The Dark Staircase: And Other Tales

Copyright © 2016 by Jayson Walker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9146-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9147-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 01/28/2016

CONTENTS

Introduction

The Dark Staircase

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Remains

Fluffy the Devourer

Chapter 1 The New Arrival

Chapter 2 The Event

Chapter 3 Guest of Honor

Deacon Hall

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

The Fire Assay

Chapter 1 End of the Line

Chapter 2 Greyhound

Chapter 3 Back to the Present—Crucible Assay and Smelting

The Hyperlith

Prelude Hascall’s Postulate

Prologue

Chapter 1 President Vikodan O’Sanchez

Chapter 2 Sherri, Episode 1

Chapter 3 Sherri, Episode 2

Chapter 4 Sentience, Episode 1

Chapter 5 Sentience, Episode 2

Chapter 6 The Great Oversight, Episode 1

Chapter 7 The Great Oversight, Episode 2

Chapter 8 Finale (Infected)

Epilogue

Three Bird Song

Morning Has Broken—and so Have I

One Year Later Radio Talk Show, Rural North Carolina

My Next Book

Beer Camp

The Legend of Three Notch Crossing

Chapter 1 Belated Welcome

Chapter 2 Truth Be Told?

Chapter 3 Independent Research

Conclusion

Special Bonus Preview Section

Prologue In the Beginning

Chapter 1

The Chaos Dweller

Chapter 1 Escape Artist

Chapter 2 Wake Up

The New Ambulance

Chapter 1

First and foremost, my sincere thanks go out to my faithful readers. You know who you are. You’re the ones who enjoyed my first book and who have returned to (hopefully) enjoy this, my second effort. You make my world a brighter place!

From my tiny and insular world, a world that will never touch theirs more than peripherally, I give my thanks to the giants—Stephen King, Michael Crichton, Arthur C. Clarke, and Isaac Asimov—whose brilliant works first inspired me to write.

Thank you also to those friends whose worlds continue to touch mine every day: Chris, Teri, Frank, Steve, Romaine, Nancy, and the crew at my day job. This book is as much yours as it is mine.

And finally, my gratitude goes out to Pastor Bruce Wietzke, who never gave up on me.

Jayson Walker

Parable, or allegory? Where does fiction writing fall on this abstract psychical plane? It truly is, I believe, a continuum—and a gradient as well. Parable seems to be, at base, a derivative form of allegory, a literary vehicle that can deliver either an allegorical message or one completely devoid of spiritual content. Most often, though, the distinctions between these two abstractions seem so smeared and obscure as to defy differentiation; hence they appear to be two heads of the same psychologic hydra.

Roderick Wallace, 2012

There is a place where we are always alone with our own mortality, where we must simply have something greater than ourselves to hold onto—God or history or politics or literature or a belief in the healing power of love, or even righteous anger … A reason to believe, a way to take the world by the throat and insist that there is more to this life than we have ever imagined.

Dorothy Allison

Introduction

W elcome, my friends, to my second book, The Dark Staircase . I warn you—this is gonna hurt. The plots, and the words, come out of a very strange, dark place, a horrible place truly not of my own making, and they do not paint a pretty picture. I cannot apologize for that, and yet I must warn you. Less than serious readers—those of you with delicate sensibilities—please, just put this one back on the rack. Do it now. Run away!

But those of you who enjoyed my first work, Beyond the Kaleidoscope, will realize that a number of consistent threads run through the warp and woof of my first and second books. One tenacious thread actually extends even further, into my third effort, Fornever Comes (a work in progress). It is a story titled The First Book of Yoder, and you can find an excerpt from it in the special preview at the end of this book.

As in Kaleidoscope, readers will find that the same pace, imaginative fugues, and intriguing departures from the gray reality of normal waking consciousness also thrum restlessly through this book. I hope you will also find that these new works reflect a degree of maturation in my writing style and a greater variety of themes and characters than were present in Kaleidoscope.

This book is a collection of seven short stories and one novella. There is much more here to ponder this time around (including my first collaborative effort, The Fire Assay).

Never fear, my friends! My second effort still resonates with mind-twisting questions of faith, death, and subjective reality—and, of course, with a generous smattering of believable science fiction—but I have made a concerted effort to broaden my base in this second book. The characters, I hope, will seem more real, more mortal—deeper, perhaps—and, maybe, more poignant and personal than those in my first book. The story lines herein are more diverse than in Kaleidoscope, and they represent a conscious effort on the author’s part to extend his mental tentacles into creating compelling action, suspense, and drama.

The novella Deacon Hall, for example, melds a powerful sci-fi undertow with a shoot-’em-up detective theme in a story line replete with an arch villainess, wrenching questions about faith and the paranormal, and pronounced romantic overtones. On the other hand, The Dark Staircase showcases a lonely old man still struggling to accept the loss of his wife. This story takes an unexpected turn as the protagonist is forced to confront his ebbing faith and the lure of redemption.

Two of the short stories in particular, The Legend of Three Notch Crossing and Hyperlith, posit a unique perspective on the ubiquitous questions of fate, death, and vengeance. Strong spiritual undertones, liberally interspersed with white-knuckle drama, undulate restlessly just beneath the surface of both stories.

Be forewarned: this book is dense with challenging and disturbing fugues, with departures from everyday reality. It may even force you to think! Many people today are looking for a free ride, an easy read to segue them placidly into slumberland. This book is definitely not that. It is far more likely to keep you awake.

The book is right there in your hands, my friends. It’s yours now. Get comfortable, crack its spine, pop open a beer, and find out for yourselves. I truly hope that you’ll enjoy the ride as much as I enjoyed writing it for you!

Have fun,

Jayson Walker

2012

The Dark Staircase

Chapter 1

T he damn lightbulb is burned out again, Joe thought as he closed the door and began his weary trudge down the stairs. The familiar pall of eau de tenement, a heady mixture of boiled cabbage, stale cigarette smoke, and camphor, hung in the air—the signature bouquet of decaying apartment buildings everywhere: the smell of old people, of despair, and of lingering death. Though his lower back had already begun to throb miserably, old Joe Claxton comforted himself with a single thought: The trip back up will only be worse.

Joe was out of groceries again. Keegan’s Corner Market was just up the street, but in the hot sun, the walk seemed more like a death march than a short jaunt to the corner. Joe was pleased to see that the gangsta gauntlet wasn’t waiting to shake him down today. He usually waited for rainy or otherwise inclement weather to forage for food because the gangstas didn’t seem to like the rain or the snow. On those days the old man could usually count on returning home with his foodstuffs and his wallet intact. Today, however, the cupboard was bare, and so was the refrigerator. Desperate times called for desperate measures …

The so-called gangstas were spoiled rich kids from the larger villages of Astoria and Claytonville. They were gangsta wannabes of all shapes and colors—crack monkeys only in the sense that most of them displayed as much hind cleavage as possible while still maintaining the ability to bend their knees when walking. They made random forays to Joe’s little town of Keegan’s Corner to shake down the helpless street-dwellers for pocket change. They didn’t need Joe Claxton’s money, or anyone else’s; they already had everything they needed and more. They did it for fun. Joe carried a pistol that he’d have hated to use on some stupid young kid, and so they continued to steal his pennies, time and time again.

Joe paid young Woody Keegan for the groceries with a fistful of coins and crumpled singles. Better count it out, Woody. It should all be there, but ol’ Joe’s eyesight ain’t what it used to be.

The boy replied, Sure, Mr. Claxton, no problem. Woody counted the lucre and handed Joe a neat stack of bills and a handful of change. There’s too much money here, Mr. Claxton. You have, let’s see—eleven dollars and forty-seven cents coming back. Uh, Mr. Claxton? Are you all right, sir? You don’t look too chipper this morning.

The old man paused from stuffing the supplies into his backpack and looked up wanly, an ironic little smile playing across his wizened face. Been better, son, but I been a whole lot worse too. Thanks for askin’.

Ah—sure, Mr. Claxton. I just thought, well, if you needed help carrying your groceries back home …

You’re a good boy, Woody. Nah, thanks, son. I’m all right—I’ll be a whole lot better when I get some breakfast in me. See ya next time. With that, Joe shouldered his backpack and shuffled out the door. Behind the counter, an odd shadow of apprehension crossed Woody’s face as the little bell on the top of the casement jingled.

Chapter 2

T he next day was Thursday, and it was raining cats and dogs. Joe had called the building super yesterday when he got back home from Keegan’s market, but the damn bulb was still out.

Joe gazed forlornly through his sole window, watching the torrents pound the building next door and cascade down the trash-strewn alley below. One part of him longed for Barbara, his wife of nineteen years, to comfort him, but his other part was almost glad she was not with him in this squalid apartment. What kind of life would this be for a woman like Babs?

He’d met her at a high school sock hop back in ’68. He didn’t usually go to the dances, preferring to tinker with his ’55 Chevy in his off-hours, but his buddy’s new band was playing, and he was there to listen. The music wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either. Joe had just returned from a smoke/beer break with Charlie and Frank when he saw her. "Hey, guys! Who is that? Over there with Dennis? Against the wall!"

Charlie replied first. Ah, man—stay away from that chick! She ain’t nothin’ but bad news …

Frank smacked Charlie in the shoulder, hard. Yeah? Just ’cause you didn’t make it to square one with her? Hey, Joey—that’s Barb Martin. Her dad’s in the Air Force, and she’s new in town. Just got here from Florida a couple of weeks ago, from what I hear. She doesn’t have a boyfriend yet. You should go and talk to her, man!

Joe did. They fell in love. They wed on graduation night, June 3, 1970. Joe went to work at Hanson’s die and fab shop out on Corunna Road. They tried for a family, but the babies never came. The doctors said Babs had a female problem—not life-threatening, but it was something they needed to keep an eye on …

And so it went. Joe destroyed two lumbar vertebrae while trying to stop a metal stamping from crushing his friends (the three friends escaped without injury). The company put Joe on partial disability and gave him a desk job. Barb developed ovarian cancer, but the radical hysterectomy got it all—or so they thought.

In the face of adversity, Barb softened as Joe hardened. She got a two-year degree in secretarial and office services, and within three years she was the recording secretary at Joe’s own company. Meanwhile, Joe was placed on disciplinary leave after breaking a line foreman’s jaw in a scuffle on the shop floor.

Barb still loved to dance. Joe preferred to sulk. Following her 1985 diagnosis of cancer, Barb decided to live the remainder of her still young life to the fullest. The couple exhausted its meager pensions and savings to make Barb happy. Mostly, Joe had never regretted that decision—except now and then, mostly on days like today. Today, nearing the end of his years and peering through a filthy tenement window, Joe Claxton wept hot tears of despair. Reaching into his nightstand, he grasped his Bible and read until the moon rose in the sky.

Sleep did not come easily that night. As the late-summer storm howled and blustered between the dingy buildings, Joe struggled to find a comfortable position on his ruined mattress. At 1:00 a.m. he finally surrendered, dragging his pillow and blanket into the living area and collapsing on the floor. An hour later, he finally dozed off to a kinetoscopic panorama of fitful dreams.

Joe Claxton hadn’t had a night of restful sleep since his wife’s futile struggle with cancer began. During that, the darkest time of his life, Joe had been forced to confront and call into question every aspect of his lifelong faith in a loving and merciful God. As Barb battled her fatal disease, Joe struggled with the truly fundamental tenets of his faith. He reluctantly plumbed the Big Concepts: death, life and its seeming futility, the hereafter, and the true nature of a loving and omnipotent creator who would consign trillions of His creatures to eons of misery and death—and then condemn them to an eternal hell.

Just because they didn’t understand—because they didn’t get it!

During those tenebrous bouts of despair, Joe Claxton took up his Bible often. Sometimes the passages soothed him, but most often they left him smarting with even more burning questions. It was as if the Holy Book in some sense inflamed his curiosity, exacerbated it—like a soul-deep itch that grew ever more insistent with the scratching.

Dig at me some more, little man, a panting voice had seemed to slobber in his mind’s ear. Go on, dig out those answers, Bible Boy! They’re all right there, but they’re down deeper! Joe wept, realizing that if he persisted, he’d tear his soul to shreds with his own intellectual fingernails long before he ever reached those depths. One night Joe placed his little Bible carefully into a lockbox with his other important documents, latched the lid, and tried to forget about it. Mostly he’d succeeded, until his constant companion, Mr. James Beam, set his hooks into Joe. There it had rested, until just lately.

Joe began to nod off, and the dreams commenced immediately, like a cobra that had been coiled in his mind, waiting, eager to strike. Come on down … this is the Wheel of Misfortune. You can win!

Thunder rumbled ominously outside, rattling the panes of his single window as Joe thrashed and moaned in his sleep. The dream show host—Rat Sadak, a bloated figure doubtless still searching for the Waters of Oblivion—exhorted him to come on down! He’d won the grand round! Suddenly the stage lights dimmed, and the entire studio began to take on the appearance of a nineteenth-century operating theater. Hideous visages, glowing yellow-green under the limelights, grinned ghoulishly up at him from the audience as he traversed the stage. Zanna, show Joe what he’s won tonight! Zanna Black deftly whipped a blood-spotted sheet off the first of three indistinct mounds at center stage.

The crowd went wild! There it was—a sparkling-new 1985 Cadillac … HEARSE! Ripping aside the second sheet, Zanna cried enthusiastically, "But that’s not all, Joe! You’ve also won an all-expense-paid funeral package at Mordus and Sons …" And there was Barbara, lying half-dissected on a hospital gurney.

Joe bolted upright in his sweat-soaked pajamas, a piercing scream slowly dying in his throat. God, he’d had some bad dreams before, really bad, but this one had been the worst …

For the first time in decades, Joe wanted a cigarette. No, he needed it, desperately. The old man was shaking so violently that it took him nearly ten minutes to lace up his shoes and slip on his tattered trench coat and fedora. It had almost quit raining, and as he swung the door of his building open, he could see the pinkish neon sign flashing above the entrance to Keegan’s Corner Market, just a few hundred paces away. He just hoped the rain had kept the young hoodlums from the surrounding bergs at bay this evening.

Joe had quit smoking the day of Barb’s initial cancer diagnosis, hoping to encourage her to relinquish the Winstons as well. His wife never did, though. She’d stubbornly refused to kick the deadly habit until, one rainy afternoon, she expired in his arms, still gagging on her final puff.

A day much like today, Joe thought morosely.

Chapter 3

T he Indians down on the Anishinaabe Creek Reservation made some astounding hooch. No, not Indians—Native Americans, Joe reminded himself. That’s what they call themselves; after all, that’s what they are. They were here for eons before we took their land and ruined their lives. Their moonshine—white lightning, whatever you want to call it—burned with a nearly invisible blue flame. They had plenty of experience, after all; they’d cooked their own ’shine ever since the late 1800s, after the white man had destroyed their civilization with liquor, rifles, and smallpox-infested blankets. These days, they inhabited their own sovereign lands and pretty much kept to themselves.

Except for, that is, every Thursday, when Johnny Laughing Crow delivered a few gallons of his tribe’s finest to the back door of Keegan’s Corner Market. Joe thought that today was likely Friday, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe, for the first time in twenty years, he’d pick up a quart or two of ’shine at Keegan’s too. He