In a Soft Undercurrent of Sound

It happened today. It came through the news reports. Of course it came through the news reports: school shootings always do.

Blossomville High. One student, one gun, one bullet. Marie Stephens went to her locker during lunch and stuck a gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger.

How do we know this is the work of a Boojum and not just some messed up kid that lost at the game of life? (Well, for one thing, we're here - this is where Mister Boots sent us - so there must be something here and this was the only thing that happened.) But there's something else, too. Witnesses to Marie's last day, to her Act of Despair, said that they tried to talk to her, but couldn't.

Nobody talked to her as she went to her locker and took out the gun. Nobody said a word. Except one student (unnamed by the newspaper) who, in fact, heard two words: do it.

This is the work of the Jubjub - otherwise known to others as the Choir. We confirmed this with an interview with Marie's mother:

Mrs. Stephens: I didn't mean to say it. I didn't mean to say it. I didn't. I didn't mean to say it.
Baker: Say what?
Mrs. Stephens: I said it, but I didn't mean it. I wanted to tell her to have a nice day.
Baker: Mrs. Stephens?
Mrs. Stephens: Have a nice day. That's all I wanted to say.
Baker: What did you hear?
Mrs. Stephens: I told her. I told her but I didn't mean it. I told her I never loved her. I didn't mean to say it. I only wanted to say have a nice day. Have a nice day, Marie. Have a nice day.

So that's what we were here for.

Back in our motel, I looked at Frank pleadingly. "What?" he asked.

"Why were we here before it happened?" I asked. "Why send us here before?"

"I don't know," he said. "You can ask him yourself."

"What if we can stop it?"

"We can't." Frank packed carefully, each article of clothing folded and stacked.

"What if we can? What if that's why he's sending us here before they happen?"

"We can't. You know that." He stopped packing. "I'm sorry," he said in a whisper. "What's the next city?"

I looked at the book. "Hope Township, New Jersey," I said. There was something else written next to the city name, as well. I thought it was a joke, though Mister Boots probably never tells jokes.

It read: The Land of Make-Believe.


 -- Carol Baker

A Perfect and Absolute Blank

So, we're at Blossomville, Pennsylvania right now and, well, we have nothing. We can't find a single incident in any newspaper that could possibly be a sign of a Boojum. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

We're staying in another motel and it's rather cheap, even for us. But we have to save money - we don't have paying jobs anymore and, well, Mister Boots doesn't provide much in the way of compensation. If he ever shows up at all.

This used to be a big coal-mining town, but it stopped a few decades ago. Something about a coal fire. But that's too far in the past - it's the recent events we look at to try and find the Boojums. And so far, as I've already said, we've got nothing.

I'm staring at the motel wall, trying to think of things to write. If I don't write, that means I'll either watch the crummy TV or read one of the books I've already read a thousand times. If I do nothing, I'll start thinking about why we are here and I don't want to do that.

I don't want to remember the Incident, but I guess I can write about it. If I write about it, will that help forget it? Can I transfer my memories to words and leave them there?

And if I write about the Incident, will Frank be angry?

 -- Carol Baker

Charm It With Smiles and Soap

Frank here. We've stopped at another motel and Carol's currently taking a shower. It's hard on her, traveling.

And me? I've gotten used to it. That's...not exactly a good thing. Carol may have taken two hours to pack but I had been packed and ready for weeks. I knew Mister Boots would find us one day and send us out again. It was only a matter of time.

But. But we had that month of solitude. That month of being normal. Of doing nothing except what we wanted to do.

That's why I'm doing this. As Carol said, everything has to end sometime. This has to end sometime and I'm going to be a part of it until it does. I read what Carol wrote, about her fear that I would leave her alone one day, that she would wake up and I would be gone. That's never going to happen.

She saved me. The day after the Incident, she saved me. I was convinced I was insane. My family has a history and I've seen what happened to some of them towards the end. But Carol was there and she took my hand and I knew I wasn't crazy. So I'm staying with her until this whole thing is over.

Some of you may wonder why we use terminology from Lewis Carroll. Well, first, we don't want to reveal our real names (yes, these are fake names). The other reason is that, well, when we decided that we weren't crazy, the world itself must have gone a bit crazy to have let the Incident happen. And Lewis Carroll wrote about worlds that were wondrous and insane.

And The Hunting of the Snark. Well, that's a story about people who go out to find something and it turns out that something finds them. The creature they thought they hunted was not what they expected. So we called them Boojums.

 -- Frank Bellman

Beware of the Day

We've been driving all day. The first city in the book was a place called Blossomville, Pennsylvania, but that's a long way off. So we took turns driving Frank's old beat up Toyota pickup. When both of us were too tired to drive, we stopped at a motel.

Frank's trying to sleep now. He doesn't want to be here, I know. The last interview...it wasn't good. But he's doing this anyway. Everything needs to be finished.

If we have readers out there, they are probably wondering why we are doing this. Why we search for survivors, why we look for the Boojums.

We aren't runners. I've met some runners before. Some were nice, some were mean. Just like people everywhere.

But Frank and I...we're not running. I mean, with what happened, you would probably expect us to run. But nothing's chasing after us. There are no proxies on our heels, no Slender Man waiting behind every door. We're just roaming, gathering stories.

We met at school. We weren't friends. We said hi to each other every once in a while, but we hung out with different people. A few years later, when I was going to night school at a community college, we met again and this time we did become friends. We knew each other in a class full of strangers.

This lasted up until the Incident. The Incident was where everything changed. Except it didn't. We pretended that it didn't happen. That nothing was different. But we felt it.

Then we met him. He said his name was Mister Boots. He would be our benefactor. We would work for him. Try to find other people, other Incidents.

All we had to do was say yes.

I can see him turning in his bed now. Frank. He's always had the most nightmares about the Incident. Me, I don't have nightmares about it. That's what memories are for.

I have nightmares about the day that Frank isn't there anymore. That day I wake up and he's gone. That day I do this job alone. The day that I meet Mister Boots with his wrinkled hands and cold eyes and he gives me a new list of cities. Because we said yes.

I hate doing this, Frank, but we have to. We have to.

-- Carol Baker

Time's Dark Relentless Stream

Sorry for not posting any interviews in a while. We've been...busy. There was an incident at a hospital and Frank was arrested. Everything was sorted out, but Frank wanted to stay in one place for a while.

So we stayed in this small town. It was fine. Frank and I got jobs and an apartment and in the mornings, when we woke up, we pretended that we couldn't remember our nightmares.

But everything ends sooner or later. Nothing lasts forever.

I worked as a waitress in a diner here. It's not fancy, but it's a job. Today, a man walked in. He ordered coffee and sipped it as he read a small, thin book. I tried not to notice his face or his hands, which were filled with wrinkles. I wiped tables until I saw he was gone.

He left his book behind. I opened it and two hours later, I was packed and ready to go. Frank came home and saw me and I showed him the book.

It was a list of cities. And three words: Get to work.

 -- Carol Baker

Raymond Rutherford Interview

I'm standing outside of a padded room in the Ripton County Psychiatric Hospital. This area of the hospital makes the Sunnyside Wellness Center look like a day spa. Standing next to me is Dr. J. Emerson, the attending psychiatrist for Raymond Rutherford.

Dr. Emerson: As you can see, Mr. Bellman, Mr. Rutherford is in no condition to be interviewed. He has had a severe psychotic break due to the incident.

Bellman: The "incident" where he killed his entire family and tried to dump them in the lake?

Dr. Emerson: Yes. Just look at him, Mr. Bellman, you can see for yourself.

There is a window on the door and we both look through to see Mr. Rutherford – thirty-two years old, dark brown hair – sitting on the floor in a straightjacket leaning against one of the padded walls. We can hear a little of what he is saying.

Rutherford: ...the lamb lies down, but it never lies down, the lamb lies down but it never lies down...

Dr. Emerson: Do you see now? I've tried sedating him, but the sedation doesn't seem to have much of an effect.

Bellman: I'd still like to try to talk to him, Doctor. If you don't mind.

Dr. Emerson: Very well.

He pulls out a ring of keys from him pocket and carefully chooses one, then unlocks the door to the padded room.

Dr. Emerson: You should stay at least five feet away from him. If he doesn't like you, he tends to attack, even in the straightjacket. I'll be right outside.

Bellman: You don't want to observe?

Dr. Emerson: I'll observe from right here, thank you. Some of the things Mr. Rutherford says...unnerve me.

With that in mind, I slowly walk into the room.

Rutherford: ...the lamb lies down, but it never lies down...

Bellman: Mr. Rutherford? My name is Frank Bellman. I'm writing an article on what happened to you and your family. Can you tell me what happened? The police report says that you shot-

Rutherford: Shot? So quick, so clean an ending? Oh that was right, lad, that was brave. Yours was not an ill for mending, 'twas best to take it to the grave.

Bellman: Mr. Rutherford?

Rutherford: The crawlers cover the floor in the red ochre corridor. For my second sight of people, they've more lifeblood than before.

Bellman: I don't understand.

Rutherford: The eager pack lift up their pitchers – they carry all they lack. The liquid has congealed, which has seeped out through the crack.

Bellman: Mr. Rutherford, do you understand me?

Rutherford: I understand. Right you guessed the rising morrow and scorned to tread the mire you must. Dust's your wages, son of sorrow, but men may come to worse than dust. Men may come to worse than dust.

I knock on the door once and Dr. Emerson opens it to let me out.

Bellman: It's just snippets from songs and poems.

Dr. Emerson: Yes, I know. Sometimes he'll seem lucid, but whenever we try to ask about the incident, he goes back to talking like that.

We both look back through the window. Mr. Rutherford has laid down completely on the floor, still muttering to himself.

Rutherford: ...the lamb lies down, but it never lies down...

Annette Hodge Interview

I'm sitting at a small plastic table within the Sunnyside Wellness Center in P_______, California. Annette Hodge, forty-seven, is sitting across the table. She's wearing a starch white shirt and blue pants – like all the other patients of the Sunnyside Wellness Center.

Baker: Mrs. Hodge, you were admitted to the Sunnyside Wellness Center-

Hodge: Sunnyside up. Always filled with scrambled eggs. Sorry, my little joke.

Baker: That's okay. As I was saying, you were admitted here five years ago.

Hodge: That short? It seems like I've been here forever.

Baker: What brought about your admittance to this place?

Hodge: You know.

Baker: I would like the get the story straight from you, if you don't mind.

Hodge: Oh, I don't mind. I've told it often enough to various psychiatrists and psychologists and every other headshrinker they got here. You want it from the beginning?

Baker: Yes, please.

Hodge: Okay, well. Five years ago, me and my family...my husband and my two boys, Kevin and Jerome...they were good boys, though they liked roughhousing...anyway, my family and me went camping. Up near Y__________. We used to go there every few years. Just camp out for a few days. My husband, Paul, he used to love it. [She takes a long sip of water] Anyway, it was our first night camping in a while. We set up two tents – one for me and Paul and one for the boys. Paul had already gone to sleep and I was driftin' off when I heard this noise. Like a growlin' noise. But not like any animal I'd heard before. Then I hear this scream. You heard of the term bloodcurdling, right? [I nod] Well, it was like all my blood curdled in my body. Because I knew that scream was one of the boys. So I rushed out of the tent, not even bothering to see if my husband had woken up yet and I rushed over to the boys' tent. But I was too late. Their...their throats had been torn out. And as I looked at them and wept, I heard another scream and though oh god oh god Paul. So I rushed over to our tent and there it was.

Baker: What did it look like, Mrs. Hodge?

Hodge: You want to know what it looked like? You're gonna laugh. To me...to me it looked like the Wolf Man. From that old movie. Lon Chaney in all that makeup. But without all that hair on his face – and with these teeth, like razors. He didn't look funny at all, Ms. Baker. He looked...he looked like he could rip my eyes out of my socket before I could move. He looked intelligent. And then I noticed he was standing over my husband's body, one hand holding Paul's throat closed and I knew it had been slashed, just like my boys. But he was holding it closed and my husband managed to utter one word before he died. Just one word. "Hell," he said. Do you get it?

Baker: I'm afraid I don't, Mrs. Hodge.

Hodge: From what I read later on about this creature, his name is the Rake, right?

Baker: It's the only name we have for it.

Hodge: Well, my husband had just completed the name. "Rakehell." You know what a Rakehell is? A lewd or wanton person. It was certainly wanton. Those headshrinkers I saw? They said I just hallucinated the creature, that my grief caused a, what was it, a break with reality. But you know it's real, right?

Baker: Yes, I do.

Hodge: Good. Because it still visits me sometimes. That's why I checked in here. I thought I could get away from it. But I can't. Even with locked doors and barred windows, it still visits me. And it tells me the most horrid things. It whispers, Ms. Baker. Do you understand?

Baker: I'm afraid I don't.

Hodge: Good. Be glad you don't understand. Understanding is hell.