Passion Of My Imagination
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The first thing I did when the door was closed behind me, after taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, was to pull my cell phone from its pouch on the belt of my jeans. The screen lit up in front of me as soon as I flipped open the cover; no surprise there—I’d just turned off a battery-sucking alarm clock that had been set for five o’clock this morning (my time).
A glance at the display told me that I could expect an email message within fifteen minutes or so. That would give me plenty of time to get cleaned up before going down to breakfast with everyone else.
My eyes flicked over the email quickly enough, but not fast enough to miss what it said: “This is your wake-up call.” It wasn’t signed, which meant only one person knew about it; he probably hadn’t even bothered to send it through his own account. But who? And why now? He couldn’t be trying to tell me something important by sending such a cryptic message…could he?
It didn’t take long for my mind’s eye to conjure up images of all kinds of possibilities. None of them were pleasant ones. All I needed was some reason to think that someone wanted me dead, and then everything would fall into place.
If they really thought I might be able to help them find their missing friend, maybe they wouldn’t kill me right away. Maybe they’d want to interrogate me for information first. Or torture me. They might even try to make me talk by threatening to hurt somebody close to me.
But none of those things made sense, either. Why would anyone care if I got myself killed? What could I possibly have done to deserve being targeted like that? There must be another explanation for this whole mess. Something else had happened last night, and whoever sent me that message was simply trying to let me know about it.
And yet…there was still one other possibility. Could I actually be getting paranoid again? Was it possible that I was starting to see threats where none existed? After all, it had been more than two years since I was almost murdered back home in New York City, and nobody here seemed capable of doing anything similar.
So maybe I should relax a little bit. Maybe I shouldn’t jump to conclusions about every little thing.
Maybe I’m reading too much into this.
“Hey,” called a voice from somewhere inside the room. “Are you awake?”
I looked around, wondering whose voice it belonged to. Then I saw him standing next to my bed, holding onto the frame with both hands. His hair was wet with sweat, and his face was completely drained of color. He wore nothing except a pair of white boxer shorts, and his bare feet stuck out past the end of the mattress.
He stared at me for several seconds without speaking, then gave me a weak smile. “Good morning,” he finally managed.
His words sounded strange coming from his mouth; they came out sounding like they’d been spoken underwater. As I watched, he raised himself up onto his elbows and started to sit up. For a moment, though, he froze in midair, and his expression went slack.
He fell forward instead, landing on top of me and knocking me flat on my stomach.
For a second or two, we lay there motionless together, staring silently at each other. I waited until he moved, waiting to see whether he would roll off me. When he didn’t do anything, I rolled over onto my side and reached out toward him. He recoiled slightly and pulled his hand back.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.
I shrugged helplessly. “Sorry I woke you up…”
“No problem,” he replied. “You’re not usually this noisy.”
When he spoke, his voice sounded normal again. At least, as far as I could tell, it did. Still, I felt a slight chill run through me, despite the warm summer air conditioning blowing across my skin. I glanced over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, but it was still dark outside. How long had I slept? Had I missed breakfast already?
“How long have you been awake?” I mumbled.
“Not long,” he answered. “Just a few minutes.”
I sat up straight in bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. My head swam suddenly, and I leaned against the pillows for support. “Why don’t you go downstairs while I get dressed?” I suggested. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
As soon as he left the room, I pushed myself upright and grabbed my cell phone again. This time, I dialed the number that had appeared on my screen earlier. The call connected immediately, and I heard the familiar sound of an answering machine picking up.
“Hi, this is Jason. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the tone, and I’ll return your call ASAP….”
The recording ended, leaving me hanging on the line. I tried calling back, but no matter how many times I pressed the button, the same message kept playing. It wasn’t just annoying—it was also very suspicious. I knew that Jason couldn’t possibly have recorded that message before I woke up this morning. And so what was going on? Who was behind this?
After a couple of tries, I decided that it was probably better to wait until later to try again. I figured that when I did, I might learn something new about who was responsible for sending me that warning message. But I had a feeling that whatever it was, I wouldn’t like the answer.
A short time later, I stumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. By the time I finished showering and drying off, it was nearly eight o’clock. That meant I hadn’t gotten any sleep at all, which explained why I felt so groggy. I threw on some clothes and hurried downstairs to find Jason sitting at the table, drinking a cup of black coffee. He noticed me approaching and nodded politely.
“Morning,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I overslept.”
Jason gestured at the mug in front of him. “Want some?”
I shook my head. “Thanks anyway. I think I need to eat first.”
We ate breakfast quickly enough, and by nine-thirty, we were walking along the beach. The sun was shining brightly overhead, and a light breeze blew gently across our faces as we strolled slowly southward. A few people walked past us, heading north toward town, but most stayed well away from us, keeping their distance even though they must’ve known we weren’t dangerous.
After a while, I realized that nobody seemed to pay much attention to either one of us. We passed dozens of people during the next hour or so, and only once did anyone give us more than a passing glance.
“They seem pretty friendly here,” I remarked.
“Yeah,” Jason agreed. “Almost everybody around here seems nice, except for those guys with the guns.”
I looked over and saw that he was pointing toward the water. In the distance, I spotted a pair of men standing near the shoreline, watching us pass. They wore khaki shorts and polo shirts and carried assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
Even though they stood several hundred yards away, I recognized them instantly. One of the men was tall and muscular, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. The other man was shorter and stockier, with close-cropped hair and a beard. Both of them stared at us intently, never taking their eyes off us for more than a moment.
“That’s the sheriff and his deputy,” Jason told me. “Remember what I said about the local police being too busy chasing drug runners to worry about anything else?”
“But why would they be following us?” I wondered aloud. “And why didn’t they say hello?”
He shrugged. “Maybe because there aren’t any locals around,” he suggested. “Or maybe because they know we’re not really tourists.”
“So where exactly do you live?” I asked. “If these two guys are the cops, then shouldn’t they recognize you?”
“Well…” Jason began hesitantly. “Actually… I kind of moved into the house recently.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “You lived here all along, and nobody ever mentioned it?”
“No, actually,” he admitted. “Nobody has. Not yet, anyway.”
***
For the rest of the day, we explored the area, stopping whenever we encountered interesting sights or sounds. There were plenty of both, and we spent hours wandering through the woods, climbing rocks, wading in the surf, and simply enjoying each other’s company.
Eventually, however, we returned home, exhausted and ready to relax. Our conversation turned to the strange events of last night, and although neither one of us could explain everything that had happened, we concluded that it was best to assume that somebody wanted us dead.
If so, then whoever sent us that warning message was likely still lurking somewhere nearby.
In the end, we decided that it made sense to stick together for a little longer. At least until we learned more about who was trying to kill us.
The next morning, after another leisurely breakfast, we resumed our search for clues. This time, we went back to the house and searched every room thoroughly. It took a long time, but eventually, we found a box containing several dozen photographs, and a small stack of newspaper clippings.
On top of the pile of papers was an envelope marked ‘Private’, addressed to someone named David Parker.
“This is definitely your father’s handwriting,” Jason observed. “Looks like he wrote this letter sometime before he died.”
I flipped open the envelope and read the note inside. The paper was old and yellowed, but the words were clear enough:
Dear Davey,
Sorry things have been so rough lately. Things should improve soon, though. You’ll see. For now, just keep doing what you’re supposed to, and don’t worry about anything else. I’m sure everything will work out fine. Love always, Daddy.
PS – Don’t forget to take care of the cat. She misses you.
“Whoa!” Jason cried. “Look at this! Look how many times he mentions the damn cat.”
I picked up one of the pictures on the table. It showed a young woman sitting in a rocking chair, holding a baby boy. The photo was obviously taken years ago, judging by the way she was dressed. Her face was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.
“Is that Mom?” I asked Jason. “Isn’t that your mother? And isn’t the baby you?”
Jason nodded. “Yep,” he replied. “It’s my mom. That’s me when I was a kid.”
“Wow…” I mused. “She looks so happy.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I guess she was. My dad must’ve loved her a lot.”
We studied the picture for a few moments, wondering if there might be some clue hidden within its borders. Then, suddenly, something caught my eye. A tiny speck of light reflected from behind the woman’s head, catching my attention as it slid across the photograph.
As I watched, the reflection grew larger, until it finally resolved itself into a single word.
“Liar,” I whispered.
“What did you say?” Jason demanded.
“There’s a message written in the dust,” I explained. “On the back of the photo.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because I know how to look for messages in the dirt,” I answered. “Do you want to hear what it says?”
“Sure.” He frowned skeptically, waiting patiently while I carefully brushed away the layer of grime coating the backside of the photo. When I’d finished, I held the picture between thumb and forefinger, staring down at the words inscribed beneath the image.
Davey,
Don’t trust him.
– Daddy
“Oh no…” I breathed. “Daddy knows about us… doesn’t he?”
“Let’s hope not,” Jason said grimly. “Otherwise, we may never get out of here alive.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t he want us to leave?”
He shook his head sadly. “My parents weren’t very nice people,” he confessed. “They used to beat me all the time, and sometimes even locked me in my room without food or water. They hated animals too, especially cats.
Whenever I tried to sneak one of them outside, they would come home early and find out. After that, it didn’t matter whether I told the truth or lied; either way, they punished me for being such a bad boy. Sooner or later, I stopped telling the truth altogether.”
“That sounds terrible,” I sympathized. “And yet, somehow, your father still loves you.”
“Yes, he does,” Jason confirmed. “Even though he hates me. But why would he lie to me? Why would he send a message warning me against trusting you?”
“Maybe because he thinks you’re going to betray me,” I suggested. “If he knew I had a secret plan to escape, maybe he figured I could use it to trick you into helping me.”
“But he trusts you anyway,” Jason objected. “So what makes you think you can trust him?”
“You heard what he wrote in the dust,” I reminded him. “He wants me to stay away from you. Maybe he has good reason to distrust you.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t like you,” Jason countered. “After all, you killed his cat.”
“Well…” I shrugged helplessly. “I suppose that’s possible too.”
“Either way, I don’t see any point in worrying about it right now,” Jason concluded. “The sooner we figure out how to get out of here, the better off we’ll be.”
“Agreed,” I agreed. “In fact, let’s start thinking about our next move. What are the chances that someone will stumble upon the house eventually? How long do you think it might take?”
“Not very likely,” Jason admitted. “As far as I know, nobody lives anywhere near this part of town. Besides, there aren’t many houses around here, and most of those belong to elderly folks who probably won’t notice anything unusual unless it happens right under their noses.”
“Okay then,” I decided. “What else is there to do besides sit here and wait for help to arrive?”
Jason considered the question seriously before replying. “Actually,” he began slowly, “there’s another possibility. If we really wanted to make sure no one found us, there’s an easy solution. We could dig ourselves a hole and bury ourselves inside.”
“Digging holes isn’t exactly my idea of fun,” I pointed out. “Besides, if we were buried underground, no one would ever find us. Not even the police.”
“Exactly!” Jason exclaimed excitedly. “No one would ever suspect us! No one but us would have any reason to come looking for us. And since we couldn’t call anyone on the phone, the only way they’d discover where we went was by following the trail of breadcrumbs leading straight to our graves.”
“Bread crumbs?” I repeated doubtfully. “Where do you get these crazy ideas, anyway?”
“Just watch,” Jason promised. “It’s simple enough: once you’ve dug yourself a big enough hole, you fill it up with dirt. Then you put some grass over top of everything and plant a few seeds so that it looks natural. That should hide the evidence pretty well, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, okay,” I replied uncertainly. “So what happens when the ground starts growing again?”
“Then you cut the grass every day until it stops,” Jason assured me. “Eventually, it’ll grow tall enough to conceal you completely.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I conceded after giving the plan a moment’s thought. “Though I’m not entirely convinced that we’ll actually manage to keep cutting the grass. It seems awfully hard to predict how fast the plants will grow.
Plus, there’s always the chance that something will go wrong with the whole process. For example, what if the weather turns cold and freezes everything solid? Or worse yet, what if we run out of seed?”
“Don’t worry,” Jason reassured me. “We can deal with both problems easily enough. The first thing we need to do is buy a bunch of hand tools at the hardware store. Once we have them, we can start digging immediately.”
“All right,” I agreed reluctantly. “Let’s give it a try.”
The End