This was written for National Novel Writing Month. I didn't finish the 50,000 words called for, but this stands up well as a novella and part one of a longer story.
Global Weirding - Part Three
The phone rang at 3am. I wanted to ignore it, but for some reason the answering machine didn't kick in. I wrapped the duvet around myself and shuffled through to the living room. "Hello?"
"Who's there?"
"Who's calling."
"This is Steven Wilson."
"I'm Steven Wilson."
"You are? So am I? Are we related?"
"I was named after my grandfather."
"Little Steven? Is that you?"
"Granddad?"
"I wanted to tell you something. Now, what was it?"
"Granddad, you've been dead for fifteen years."
"I have? That would explain why it's so dark. I thought the bulb had broken. Now what was it I had to tell you?"
"This has to be a dream. I'm talking to a ghost."
"Respect your elders young man. I have something important to tell you."
There was silence as the ghost tried to remember the message it needed to pass on. "It will come back to me, mark my words."
"Yes granddad, I'm sure it will. Is it a matter of life and death?"
"It could be. It could be. Tell me, my boy, how have you grown up? Are you married yet? Do I have great-grandchildren?"
"No and no, I'm afraid."
"Oh dear. That's such a disappointment to me. I was looking forward to great grandchildren. What about your sister?"
"No, she hasn't had any children either."
"Come now, it's up to you to carry the family line on and......"
"And?"
"Mice."
"What?"
"Listen to the mice. They have information for you. They don't really like cheese, you know, give them chocolate."
"Yes. Okay, is there anything else you need to tell me granddad? Can you predict the future?" There was no answer. The phone line was dead.
I woke on the sofa. Somehow the branch creature had found its way to the top of the television. I swear it was staring at me.
I decided to find out what the mice had to say. The ironmongers down the street sells humane mouse traps, so I bought one and stocked it with dark chocolate. I didn't know where the rodents were most likely to congregate, so I just left it on the floor in the middle of the living room.
There are thirty three messiahs, of various religions and denominations, at large in the world. I can't help thinking that something's going to happen when chosen ones reach forty two.
Some of the messiahs have documented miracles to their names. Of course, most of these were documented by their followers and are therefore dubious. Which is a shame in the case of the guy who can turn pils into proper beer.
Can you self proclaim as a messiah? Or does your holiness have to be verified by someone else? Is there a form you've got to fill in?
I guess it has potential as a way to make money and get laid. So long as you don't go all David Koresh and start to believe your own press.
All of these thoughts came to me after I found the messiah numbers whilst surfing at work. I also started pondering just how you go about finding a messiah for your sect. The obvious decision would be to name yourself world leader pretend, but perhaps OfGod, or whoever oversees these things might call foul on that. What do you do, put out some small ads saying your looking for someone who can bend spoons and reality? 'Well meaning spiritual group, not planning to poison our followers, seeks man with astounding beard or world view to lead us into the new millennium (which, by our calendar, hasn't actually started yet).'
I may have to look into this further.
The scary world of Islamic hate sites was brought down earlier today. it seems that, as a creation of the infidel West, the Internet is an unacceptable vessel to put the supposed words of Mohammed into. Thousands of websites went blank as writings and images purged themselves from servers across the world. Say what you like about the Christian fundamentalists, at least they embrace Satan's technology.
I'm not sure if this development makes the world a safer place, but it cheers me up no end.
There was a mouse in the trap when I got home from work. It was curled up against the back wall, looking to all intents and purposes like the cool kid with arms and legs crossed saying 'Yeah, what you got?'. I picked up the trap and stared in. There were faint brown lines on the side wall, I had to hold it up to the light to make out what they said "'Stop anthropomorphising us you bastard.' “That's it? That's your message to me? You'd have been better off taking it to the Disney corporation or someone."
Jerry just stared at me, those little black eyes scarily deep, then it uncurled and scampered over to the message. It licked the wall, removing most of the letters until only 'Stop this bastard' remained. "Thank you so very much. Would you like something to eat?" it gave me a look I swear I've seen on those rare occasions I've tried a chat up line.
I set the trap down on the table and went to get more chocolate. When I'd broken it down into manageable chunks I put it on a saucer, laid this in front of the trap and opened the door. Jerry sauntered out, I can't think of a better way to describe it, and sized up the offered chocolate. After nibbling one down to size it took the offering in its mouth, ran to the edge of the table, did a kamikaze leap to the carpet and bounded across the floor to a hole in the skirting board I'd never noticed before.
So much for granddad's advice. I guess being dead has made him go a little senile.
Somehow the stick thingy had got to the bookshelf. It hadn't gone any further because The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, one of the heaviest books I own, had fallen on it from the top shelf. The bark on its trunk had been squashed by the impact and now it looked surprised, annoyed and in great pain.
The phone rang at 3am again. "Hello."
"The mice did not tell you anything did they Steven?"
"Not unless 'stop this bastard' means anything, no."
"Enigmatic little buggers aren't they?"
"I'd use far stronger words."
"Yes. Well, you're young. That sort of language comes easier to the young."
"Granddad, you're going to have to stop calling me. You're dead. It's just not the sort of thing dead people do."
"You don't have the time for your old Grandda?"
"I'd have a lot of time for you, if you were alive. But this, this is just a dream. The sort of dream that messes with my sleep patterns and leaves me dog tired for the whole day."
"I'm a dream, am I?"
"Why else would you call me at this god forsaken hour of the morning? Why not call me at eight in the evening?"
"I guess I could do that. But you do realise I've only got a little bit of time before the car hits me."
"The car?"
"Yes, bloody great big German thing. Mercedes, that's the type. It's all black and the windows are tinted and it's going far too fast for a residential street."
"Can't you get out of the way?"
"I'm trying, boy, believe me. But everything is moving so slowly. I would say it's like running through treacle, except it's worse."
"Okay. well you keep trying to get out of the way and call me again at some civilised time and we can have a conversation where I'm coherent, okay?"
"Alright my boy, if you insist."
At least this time I managed to get back into bed at the end of my dreamt phone call.
I've always followed the news of the weird on teh Internets. That's part of what having web access at work is about. But I swear there's more of it every day, and more from mainstream sources as well. I can understand when the Mirror tells me about Elvis's face being seen in an Eccles cake, but I get worried when it makes the front page of the Times. There was even a full page spread on the history of faces in food. I'm thinking of framing it and hanging it in the kitchen.
When I got back from work the mice had left me a present. And it was not, as in some previous houses, in the form of droppings on a work surface. On the table, by the decommissioned humane trap, was a tiny dreamcatcher. I don't know where they got the feathers or the string, but I checked and the branches had definitely come off the twig thing. By now it was beginning to look a bit pissed off.
I hung the dreamcatcher in the window, tidied the twig thing up and superglued octoboar's tentacle back on and arranged them under it.
I emailed Mum to ask about granddad's death. I remember it was when I was fifteen or sixteen and everyone said how sudden and unexpected it was. I don't recall anyone ever telling me why it was unexpected, or if they did I've forgotten. It was the first funeral I ever attended and I was certainly mature enough to handle talk of the cause of death. I just think no-one else believed that.
Granddad called, as promised, at eight o'clock. "Hello my boy. How are you today?"
"Well, now i know this isn't a dream. I think that makes it worse."
"You do moan a bit, don't you. The car has come another inch or two closer you know."
"Do you know why this is happening? Why has time slowed down for you? Why do you keep calling and giving me cryptic messages about mice?"
"One question at a time boy. Don't be so impatient."
There was silence on the line. What do you say to an annoyed ghost?
"Actually, I don't know why any of this is happening. Do you know how they say that your life flashes before you before you die? Perhaps this is like that."
"So where are your messages coming from?"
"I do not know. They just sort of occur to me. As if they are so obvious I have always known them. And I know that I have to tell you about them."
"The mice gave me a dreamcatcher."
"What on earth is a dreamcatcher?"
"It's an indian, er native american, thing. I haven't googled what it's supposed to do yet."
"Googled?"
"Looked up."
"You speak a different language."
"And it's happy hour again."
"What?"
"I'm sorry. I just keep getting the urge to quote lyrics. I can do a search to find out what a dreamcatcher will do, but I haven't got around to it yet. Hold on a moment." I wiki'd Dreamcatcher. "Ah, there we go. It is used to protect me from nightmares. It should catch the good dreams and store them whilst letting the bad ones dissipate."
"Sounds like a load of codswallop to me."
"Yes, it does. But I'm having a whole shoal of codswallop happen to me at the moment."
"Such as what?"
"Well, for one thing, I'm having a conversation on the phone with a dead man."
"I'm not dead yet. It's all about your frame of reference."
"In my frame of reference you've been dead since I was fifteen. In yours you're just waiting for the car to hit you."
"That is true."
"So. Do you have an insight for me today?"
"No. I don't. I just wanted to call you when you suggested. To show that I wasn't a dream."
"Oh. Okay. That's good. But I shouldn't keep you. I think. How does time pass for you?"
"I'm not sure. I just keep sort of waking up, with an insight and a need to talk to you. I think this telephone conversation thing is a metaphor. I can't move, really, so I'm not really holding a telephone up to my ear. But I think I am, and I'm sure I'm talking to you with it, even though I also know that I'm really not. Does that make sense."
"Sort of." I was talking to a ghost. There really was no call or reason for it to make sense.
"Well. I guess I should go. I may just be hanging around in limbo, but I know that you really are in the fourth dimension. No doubt you have things to do, stuff to be getting on with."
"Well, yes. I guess so. You'll call me again?"
"I shall try to make it a more convenient time for you next time."
"Thanks."
"Goodbye Steven."
"Goodbye Granddad."
You know the weirdest thing about all this? The thing that most worries me and freaks me out? It's not that all these bizarre things are going on, that I have miniature idols and animated sticks in my living room, or that I'm talking to my dead grandfather and getting gifts from mice. The weirdest thing is that it all seems so natural. It's obvious that this stuff shouldn't be happening, none of it is possible. Yet it is and I'm not in the slightest bit flustered about it.
Am I going insane? Is that it? They do say that it's a sure sign that you are sane if you begin to wonder whether you are. A truly insane person wouldn't stop to consider the status of their thought processes. And this is the first time I've wondered about my mental health since this started happening to me.
Does that mean I've been through my madness and I'm coming out the other side? Or is it just a respite?
I was pondering this late into the night. Even without a call from my grandfather I still can't get any sleep. In the end I got up and wandered around the flat. The dreamcatcher was where I'd left it, and the idol and stick thing were still real, if inanimate. So I had some physical evidence to back up my delusions. Perhaps I fused something on that first drinking session and I've been hallucinating ever since.
The dreamcatcher belonged above my bed if it was going to do its job. As I reached up to unhook it there was a cry from the window sill. "Great seasons! Would you put that away!"
"What?" The twig thing had folded its branches over the front of its trunk to hide its face.
"You're stamen laddie. Don't you go waving your reproductives at me. Do you fauna always have to be so damned blatant about it?"
This was the first time twiggy had spoken since the night I'd found it (I try hard to think of it as genderless) and this time I wasn't drunk.
"I'm sorry. Does my nudity offend you?"
"Too feckin' right it does. Put 'em away fer hawthorn's sake. Ye wouldn't catch a self respecting plant displaying its sexuals so blatantly."
"Really?" I had the dreamcatcher now and could stand back to give Twiggy my full attention, "Then what would you say flowers are all about?"
"Well that's.... I mean..... Will you just but the bloody thing away? It's obscene, okay."
"Hey, I'm sorry, but I sleep in the nude. You'll just have to accept it." I patted it on top of its twiggy afro and took the dreamcatcher back to the bedroom.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
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Technorati tag: Fiction, Fantasy, Weird
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