicodin, as far as I can tell. Did your brother suffer from any kind of pain?

"We all suffer from some kind of pain, don’t we? I offered flatly, staring at the spot where I’d found my brother the day prior, blood pouring out of his open skull, slowly dying. Did you find any marijuana in the house?" I asked before making eye contact with the detective.

None that we could find, he offered.

That’s strange, and no one else has been in the house since they removed his body? I wondered.

Nope. No one else has been here.

Not even the landlord? I asked.

Irritated, Labat replied, No, son, not even the landlord. This is a crime scene. No one was allowed in here except the boys from the coroner’s office and me. Do you notice something that’s missing?

No. I was just curious. I walked toward a small, black acoustic guitar leaning against the brick fireplace; a wide splatter of blood clung to its shiny gloss finish. I ran my index finger across the surface of the strings to find it annoyingly out of tune.

You probably should have this place cleaned before touching anything else, son, he cautioned.

Detective Labat, is there anything you need from me, or can I head on home? asked a skinny, pimply-faced kid in a dark blue, overly starched police uniform from the doorway. He couldn’t have been much older than me.

No, I believe that’ll be all for the day, the detective told the kid as he stepped toward me to offer his card. Here’s my direct number. Call me if you need anything at all.

OK, I said as I put the card in my pocket. I’ve had lots of his friends calling me, asking me to get in the house for a bunch of different reasons. I don’t know any of them. What should I tell them?

Do you want them in here?

I don’t think so. I don’t even know them, I said.

The detective leaned toward me, placed his hand on my shoulder, and looked me in the eye. My advice to you, son, is to politely tell them to go fuck themselves, he said. If they have a problem with that, you call me, and I’ll help them understand. You understand me? His large hand pressed into my shoulder before he patted it gently.

Yes, sir, I said with a smile of appreciation.

Oh, I almost forgot to give you your brother’s guns. Give me one second. Labat turned back to the front door. Officer Messier, stay here while I fetch something from my car.

Yes, sir.

I turned my attention back to the floor after the detective left the room. The sight of all that blood began to play tricks on my mind. Did all of this blood really come from one body? I felt my head spin while my stomach turned. The gravity of the situation arrived to lodge itself in my throat like quick-dry cement. The stench of death surrounded me.

He’s dead, I mumbled to myself while pressing my eyelids tightly shut.

You see, sir, your brother most likely shot himself through the right temple while he was on his knees here, the officer said as he kneeled.

I opened my eyes and leered at Messier.

He was too involved in the thought to notice my stare as he continued, It’s not the best way to do it. He should have put it in his mouth; it would have been quicker. His hand formed the shape of a gun as he inserted his index finger in his mouth to show me. When you shoot yourself in the temple, there’s a chance you can miss and just blow your face or the top of your head clean off. He rolled his eyes in thought and nodded before adding, I guess the result is the same, but it takes a lot longer to die that way. You just slowly bleed to death.

Yeah, that’s how he died. Slowly, in a shallow pool of his own blood, I said, too paralyzed in the moment to tell the officer to kindly fuck off.

That’s a shame. See that divot in the ceiling there? he pointed to an indention in the plaster above the doorframe. The bullet went through his skull and brains, ricocheted off the ceiling, and landed over there by the mantel. See? the remains of a single copper-colored bullet casing rested peacefully inside a white chalk circle.

Yes, I see it. Hearing him babble on caused a fast rush of annoyance mixed with regret through my body. It made my empty stomach ache and ears ring as he spoke. I was here! I knew what happened in this run-down shotgun house and didn’t need his gawkish, maladroit play-by-play to illustrate the scene. I was too late, I muttered softly.

He was too busy listening to himself talk to hear me as he prattled on. You know that some people do survive after shooting themselves in the face, the officer offered with a shrug. It’s a mess too. Lots of surgeries, skin grafts, and stuff, but they never look right again. Kind of like that French lady who had a face transplant after her dog mauled her. She never looked right again. It looks like she’s wearing a mask to me. So, I suppose it’s for the best that he didn’t survive.

We’re all wearing a mask of some sort, I thought out loud. Messier tilted his head in curiosity.

Officer, Labat said sternly from the door as he cleared his throat, you can head on home now.

Yes, sir, Messier blushed as he turned to the detective and meekly said, Sir, I’m sorry for your loss.

I nodded my head to say goodbye as he left.

Son, you’ll have to excuse the officer. He’s just a kid, trying to act like he knows a thing or two, the detective said from the doorway, his long shadow stretched across the floor and onto the wall. Here are your brother’s guns. He held a brown, legal-sized envelope in his hands. There’s a Glock and .38 snub nose in here. Neither of them is loaded. The clip for the Glock is in here too, and it’s full, along with a case of shells for the .38. Now, the gun your brother used is down at the station in evidence. If you want that, you’ll need to fill out some paperwork.

I don’t think I want it, I said unwillingly, grabbing the envelope he extended to me. I looked inside. What am I supposed to do with these? I’ve never held a gun, much less used one before. I consider myself a pacifist. I don’t have any need for these.

It’s up to you, son. You can throw them in the river for all I care, but by law, I’m required to give them to you. How long will you be in town?

I don’t know. Long enough to sort all of this out.

My advice to you is to hold on to those guns. New Orleans is a tough town. You might need them to protect yourself while you’re here, he offered with total sincerity.

I snickered at the thought.

Don’t forget you need to go to the coroner’s office to claim the body so you can make arrangements for the funeral. He paused and said, with a sympathetic smile, This will all be over in a while, son. He turned and walked through the front door and back into the fiery inferno of the summer evening sun, closing the door with a quiet hush.

I turned my eyes back to the gash in the ceiling, then to the spot on the floor where my brother’s life had slipped away. No emotions remained inside me. Stripped bare from the inside, I was hollow.

I stepped out of the chaos of the front room into the cramped kitchen with its white-painted cabinets and placed the envelope of guns on the clinically crisp Formica countertop before stopping to catch my breath. A half dozen mugs with rings of dried, brown coffee crowded the small, metal kitchen sink. My body slumped onto the counter, my elbows pressing down to let my head hang through. I tried to breathe. I tried not to throw up. I’m not sure how long I was there before I heard the front door open, followed by a man’s animated yell, Hello, is anyone home?!

I knew the voice, but I didn’t reply. I listened to the sounds of his footsteps entering the room and the door closing.

Ian, are you in here? he yelled with a little more desperation now.

I held my breath like a child in the fading seconds of a game of hide-and-seek.

All at once, the house went quiet as the weight of the air became heavy and dense. I felt sick again. I knew what he’d just seen. I pushed away from the counter and walked to the front room to find him standing with dark sunglasses on, nostrils flaring, and chest heaving as the blood disappeared from his face. He looked silly to me, dressed in a tight-fitting, black sports coat; black, V-neck T-shirt, and dark jeans with rips along the thighs.

Hey, Chadwick, I whispered from the doorway with a crooked, tight-lipped smile, trying not to startle him.

He looked up from the scene on the floor to offer me a big wide mouth, sharp toothy smile before opening his arms and walking toward me to squeeze me with a big hug. Ian, it’s good to see you. You look good. Still doing all that stupid yoga shit, I see.

Yep. I’m still doing that stupid yoga shit, I admitted.

Sorry, I’m late. The flight from LA was late. I got stuck next to this chick in first class that would just not stop talking about how she was scared of flying. I think she was just using it as an excuse to hit on me, he said with a wink. They didn’t have my rental car ready when I landed. I told them I wanted a BMW, and they tried to give me some piece-of-shit Ford. I was pissed. I told them that I was a triple-platinum admiral member and demanded better service because of it. Can you believe it? It’s fucking ridiculous.

The more he talked, the more I quit listening. I hated small talk, but I hated bullshit more. I tried to ignore him as he weaved a meaninglessly pretentious anecdote about rental cars and membership rewards. It seemed sacrilegious to make idle chatter when I knew our brother’s blood was slowly drying into the fibers of the wood floor we were standing on.

So, I told them, let me tell you who I am, Chadwick continued.

And they said, ‘you’re a man without a car. That’s who you are,’ I interjected. He didn’t hear what I said; he just kept talking.

I told them I was good friends with Mike Sunderland, who knows Guy Hamlish, who is best buds with Ivan Lukic, who’s married to Adela Rybár, whose dad, Miloch, owns this crappy rental car company. So, I said they better get me a BMW ASAP, or I’d call Miloch and let him know what’s going on here.

Yeah, that’s an interesting story and all, I abruptly cut him off again and pointed to the floor. You can finish your worthless story with all your rat-turd name-dropping some other time. As you can see, Hugo is dead.

Yeah, yeah, I see that, Chadwick offered as a weak attempt of sympathy, as he placed his hand on my shoulder and looked down at the fresco in blood. It’s a real shame. He shook his head in a sign of feigning concern before asking, So, is there anything to drink in this place?

Chapter 2

At the back of the house was a small room crammed with stacks of old books and vinyl records. Holding a half-empty bottle of vodka, Chadwick threw himself onto the room’s crusty black pleather armchair in front of the window and kicked his feet onto a small stool held up with three thin wooden legs. I pushed a few dingy pillows out of the way before I slumped onto a well-worn, painfully uncomfortable brown futon opposite him. While his feet were up, I could see a price tag on the sole of his shoe that read ‘$175’. I chuckled and wondered if he’d left that there on purpose. Ever since we were kids, he’d been concerned about appearance. When the other kids in high school were wearing shorts and flip-flops, he