All is Far, All is Near

The wind blows as the trees sway back and forth, like nature performing an elegant waltz. The house is quiet, nothing is in motion, not even the air. The living room filled with the light of a nearby table lamp and fireplace light, is as average as the home itself. The occupant of this estate, however, is far from it. The home at 1820 Sleepy Lane, is owned by a man of very unusual tastes and fancies. Crane is a man of medium stature, no different than the average man in town, but with eyes like panes of broken glass.

It's missing, and he knows it. His breath thick enough to cut and stick back together. The bathroom, ransacked and empty. The dusty attic and spider’s nest of a basement, nothing but relics and stillness. The kitchen and the garage laugh at him as he runs through each cabinet and door with as much success as an ant’s attempt to fly.

“Where is it?” he whispered, brow drenched in sweat. “Where the fuck is it?” His eyes are filled with dread, something he has not felt in a long time, let alone any emotion for that matter. He pills the room apart as if he is a rabid animal in search of food. He searches for it, not food, but the single most important thing in the world to him, a single spool of pink sewing thread.

The only evidence left.

No one will miss her, the social outcast. Someone so easily persuaded by the prospect of understanding and friendship, that she would take no precautions in meeting someone she did not know at all. It was easy for him to get her to trust him, just a few well-placed compliments and some knowledge about the things that interested her was all it took. A mistake that would cost her everything.

Her personality was the exact opposite of her zodiac sign, the Capricorn; conceited, distrusting, and responsible. But now, even with her disposed of and forgotten, it seems as though she has the upper hand and controls his very future.

The thread was hers and more than likely had her saliva on it from using her teeth to break the threads. That’s why he kept it, as a souvenir, something to remind him of her. Her smell, her face, her voice, even her taste, all brought back by the mere sight of the spool.

The room is nearly destroyed without a single solitary strand of pink thread to be found. There is one place he has not checked, but he cannot go there just yet. His safe haven, his room. A place where he feels the safest once the deadbolt on the door clicks into place. A place where he fells warm, wanted, and loved, even when no one is around. Even thinking about his special place cannot calm him right now.

“I need to calm down. I can’t think when I’m worked up,” he says, as he puts the couch back together. “The fifth, the fifth always helps me to relax.” He searches through the destruction he has caused till he finds it, a beat-up record of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. He pulls the record out of its sleeve and smells the air as the record passes through it. The scent of old vinyl mixed with the thoughts of the contents of its etchings is an intoxication aroma to him. He lays down on the couch, throwing his feet over the edge.

The sound of the fifth calms him to the point of drifting into sleep. His dreams have been fleeting and uncommon during his unconscious state. This time, his dreams are haunting, something of dread and dissonance. Images of the grave, her lifeless body, the blood in the needle, and the knife he used dance in his head like a ballet of sheer horror. Dreams of his exploits being broadcast to everyone, everyone knowing what he has done, and the things he wishes to do. The eyes piercing through him like spikes of an iron maiden, no escape from it and no hope for mercy. Memory after memory flood through Crane’s mind, images of shallow ditches, plastic bags, tape, and blood, wash over him like a wave of unrelenting misery.

He awakes, sweat dripping down his face like a river. He stares at the clock on the wall as the record player’s needle skips on the record. “12:15, I’ve been asleep three hours” he says in a calm yet calculated manner. “It’s not close to daylight yet. I still have plenty of time to find it.” He does not need to find it that bad, it is not something someone would stumble upon and instantly know of his misdeeds, but he has a ritual, an order to things. Everything must be finished and locked away by dawn, as if with the morning light all the darkest secrets would be revealed for the world to see.

He gets up, hesitantly walking toward his safe haven of a bedroom. The door is no different than any door in the house, but to him it is almost like an entrance to Narnia. The door is unlocked, and he slowly turns the handle, like a child sneaking to the bathroom in the middle of the night. As the door swings open, a light blinds his vision as everything else fades away. A familiar voice shines through the light. “Long time no see Crane.” That voice, an almost disembodied entity on the blinding light, is a voice he thought he would never hear again. Yet, here it was, some sort of ghostly apparition. Roses, the scent of her perfume, pervade the air. As his eyes adjust to the light, the room is empty, besides the usual furnishings; a bed, night table, lamp, dresser, bookcase, and curio cabinet. It may look like any other ordinary bedroom, but there is a sense of emptiness that pervades the air.

She is not there, a phantom, or a forgotten memory resurfacing. The door is shut, and the deadbolt locked into place; safety and security are back, and he feels them. He stares at his hands for a moment, knowing where they have been and where they may go. Their blue veins run through them like rivers filled with the essence of life. He examines the scars, the freckles, every crease, and every hair. Although he controls their actions, he feels them move with intent and a longing for compassion and understanding.

Helena is gone, she would never come back here, he thinks. She had loved him, but not all of him, and that would not do. As he moves towards the bookcase, he senses an uneasy stillness in the air. The fifth book on the third shelf is much different from the others. Although its title and genre are no different from the rest, its purpose and contents are as unusual as Crane. He pulls the spine from the shelf till it stops and locks into place. The echoes of locks moving, tumblers ascending and dropping, almost orgasmic to the ears. He pulls the bookcase forward and descends into a small crevice-like staircase hidden behind the rows of Irving, Poe, Twain, Stowe, and Emerson.

As he descends down the cavernous entrance, the lights from the room above fade away until the darkness from the room below begins to encompass him.