Darkness Reflected

By Will J. J.

Every day, Noah Jamison carries an old picture in his pocket to remind him of the question. From the darkness, his answer watches, waiting.

Nearly two years following a devastating tragedy, Noah wanders through life in a daze, coasting at a bookstore job until he discovers a mysterious journal among donated books. Instantly absorbed by the bizarre drawings and cryptic messages within, Noah entreats his old friend Troy to track down the journal's owner.

Through the journal’s peculiar instructions, Noah stumbles through a doorway into the Oneiros, an ever-shifting wasteland created and remade by the collective thoughts of every human mind. Within this fantastical world, anything imagined can be created, but the Oneiros itself attacks any invaders, using their deepest fears against them. As Noah fights desperately against the embodiments of his own dark past, his only chance at escape is to confront his inner demons, including the tragedy that tore apart his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will J. J.
• Release date: Mar 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310112966

Will J. J.

Will J. J. was born in Fort Worth, Texas, where he grew up entranced by nature, science fiction, and the power of perception. The child of a broken home, he began writing mystery, suspense, and science fiction at the age of 15, crafting short stories with unique twists on reality yet grounded by real-world emotion. After high school, he studied philosophy at the University of Texas at Austin, where he graduated early with honors. In his senior year, he wrote the novel Darkness Reflected, a science fiction/suspense tale about a troubled man who stumbles into an impossible reality and is forced to confront his own inner demons. Will works at a web-based marketing firm in Austin, shares his thoughts and stories on his blog, and is currently working on a new novel.

Book preview

Darkness Reflected

Will J. J.

Copyright William James Johnson © 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Smashwords Edition

Email: [e-mail]

willjj.wordpress.com

facebook.com/willjj17

twitter.com/standingfrog

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Epilogue

For Bryan, who gave me strength when I needed it most. May you always ride the jet skis in Cabo.

1

In a busy city, the streets are lined with people crammed shoulder to shoulder on the way to their many destinations. Each body plods forward sluggishly, contained like a head of cattle in a massive herd. On every side, skyscrapers claw at the heavens, a constant reminder of feebleness to all who peer upward. Scavenging crows soar above, the urban warriors of the animal kingdom.

Millions make their way, marching in the everlasting current. Some journey with company and some venture alone. Many rush to important engagements, automatons in their respective occupations, while others wander aimlessly. Even surrounded by thousands of people, one can feel alone. In fact, the group setting reinforces sentiments of solitude.

A corporate executive strides through the crowd, blaring loudly into his cell phone to chastise an employee for a minor mistake. A petite, Hispanic woman hurriedly squeezes between others, using size to her advantage as she penetrates the dense sea of bodies.

In the ocean, shipwreck survivors bob up and down on broken plywood as the flaming wreckage descends behind them. They float at the mercy of the waters carrying them, accompanied only by their thoughts. Among these city streets, a tattered man allows the waves of bodies to carry him along, letting go.

Hopelessness is not a disease; it is a condition, a condition whose permanence is entirely conditional. Every anguish stems from its own origin, some easier to confront than others. Noah Jamison drifts down the street lethargically, afflicted by a misery that has engulfed his person. He lets his feet carry him, trying not to remember but failing miserably.

He struggles to forget the failures of his life. Failure to live up to his father’s expectations. His failed career as an attorney.

What are you doing? one of the partners at the firm had asked him one day, overseeing his work.

I’m preparing my statements. Sifting through mounds of multi-colored index cards and sticky notes heaped on his desk, Noah hadn’t noticed the dismay on Mr. Thompson’s face until that very moment. Looking up at last, it was all too apparent.

THESE are your statements?

Yes sir, he had responded, intentionally undercutting his superior’s condescending tone. Balancing a desire to advance up the promotional ladder with an affinity for seeing and doing things in abstract, misunderstood ways, his place at the Morgan & Mason law firm had always been a shaky one. Despite his impeccable record, his methods had seemed disorganized and even suspicious to the partners from the start. Little breaks from the norm like never getting water from the cooler in order to save time for research made him even less popular among others. Rumors began to circulate.

At the same time though, other qualities made Noah the most valuable lawyer in the entire firm. Willing to work at any hour and take on even the most menial tasks, his dedication was second to none. Most of all, he possessed an uncanny ability to recall even the most obscure facts in any case. No matter the situation, if anything said or written contradicted even a single sentence from hundreds of pages of records, he caught it. This singular gift of recollection had propelled him to a level among the sharks. However, being among the sharks does not necessarily make one a shark.

Noah had not lost a single case in his four years as an associate and was especially talented at the grunt work of processing and analyzing documents due to his peculiar talents. This would have made him the first in line for a partnership had he been more popular around the office.

On a Tuesday in October, Noah received a message from one of the partners, Scott Milton, asking for his assistance on a high-level corporate fraud case. Scott tasked Noah with sifting through the extensive documents including dialogue transcripts, financial statements, and IRS reports. Scott allotted him only a week to complete it all, an impossible deadline. Noah had not been oblivious. He had heard the whispered words of disdain around the firm, and he knew exactly what was about to happen.

He recognized that the firm didn’t need him for this case. If they did, Scott would have either given Noah a great deal more time or assigned a full team to assist him if a week was truly all the time available. If Noah did not accept the assignment, Scott would have manufactured a history of his insubordination, culminating in this refusal, and used it as justification for ending Noah’s employment with the firm. Even if Noah had taken the assignment and somehow managed to finish it within the week, Scott or one of the other partners would have undoubtedly assigned him some even more insurmountable task, scheming for him to fail.

Noah stood there in the office of Scott Milton and smiled. He stood and extended his hand over the desk. Goodbye Scott, he stated effortlessly and without the slightest trace of scorn. Scott rose from his chair in confusion and shook Noah’s hand cautiously, unsure whether to feign ignorance for he had not anticipated Noah detecting the ruse. He simply stood silently, wondering how Noah had emerged the more confident of the two in that exchange.

Noah cleaned out his space mechanically before the day’s end. Exiting through the double glass doors of the Morgan & Mason law firm for the last time, he held his gaze on the street beyond, refusing to allow his air of fortitude to be broken by the crushing sense of failure within. Over a year past that day now, Noah recalls it all on his downtown stroll, a dash of bitterness evident in his smile.

Collar unbuttoned and tie in hand, he floats downstream amongst the sea of bodies, peering upward. A cloudless sky. Not even a single jet to break the endless plane of blue. Nothing to divert his attention from wounds far deeper than the bites of those sharks.

Noah slowly edges to the rightmost side of the crowd, disregarding the shoulders and elbows thrust into him. After a few years in the city, any notions of a personal bubble are forgotten, replaced only with the unfailing need to reach one’s destination. Making his way down the steps to the underground subway, his fellow city folk are no bother to him. They are merely present, no more, no less.

Boarding the train, he grabs onto a pole for support as the wheels lurch forward. He casts cursory glances at the other passengers. Every seat is filled, many with two or more. After all, half a seat is better than no seat. Several of the poles are manned by territorial types, grimacing severely and eyeing the entire car suspiciously. A few children stand by the door. Though their brightly colored backpacks contrast sharply with the faded interior of the subway car, their faces reflect the same indifference as the adults surrounding them. Only when exiting at the MacArthur Station do they open up to excited discussion amongst themselves.

In a quick glimpse, Noah recognizes a few regulars. An old veteran with a bum leg in a seat at the front, no doubt on his way to a favorite diner as usual. A young woman with straight brown hair and square glasses sits cross-legged by the window, reading a novel. Have I become a regular? Noah wonders, looking down at the floor.

Jamison!? someone yells out.

The call snaps Noah out of his thought and he whips around in surprise. Standing right behind is his old friend Troy Smith.

Hey! What are you doing here? Noah replies eagerly. Noah immediately wishes his friend had not spotted him, despite the fond greeting. Dressed in a fitted, pinstriped suit with his hair slicked back, Troy looks composed, while Noah’s four day old beard, sleepless, baggy eyes, and messy attire age him a dozen years. Seeming not to notice, Troy embraces him.

Just thought I’d try a different way to work today. Didn’t expect to see you here though! How are you Noah? Geez, it feels like it’s been a lifetime.

You have no idea. Yeah, it has been a while, Noah responds reminiscently.

Troy and Noah had met in their first year of law school. Both were on the fast track and viewed as high-potential prospects, but neither had the cutthroat attitude necessary to step on their peers in order to reach the top. They became fast friends and had relied on each other heavily until their graduation. Soon afterward, Noah left for the first of several distinguished positions at various firms ending with Morgan & Mason, while Troy had disappeared into the vast government bureaucracy. Slowly, they had lost touch over the intervening years.

Where are you headed? Do you have time for a quick bite? Troy questions, a friendly grin across his face.

Uptown. I’m in a rush just now, but maybe tomorrow? Noah tries to meet his friend’s gaze without allowing the shame or sadness to show in his eyes. He is in no such rush, but is already embarrassed at his friend seeing him in such a lowly state. Tomorrow he could at least shave and put on a decent shirt. Troy reads the lie in Noah’s eyes but refrains from calling him out.

Sounds perfect. I should have dinner free. Are you still wi— Troy’s sentence is cut short by the subway’s abrupt halt at the Main Street Station. Hurriedly, Troy reaches into his jacket pocket and whips out a business card.

Troy pats Noah on the shoulder and shoves the card into his hand, exclaiming, I’ve got to go. Call me tonight! Cramming past other passengers, he catches the door just as it closes, pries it open, and jumps out of the car. As the subway barrels out of the station, Noah leans against the window and spots Troy heading up the stairs before disappearing into the crowd.

Looking down at the card in his hands, it reads

Troy A. Smith

Attorney

United States Department of the Treasury

506-376-0281

I wonder how much he’s changed. That was nice seeing him though. Odd, but nice. For much of the past six months, Noah’s life had been dominated by scheduled habits, contributing to an overwhelming feeling of sameness. In fact, each day had been so precisely similar that he could pinpoint exactly where he had been at every moment in the morning leading up to Troy’s unexpected visit.

6:49 A.M. Waking up one minute before the alarm was set to go off.

7:17 A.M. Sitting at the table eating a bowl of cheerios, a banana, and drinking a glass of orange juice.

7:52 A.M. Passing the Chow Mein Super Buffet at the corner of Michigan and Calhoun.

8:03 A.M. Squishing into the packed subway car as it leaves the station.

Of those six months, the first two had been like a constant daydream. He passed through his days on autopilot, gliding through his routine as if in a trance. Trudging across town in the morning. Mechanically eating lunch at a quaint café. Wandering through an underdeveloped section of the city, oblivious to the eyes peeking from behind graffiti covered walls. All attempts by friends or family to contact him failed during this period. Emotionally fractured, it was his only way of coping with the situation. Gradually, his sense of self returned over the last four months, but his passion for life had faded.

As the subway approaches Tomara Station, a number of passengers ready their bags and head for the door. Noah lazily drags himself to the back of the pack. The young woman with glasses joins the crowd next to him, still reading. Exiting the train, Noah turns to her and warns, watch your step.

Thanks, she responds curtly, hopping out of the car without ever taking her eyes off the page. Noah walks in the opposite direction, recalling his observations from the train ride. Cracked right window. A faded khaki messenger bag. The novel 1984. Eerie, flickering light toward the back. He files every detail into the back of his mind.

Ambling out of the station, he is greeted by oppressive heat at street level. Gone are the skyscrapers and in their place lie the rundown tenements of the city’s south side. The buildings reflect a sense of wear and struggle through their pastel, lifeless colors. Cracked mortar, and glaring water damage highlight every wall.

Drifting along the sidewalk, Noah keeps his head high and his gaze forward to avoid the looks of would-be muggers. Most pay him no attention from behind their fenced off sections of the projects. Noah learned this lesson many years ago. Keeping a stone face and exuding a tough impression is the best way to avoid trouble in this area. Someone who looks afraid is weak, and someone who appears weak gets hurt.

At the corner, he turns right onto Henderson Street, though only someone familiar with the area would recognize it. All the street signs have been either stolen or altered beyond recognition. In contrast to the bustling roads of downtown, these streets show little activity other than a handful of children playing in a rusty, makeshift junkyard. Only at night do the streets come alive here.

Near the end of Henderson Street, the scenery changes somewhat. The slum buildings end and a few businesses bravely open their doors everyday. The common services everyone needs. A Laundromat and bakery sit side by side within an otherwise empty strip mall. The owners of both businesses set aside a small percentage of each day’s earnings on the off chance that a local gang will rob them, by no means a rare occurrence.

A smaller building rests just beyond the southern tip of the strip center. Built like a large shack, its exterior is simple stucco attached to a wooden frame. The roof bears signs of patchwork and is constantly in need of mending. Each window has solid, steel burglar bars jutting outward, more a symbolic gesture than realistic defense. Entering the store, Noah glares up at the hand painted, block letter sign that reads BOOKS. Immediately he picks up the smells of antiquated pages and a faint, floral incense.

Devins, are you here?

I’m in the back Noah. I need your help with something. Navigating between ultra-narrow rows of books stacked from floor to ceiling, Noah cautiously shuffles toward the office at the back of the store. With its cramped aisles, the store is far from wheelchair accessible and would most certainly be deemed a fire hazard, not that anyone in the area inspects for that sort of thing.

A bookstore might not seem like the clear choice for a business in the projects, but this particular store managed to stay afloat by adapting to its surroundings. A number of years ago, Andrew Devins purchased the ailing bookstore from its original owner just as it was about to close. Devins immediately instituted bold changes in the business strategy, establishing the store as a supplier of repair manuals. With little or no income, those living in this area relied heavily on their abilities to repair their own vehicles and homes, and Devins Books steadily developed a reputation as a reliable source.

In addition, Devins devoted an entire wall to daily tabloids. This move saved the business in hard times, because even when people were on the verge of starving, they still wanted to know what sort of trouble celebrities were getting themselves into. While the store’s main business stemmed from those two outlets, Devins also amassed a sizable and eclectic collection of fine literature ranging from classics to groundbreaking new fiction, but those titles went largely untouched.

What do you need Devins?

There should be a shipment coming in today. Used books mostly. You’ll have to sift through them to find anything worth keeping. Oh, and some new novels to add to fiction and horror.

Why do you still order novels? It’s not as if people are rushing in to buy them left and right.

Because it gives me peace to know that they are there. If someone does come in looking for something other than the usual, I want them to be able to find that too. Just like you did.

Noah initially stumbled upon Devins Books during one of his many aimless walks across town many months ago. He had decided to brave the projects and ended up far beyond the range of his usual loop. His first thought after spotting the store was: This is the strangest location for a book store.

In a certain sense, the location had done its job perfectly, attracting him in simply due to its oddity in relation to the surroundings. Noah was also Mr. Devins’ ideal customer, someone not looking for another manual on transmission assembly. Despite the misleading exterior, Noah immediately recognized the store as a gem, a place away from everything he knew that could afford him great tranquility. Devins Books was priceless to him. With wall-to-wall books, the fragrance of history, and no built-in coffee shop or apathetic teenage workers, Noah found himself returning on a weekly basis for nearly three months. He would stroll in, browse the shelves blissfully, pick something that caught his interest, and spend most of his day discussing the book with Devins himself before buying it late in the afternoon.

One day Noah stepped into the store with a question in mind unrelated to any book.

Mr. Devins, do you need some help around here?

What do you mean?

Andrew Devins was over 50 years old, though in excellent shape, and he had been running the store by himself since he purchased it. Though the store was not yet too much for him to maintain, Devins had been considering the possibility of hiring someone to help for a number of years. As far as Noah was aware, Devins had never married and had no children. There always seemed to be a great deal Devins held just beneath the surface emotionally, but Noah never pressed the issue, and the status quo was maintained. Noah had figured Devins would jump at the opportunity to hire a second pair of hands, especially since business had picked up recently.

I would love to work here. Even just for minimum wage, Noah had added. Devins thought for a minute before responding with a wry grin and extended hand.

9 to 5. Minimum wage.

Almost a month into the job now, Noah relishes his position and each little project Devins assigns him. The pay may be low, but money had never been Noah’s target, and he had already saved plenty from his years as an attorney. A meager lifestyle requires only a meager income, he reasoned. The fact that this simple job distracts him from his emotional turmoil for a few hours each day more than makes up for any financial shortcomings.

Okay, I’ll take care of the shipment, Noah responds firmly.

Thanks.

Leaving the office, Noah shuts the door behind him, but not before noticing an incense stick burning in the corner. I swear, he’s going to burn the place down one day.

Noah goes about his day like any other, organizing the shelves, dusting the areas most dingy, checking the previous day’s sales for any errors. A few young men covered in grease and wearing white tank tops enter the store, searching for a plumbing guide. One member of the group seems interested in a brightly covered, mystery novel and Noah convinces him to buy it for a reduced price. The man subdues a smile in the company of his crew as they exit the store, and Noah wonders if he had ever bought a book before.

Around 2 P.M. the book shipment comes in. Noah