shore, many unidentified. Soon
news outlets were reporting at least fifty, possibly a hundred,
souls fell with the rubble into the ocean. The dead that were
identified had few connections to the outside world. Even the
owners of the estate were still an unknown. Chuck and his research
assistant Warren couldn’t locate tax records, building permits, or
any record of recruitment. The House of Cabal was an informational
black hole.
After the quake, the red brick road that led
along the cliffs to the estate was barricaded and access was denied
to the media. Even boating was forbidden, mainly because three
divers died from a cave-in while exploring the still unstable
underwater ruins.
The lack of concrete information, despite the
difficulties it caused, indicated a story worth pursuing. Even
Chuck’s contacts in the FBI refused to discuss the House of Cabal,
as if the place still held state secrets. For all Chuck knew, it
did. It was beyond intriguing and more than a little maddening.
Everett Grimes was one of the few survivors,
and his exact role was still a mystery. His interview was supposed
to solve everything.
II
On September 1st, 2015, Chuck sat up at the
table in the decrepit dining room and saw himself in the mirror,
squinting, and disoriented. There in the middle of the table was
his tape recorder. The ocean rumbled faintly to his left. He heard
staccato bird chirps—a nest was built under a nearby eve. Outside
the window, the fluttering leaves of a poplar came into focus.
Next to the tape recorder on the table were
three cassette tapes. Each tape had a printed title written in his
own handwriting: “A Dark Stormy Night,” “Something Different,”
“Lovely Portland,” and in the recorder, “Street of Rain.”
I’m in Everett Grimes’s house , he
thought to himself, piecing together his memory. An
interview…with Everett Grimes, and we were talking about the past,
and then…
Grimes came back into the dining room and set
two glasses of water beside the empty glasses that were already on
the table. His worn face didn’t look like the Everett Chuck knew
from his memory. The real Everett was impossibly handsome. He lived
in Portland, Oregon, and was an ex-puzzle designer, an accountant,
a vegetarian who ate soy ice cream when depressed. This other,
older man across the table was so dismal it pained Chuck to even
look at him.
“It’s as if you’re a different person.”
Grimes’s vibrant red hair had faded, his
pronounced brow was wrinkled and worn, his cheeks swollen, his eyes
dull instead of sparkling.
“So you remember.” The dying man’s throaty
voice was a harsh whisper. He slid one of the full glasses across
the table as if it were a bribe. “Take it.”
As Chuck reached for the drink, his hand
trembled. He made a fist and squeezed. “What happened to me?”
“You were hypnotized.” Grimes cleared his
throat and took down more water. “Me as well.”
“Hypnotism? What do you mean?” A distinct
feeling of insanity accompanied his memories; he wanted a more
rational explanation than a party trick.
“As detailed as possible, I told you
everything as I saw it in my regression, and since you were
hypnotized too, you assimilated whatever I said into your own
memory. In your suggestive state, you made it real.”
Chuck remembered the woman in red’s light
citrus perfume, Everett’s bare feet ripping against pavement,
Everett’s fear; otherwise, he wouldn’t have believed Grimes’s
explanation.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever... In my head,
it’s as if I was there.”
“You were placed inside the memory. We can
never go back. It would be like a copy of a copy. The next
retelling would be unreliable. If you need to, you can go back
through your tapes. It should keep your memory undistorted.”
Chuck filed the tapes back into the carrying
case. He changed them and wrote the titles as he lived in Everett’s
memory. It was something incredibly strange to remember. He
news outlets were reporting at least fifty, possibly a hundred,
souls fell with the rubble into the ocean. The dead that were
identified had few connections to the outside world. Even the
owners of the estate were still an unknown. Chuck and his research
assistant Warren couldn’t locate tax records, building permits, or
any record of recruitment. The House of Cabal was an informational
black hole.
After the quake, the red brick road that led
along the cliffs to the estate was barricaded and access was denied
to the media. Even boating was forbidden, mainly because three
divers died from a cave-in while exploring the still unstable
underwater ruins.
The lack of concrete information, despite the
difficulties it caused, indicated a story worth pursuing. Even
Chuck’s contacts in the FBI refused to discuss the House of Cabal,
as if the place still held state secrets. For all Chuck knew, it
did. It was beyond intriguing and more than a little maddening.
Everett Grimes was one of the few survivors,
and his exact role was still a mystery. His interview was supposed
to solve everything.
II
On September 1st, 2015, Chuck sat up at the
table in the decrepit dining room and saw himself in the mirror,
squinting, and disoriented. There in the middle of the table was
his tape recorder. The ocean rumbled faintly to his left. He heard
staccato bird chirps—a nest was built under a nearby eve. Outside
the window, the fluttering leaves of a poplar came into focus.
Next to the tape recorder on the table were
three cassette tapes. Each tape had a printed title written in his
own handwriting: “A Dark Stormy Night,” “Something Different,”
“Lovely Portland,” and in the recorder, “Street of Rain.”
I’m in Everett Grimes’s house , he
thought to himself, piecing together his memory. An
interview…with Everett Grimes, and we were talking about the past,
and then…
Grimes came back into the dining room and set
two glasses of water beside the empty glasses that were already on
the table. His worn face didn’t look like the Everett Chuck knew
from his memory. The real Everett was impossibly handsome. He lived
in Portland, Oregon, and was an ex-puzzle designer, an accountant,
a vegetarian who ate soy ice cream when depressed. This other,
older man across the table was so dismal it pained Chuck to even
look at him.
“It’s as if you’re a different person.”
Grimes’s vibrant red hair had faded, his
pronounced brow was wrinkled and worn, his cheeks swollen, his eyes
dull instead of sparkling.
“So you remember.” The dying man’s throaty
voice was a harsh whisper. He slid one of the full glasses across
the table as if it were a bribe. “Take it.”
As Chuck reached for the drink, his hand
trembled. He made a fist and squeezed. “What happened to me?”
“You were hypnotized.” Grimes cleared his
throat and took down more water. “Me as well.”
“Hypnotism? What do you mean?” A distinct
feeling of insanity accompanied his memories; he wanted a more
rational explanation than a party trick.
“As detailed as possible, I told you
everything as I saw it in my regression, and since you were
hypnotized too, you assimilated whatever I said into your own
memory. In your suggestive state, you made it real.”
Chuck remembered the woman in red’s light
citrus perfume, Everett’s bare feet ripping against pavement,
Everett’s fear; otherwise, he wouldn’t have believed Grimes’s
explanation.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever... In my head,
it’s as if I was there.”
“You were placed inside the memory. We can
never go back. It would be like a copy of a copy. The next
retelling would be unreliable. If you need to, you can go back
through your tapes. It should keep your memory undistorted.”
Chuck filed the tapes back into the carrying
case. He changed them and wrote the titles as he lived in Everett’s
memory. It was something incredibly strange to remember. He
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