Edge of Nowhere
A Midnight Vault II story
A creator of worlds, stumbling through his own dark world, returns home to find a pathway from his grief. Yet, when we are lost, the uncertain road is sometimes the only one to take.
The two boys braved the busy road to make their way down to the sweet shop that lay just a few blocks down Paris Street. It was a rare trip for the four year old Connor and, as Patrick was three years his elder, the younger boy clung to his brother’s hand to find some safety against the trucks and cars that thundered through the town of Grangemouth. If Patrick minded this making him look uncool, or whatever, then he didn’t show it. There was pocket money to be spent and sweets to be munched.
A few minutes later they were wandering back home with their little white paper bags full of sherbet lollies, raspberry bon bons, Chelsea Whoppers and flying saucers. Tooth decay not even a vague concern on a sunny weekend morning.
However, it was at that moment that Connor tripped on a loose paving slab, falling to the ground, and spilling the content of his bag into the gutter.
He burst into tears. Not sure if his grief was due to the pain of a skint knee, the loss of his sweets or the embarrassment of being laughed at by the other boys hanging about the store.
Carefully lifting up his little brother, Patrick glared at the cackling hyenas until they slunk away, brushed the dirt from the burst skin that was beginning to leak blood in a steady flow, and handed over his own bag of sweets.
“I’m here,” he said kindly. “Look, now you’ve got a cool scar to show off at school on Monday, and there’s still plenty of sweets for both of us.”
Connor’s sniffling slowed and he wiped his eyes.
“Really?” His big brother nodded and gave him a hug. “Wow. Thanks Patrick. You’re the best brother ever.”
“Of course I am,” Patrick said proudly and saluted him with a comic look on his face. The two of them laughed all the way home.
“Rerouting ….. rerouting ….. rerouting ….”
The sat nav seemed to be having a brain fart.
Connor leaned over and turned it off.
He didn’t need it now anyway. Hadn’t actually needed it to begin with.
Twenty years since he first left, even with darkness falling and a low fog lurking dankly against the car windows, he still knew the way back home.
Of course, it hadn’t been that long since his last trip here, he thought sadly.
It was 2005 when he had left for his new life in America. Packing up and taking a huge risk. Full of excitement and nerves. The local author finally making it big. Telling the stories he had always wanted to. Not just with his books either, but in Hollywood as well.
And the times had been good. Studios lining up to turn his work into the next big fantasy or horror franchise. The money. The recognition. It had been everything he had ever dreamed of.
Then, five years ago, it all stopped.
Screenplays abandoned. Novels left unfinished. He just couldn’t do it anymore.
The road sign, illuminated through the thickening fog, told him it was ten miles to Grangemouth, and he took the next junction.
Back to his hometown. Back to where it had all began.
It used to be that on the approach to this once bustling port town, the flare stacks and hydrogen towers from the massive petrochemical plant lit up the night sky for miles around. It was the surest way to know you were heading in the right direction. For over a hundred years it had been the heart of Grangemouth, bringing employment and opportunity for so many. Now, because a billionaire decided he needed a few extra million in his coat pocket, everything was shut down, and all was dark. The abandoned buildings standing as testimony to the corruption of absolute wealth.
Connor frowned. At least he should be able to see the Kelpies statues that guarded the entrance to the town like giant equine sentinels, spectacularly marrying the supernatural with the area’s industrial past.
“Where the hell are they?”
Sure, the fog was thick, but they were normally framed in a night time multi coloured light show. Maybe there had been a power cut, or maybe the whole town was dying. Used up and spent, he thought sarcastically. Sounds familiar. Sighing, he flicked on his indicator and took the slip road for his hotel.
A room had been booked for him at The Leapark.
It was meant to be his big homecoming. His agent’s idea to get him back on the horse. Plus, his first horror novel was getting a reprint, and it seemed like a good PR exercise to return to his roots and give a talk on his creative process.
“Stick my process up your arse,” he muttered bitterly, turning onto Bo’ness Road.
For five years he hadn’t written a single word. What the hell could he tell anyone about writing when he couldn’t even sit at his desk without feeling sick? This was a complete waste of time.
However, if he didn’t do it, his agent was going to dump him. History only carried you so far in business. No matter who you were.
He had chosen the hotel.
It wasn’t too far a walk from the library where he had first read the books that would shape his career, and where he was giving his lecture.
Of course, the other reason was that it sat directly across from his old family home.
As he drove down the road where him and his brother Patrick had roamed and played, he felt time claw its way back to the surface and his throat tightened.
He sighed. “Get a grip man.”
Being cautious in the ever thickening fog, he edged closer to the pedestrian crossing he knew was there from memory, when something ran in front of his car.
The headlights picked out the tall dark shape with a long coat trailing behind it sprinting across the road.
Connor slammed on his brakes and brought the car to a shuddering halt.
Wiping a shaking hand over his sweating brow, he scanned the pavement on both sides, but nothing could be seen through the oppressive fog.
“Idiot,” he muttered and pulled into the car park.
It wasn’t that The Leapark had seen better days, it was that those days had never actually existed.
The white paint was peeling from the stonework as if the building was shedding its skin like an ancient rotting zombie revealing the crumbling bones beneath. Two bulbs in the illuminated letters had blown, changing its name to The Lapak, which immediately made Connor grasp for a far off memory, but then he shuddered as the dank fog settled on his skin. Quickly grabbing his case he hurried inside.
Faint piano music could be heard from the low lit bar to his left as he entered through the double doors, and a stairway with frayed green and gold carpet climbed to his right. Standing at reception was a pale man, with black slicked back hair dressed in a white tuxedo jacket with a red bow tie.
Well, at least he’s still trying, thought Connor sardonically.
The man’s face lit up as he spotted the approaching guest.
“Ah, the creator,” he said clapping his spindly hands.
Connor smiled thinly at the joke, recognising the slightly sarcastic tone.
He nodded.
“Connor Lambert. I have a room booked for this evening.”
“Of course, Mr Lambert. We all know who you are.”
Yup, there was no hiding it now. The words were dripping with contempt.
Connor frowned but the man went on.
“Room 27. Up the stairs and right along the corridor. Hopefully everything is to your liking, and we’ll see you in the bar later for a quick bite before your big day tomorrow.”
Then, much to Connor’s concern, the receptionist licked his red lips through which white, sharp teeth protruded.
Connor shook his head. Jesus, he was tired.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking his key and stumbling up the stairs. As he looked back, he saw the man watching him through narrowed eyes, his smile completely gone.
The dark corridor seemed to stretch onwards ahead of him and, as he continued forward, the floor tilted to his right to such an extent that he had to hold onto the wall to keep his balance.
“What the hell?” he muttered. This place really was falling apart. His hand brushed against the wallpaper, and he could feel swirls and lines, like scrawled words frantically gouged into the stone.
Finally he reached room 27 and, as he opened the door a strange rustling noise, like pages turning in the wind, sounded behind him. He looked back and the corridor was now level floored and brightly lit. Blinking slowly in disbelief, he pushed open the door and walked into his bedroom without hitting the light switch.
The street lights on Bo’ness Road shone faintly through the open curtains into the room and gave him enough visibility to shove his case on the bed and walk to the window. Directly across from where he stood was his old house. A faint glow, dimly flckering through the fog, could be seen coming from the small room on the top floor, where they had gathered all those years ago to play Dungeons and Dragons and he began the journey that led him here.
Connor had always been a dreamer.
Even at school, kicking the crisp autumn leaves that littered the playground, a faraway expression on his face, there were those who mocked his flights of imagination, but they only ever went so far knowing that Patrick wouldn’t let his wee brother get bullied.
He was the one who listened to Connor’s tales of fantasy and adventure, convincing him to write them down and send them away. Then, urging him to keep going when they were rejected.
As he looked over at the family home they had stayed in all those years ago, an old memory bubbled to the surface of his mind.
He was standing with fists clenched, staring angrily into the distance.
“Hey man,” Patrick said from behind him. “That was a tough campaign. Chaz is the most brutal DM in the world. Can’t believe we lost so many characters.”
Nodding, Connor kept his back turned and tried not to show his upset.
“Bjorn was my favourite character ever. Can’t believe he’s gone.”
He was the youngest of the group. All the other players were his brother’s age and sometimes it showed. Tonight had been a slaughter with a dragon laying waste to most of their party. His barbarian, Bjorn Foehammer, had been amongst the last to go. A raking claw removing his remaining hit points in one fell swoop.
Patrick put his hand on Connor’s shoulder and turned him around, holding something out in his hand.
It was the lead figure that Connor used for Bjorn. A giant, bald headed warrior covered in heavy furs and a splodge of dark paint for his long beard.
“Bjorn will always be with you,” he said. “He’s your character. You create the worlds for him to explore. They’re already within you.”
He smiled and punched Connor lightly on the arm.
“C’mon we better get this cleaned up before mum and dad get back.”
“The creator,” Connor muttered and shook his head.
The first story he ever got published had been about Bjorn Foehammer and his adventures fighting dragons, pirates and all manner of evil foes. When it sold for less than a week’s wages, he took Patrick out for beers to celebrate.
That was a long time ago.
Suddenly a dark shape fluttered in front of the hotel window, piercing the fog and causing him to step back in surprise.
He looked again but wasn’t sure. Was there something out there? The mist seemed to swirl and begin to form strange shapes that resembled pale, gaunt faces staring back at him. A scratching, scrambling noise started from the eaves just above his head. It continued for a few seconds and then stopped.
“Probably just a flock of birds,” he said more shakily than he would have liked.
God, he needed a drink. Creepy receptionist or not, he was going for a pint.
He had been in the lounge a few times growing up and thirty five years later it hadn’t changed very much.
It was a large open space with twenty or so tables dotted around, and a long wooden bar running the length of one wall upon which multiple beer taps stood proudly to attention.
Connor caught a few figures lurking in the shadowy corners but apart from that it seemed very quiet.
A full pint of lager sat patiently waiting for him in the centre of the bar. He looked around at the other patrons but nobody appeared to be paying him any mind.
Suddenly a huge figure stepped through the door from back of house and glowered at him.
Connor shrank back in fear.
As tall as he was broad, with a shaven head and long dark beard, the bartender cut an imposing figure.
“Tonight you must find the way.” His voice was deep and sonorous. He pointed to the glass. “Take this and listen to our tales. I must return to Lapak. Our quest awaits. He cannot go on without me. The land of Traja is in peril. All has fallen to darkness. We are needed. You are needed.”
Opening his mouth and then closing it again, Connor couldn’t even begin to formulate a response. Between this and the receptionist, he was beginning to wonder what was going on here.
The man raised his giant tattooed arm and pointed to where fog pushed needily against the bay windows. A dark figure, enrobed in shadows sat at a large round table. His eyes, the only features visible in the faint light, glittered menacingly.
“He waits for you.”
Looking to the corner, and then back to the giant barman, Connor hesitated, lifted the pint, took a large swallow, and walked over.
As he approached he could see stringy, sinuous shapes caper and dance outside in the fog. Sometimes they would come close to the glass so he could almost make out what they were, only for them to skip away and disappear back into the murk.
There was pressure building. Connor could feel it on the inside of his skull. He tasted iron in his mouth and realised he had bitten his cheek.
A long black leather trench coat lay thrown across one of the chairs that surrounded the table. Its owner leaned languorously back in his seat with a sardonic smile on his thin, angular face.
Connor had a moment to realise that this was who had ran in front of his car, before the man began to speak.
“Hey Connor,” he said in a strange accent. Like he was from somewhere and nowhere. “Could you sign this for me?”
He threw a blue cardboard folder down on the table with the words “Nick’s Trip” scrawled unevenly across the front.
Connor rocked back as if he’d been slapped. With a shaking hand he reached out and flipped the folder over.
On the back, in Patrick’s neat and clear penmanship was written : -
“Romero is your coolest character. Can’t wait to read more about this guy. What a brilliantly creepy story. Well done little brother!”
His supernatural detective, Nick Romero, fought demons and devils, in a black leather trench coat wielding swords and spells, whilst trying to keep his family and friends safe from the marauding hordes of undead.
Those words had been written over thirty years ago when Connor had completed this, his first horror novel. However, it had been rejected everywhere he sent it and, in a fit of rage, he had thrown it in the trash. Where, at the time, he thought it belonged. Only, years later, did he return to the character, but never quite able to remember what the first story had been about. He had never told anyone what he’d done.
Putting down his pint, he pulled aside the cardboard flap, flicking through the smudged and unevenly formatted pages. He remembered the old typewriter Patrick had got him for his birthday one year with the wonky “F” that only occasionally connected with the paper, and the space bar you had to hammer down to make it work. Whiting out spelling mistakes and then eventually just scoring them through with pen as it took too long for the whiteout to dry. Because this story needed to be told fast.
Out the windows translucent wraiths and spectres began to writhe frantically. Pulsing lights whirled behind them. A nightmare in motion.
He looked at the strange man sitting opposite him, anger beginning to bubble to the surface. “How did you get this?”
“Does it matter?” the man sighed. “This was my genesis. You brought me into existence. That kind of power can’t be extinguished so easily. You need to find that magic again.”
“You people are crazy,” Connor spluttered staring around. “What the hell is going on?!”
“My time is up. Your last visitor is here.”
He signalled to the bar and Connor looked up to see a familiar figure waiting on him.
The mannerisms and stance of people we love are unmistakable to us. There is a familiar comfort to the way they are at rest that is instantly recognisable.
That was why Connor instantly knew it was his big brother standing at the bar.
It had always just been the two of them.
A car accident had claimed the lives of their parents when they were much younger, and the boys had struggled into adulthood together. Brought so much closer by their shared grief and fortitude.
Then, five years ago, Patrick had died. And everything Connor had been was lost.
Nothing mattered anymore. How could he tell stories of magic and monsters when all he wanted to do was scream at the heavens until his throat was raw?
Patrick turned and Connor saw he looked just as he had on the day they had last seen each other. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. His broad face and clear eyes free from care and worry. Happy to see his little brother.
“Come on Connor,” he said with a smile. “These beers won’t drink themselves.”
Walking over on shaking legs, Connor swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to speak, but Patrick shook his head.
“I know, man. I know,” he said hoarsely. “But I haven’t got much time.”
He held up his pint and the two of them tapped glasses together.
“Sláinte mhath,” they both muttered and grinned. The years falling away.
“I brought you something.”
Patrick reached into his back pocket and gently placed the small Bjorn figure on the bar.
Connor looked at the figure and then back to his brother. In all their many house moves over the decades it had been long lost. And now, here he was again, just like Patrick.
“You’re the storyteller, Connor. You’ve always carried these worlds within you. They’re part of who you are. Don’t let your grief for me destroy them.”
Patrick nodded and Connor turned to look across the room.
Standing there was the barman, now clothed in furs and carrying a large metal axe. With a sudden realisation Connor remembered that Lapak was Bjorn’s thief companion from the novels. How could he have forgotten that?
The warrior thudded his axe against his scar crossed chest in salute, ready for battle.
Approaching the brothers, with his leather trench coat slung over his shoulders, the pale stranger touched the folder that Connor still held, with a hand that was covered in hexes and wards.
“What’s outside these walls, and that ghoul at reception, won’t be held back for much longer,” Nick Romero said. “The dark is gathering. I need your help.”
He walked over and clapped Bjorn on the shoulder. The two of them waiting patiently for their worlds to turn once more.
Finally, with tears in his eyes, Connor spoke to his brother.
“I can’t. Not without you.”
“I’m here,” Patrick said softly, tapping his brothers heart. “Where I’ve always been. Your worlds, your stories, they all come from there. We’ve got so many journeys still to take. That road never ends. Come on, we can still walk it together.”
He smiled, punched Connor lightly in the arm and drained the last of his beer, savouring every drop. Then, pulling his brother into a warm embrace he whispered, “It’s time for you to get back to work.”
Connor closed his eyes and held him close. Never letting go.
The next day, a watery winter sun rose over Grangemouth library.
Connor Lambert walked down the pavement, kicking the piles of autumn leaves as he went. They floated in the air, carried on the chill wind that blew down Bo’ness Road, before settling back to earth, waiting for the next dreamer to come along.
He could already see a large crowd gathered outside the old wooden doors that led into the main foyer and then onwards to the fiction section where endless worlds were waiting to be found.
Grasping the small figure of Bjorn tightly in his left hand, with the blue cardboard folder tucked under his right arm, he smiled with excitement.
The long familiar road opened ahead of him.
He had so many stories to tell.
Not all roads lead us home. We have to choose the right one. Even if that way is full of peril. Within each of us is the infinite possibility to create magic and wonder. Sometimes it just takes our better selves to show us the way. The only way.
Oh man, I really liked this one, Daniel. So well told, so well done. - Jim
A lot of heart in here - great job.