Liminal, p.1
Liminal, page 1
ALSO BY SHAWN WINCHELL
Eliza
Welcome to Paradise
Krampus' Tree Farm
Birdseye
Visit www.shawnwinchell.com to learn more.
LIMINAL
SHAWN WINCHELL
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and events portrayed are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Shawn Winchell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
ISBN (hardcover): 979-8-9881396-5-2
ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9881396-6-9
Burnt Wick Press
37842 Schulze Rd
Concrete, WA 98237
www.burntwickpress.com
www.shawnwinchell.com
It used to be beautiful here.
At least, I think so. That’s how I remember it anyway. Maybe it never was. But it was safe.
In my book, that’s just as good. Better even.
Now, it’s neither.
Part I
Chapter 1
Now
“This is a safe space, Eli.”
The shrink’s voice follows me into the hallway before I slam the door shut. Can you believe that? I tell him I walked in on Michelle riding that guy from her office. And he asks me to describe it to him.
Fucking perv.
It isn’t until I’m crossing the lobby downstairs that it hits me. He wanted me to describe how I felt not what I saw. I hate that the thought sounds like her voice, and that I think she’s probably right. It doesn’t matter. That bridge is burned. No turning back now.
There’s no going forward either, though. The door doesn’t budge when I push it. I move my hands back and try again. It still doesn’t open.
As I keep trying to push the door, I feel the anger that caused me to storm out of my therapist’s office bubbling up again. I push harder with each attempt until I’m essentially punching the door with the heel of my palms.
“It’s a pull, dumbass,” someone mutters as they come up beside me and open the other side of the door without breaking stride.
Today just keeps getting better, I think to myself with a sigh as I flip the hood of my sweatshirt onto my head and step out into the sun. It doesn’t do much to shield my eyes from the mid-afternoon glare but it’s all I’ve got. I don’t even own a pair of sunglasses. Michelle always told me I can’t pull them off. She’s right—I look ridiculous wearing them—but on days like this, I really wish I had ignored her. Especially since it’s starting to look more and more like our marriage is over.
I try to pull the hood far enough forward to cover my eyes. If I keep my head down and shoulders slumped while I walk, it’s not terrible. And it’s not really much different from how I normally walk. Now that I’ve got that settled, I check the time on my phone. My appointment was supposed to last thirty-five more minutes, so the bus won’t be here for at least another forty.
Each step away from the six-story office building reduces my anger. It’s replaced almost immediately by an overwhelming grief. Not all of it is about Michelle cheating on me. That’s a part of it, sure, but the worst part is the idea of starting over. I don’t know if I have it in me to do it. Hell, I probably would’ve never even started dating Michelle in the first place if our parents hadn’t stuck us together in the den when we were kids while they had their wine-and-game nights. I guess a three-dollar rental from Blockbuster was cheaper than a babysitter. After years of being locked in a room with each other, we decided to go on an actual date. Well, she decided. I just said yes. My mom isn’t going to lock me in a room with anyone new, so I’ll probably end up alone for the rest of my life.
As I’m about to sit down on the bench and pretend that I have something to actually pay attention to on social media for the next half an hour, I feel pressure start to build behind my eyes. Divorce is sad, who knew? Refusing to be the awkward crying guy at the bus stop, I figure it’s a nice enough day for a four-mile trudge back to my apartment.
At least I don’t have to pretend to care about a random post on my phone that would most likely be an ad. There aren’t many people on the sidewalk—it’s a Tuesday afternoon and I’m on the very edge of what could be considered downtown—so after a couple blocks, I stop fighting it.
The hot tears cut salty trails down my cheeks to the corners of my mouth. And I let them. There’s no one around to judge me for it, and even if there was, would the sideways glances and muttered criticisms of strangers make me think any less of myself than I already do? Who am I kidding? Of course they would. But there isn’t anyone close enough to see me cry. There never is.
I’m alone on the sidewalk until I reach the next corner. Trying to decide if I look too pathetic to pop into a McDonald’s on my way home so I don’t have to microwave my dinner again, I turn. The top of my head hits something solid, knocking me to my ass on the edge of the curb.
Rubbing the top of my forehead, I look up, squinting against the sun, and I see what I crashed into.
A solid oak door painted white and charred on all edges, like someone took it off its hinges before the building it was connected to had time to finish burning down, stands in the center of the sidewalk. Looking around as I struggle back to my feet, the few other people on this block don’t seem to notice the door.
With my eyes still watering—for a different reason now—I examine it. The fire damage doesn’t seem to go deeper than the surface. And I was wrong about someone unscrewing the hinges. They are attached to a thin frame surrounding the door. The gold paint on the doorknob is charred, too, but other than that it doesn’t seem to be damaged. Maybe I’ll wait for the bus after all and take this with me. My doorknob has been sticking lately. If this one still works okay, it could save me a few bucks.
I reach for the doorknob, bracing for the heat of a fire despite myself. The knob turns easily and the door swings through the frame away from me. But I don’t see the street on the other side. I don’t know what I see, but it’s beautiful. I can’t look away, and I can’t stop my feet from walking through the open door.
Chapter 2
Then
“Have you decided where you want to go for your birthday party? It’s an important one this year. The big one-oh!”
“I’m not having a party,” I say. Mom doesn’t get it. She keeps asking me about a birthday party that I don’t want. It’s not that I don’t like the idea of doing something fun, I just know that nobody from school would come. Except maybe Alan and the other two goons, but they’d only show up to make fun of me. Or worse.
“Your mother is trying to do something nice for you. Pick a place. It’s not that hard.” That’s Brad. Stepdad Brad. No matter how much Mom wants me to think of him as regular dad.
Shoveling one last spoonful of Frosted Flakes into my mouth, I slide my chair away from the table. I have plenty of time before the school bus gets here, but I’d rather wait outside than listen to another of Brad’s pseudo-dad lectures.
“Hey, you little shit! I’m talking to you. Get back here.” Glancing back as I swing my backpack strap onto my shoulder, I see Brad working his red-brown leather belt out of the loops on his pants. Mom reaches over and places her hand on his elbow. He stops, but keeps yelling. “Come back here when I’m talking to you. Don’t you—”
The door closing behind me saves me from hearing any more of Brad’s empty threat. Mom has never let him lay a hand, or belt, on me. It’s all for show. At least, so far it is. But even if a day is coming when she can’t stop him, it won’t be on a school day. No, school day beatings are reserved for recess. For Alan, Bryce, and Geoffrey with a “G.”
I caught a break this year. The three wrecking balls of the fourth grade at Iverson Elementary in West Emerald, Washington aren’t in the same class as me. That gives me a chance to make it through an entire day without pinging their radar. Both fourth grade classes have lunch and recess at the same time so it’s a small chance, but that’s still better than any other year.
All I have to do is dump my tray and get out to the playground before they see me. They aren’t small kids—wrecking ball describes their shape as much as it does their behavior—so they are usually focused enough on their food that I can slip out unnoticed. The only problem is that there aren’t many spots outside to hide. There are a few trees that run along the far edge of the school’s property. Most of the time I can’t make it all the way to them before the goons come out. But it’s almost my birthday. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
It doesn’t seem that far, but my mad sprint to the far end of the playground always wears me out. Especially on days like today when the sun beats down on me the whole way.
Out of breath and dripping sweat, I fall to my knees behind the trunk of the second tree—never the first, always the second—and peek back toward the cafeteria doors. Hair gel mixes with my sweat and I have to squint against the sting in my eyes. I can’t make out anything except for blurred dots of different colors. But none of the blurry spots of color are moving across the field toward the trees. I think I’m safe.
I tuck my face into my collar, wiping my forehead and stinging eyes with the inside of my shirt. Checking again with clear vision, I don’t spot them anywhere outside, so I p ull out the book I had tucked into my waistband before lunch. It’s not much of a recess, but I probably wouldn’t have anyone to play with even if I tried.
Usually, I scan the field every few minutes just in case they’ve figured out where I’m hiding. Not today, though. I’m right at the good part of the story and I’m completely sucked into it. Before I know it, the bell rings. Recess is over.
“Oh man,” I say to myself as I fold down the top corner of the page I’m on and close the book. I shove it back into the waist of my pants and push myself to my feet before I notice six legs standing next to the tree trunk. I freeze, nearly falling back to the ground.
“Come on now, don’t stop on account of us,” Alan says.
“Yeah,” says Geoffrey. “We want to know what happens next.”
“I think we know,” Alan says, flashing teeth that are too big for his already large mouth. “Don’t we?”
“Oh yeah,” say both Geoffrey and Bryce, each pounding a fist into their own palm.
I shuffle my feet backward until my back presses up against the trunk of another tree. With nowhere else to run, I cross my arms in front of my eyes, accepting my fate.
Nothing happens.
No fists strike my stomach.
No ratty old sneakers kick my shins.
No fat-boy chuckles reach my ears.
I count to twenty and still nothing happens so I slowly lower my arms and open my eyes.
I don’t see Alan, or Geoffrey, or Bryce, anywhere.
But I do see a white door standing right in front of me.
Chapter 3
Now
This place is like nothing I’ve ever seen. The whole world looks like that once-a-day glow when the sunset comes through the window at exactly the right angle to light up all the dust motes floating in the room, turning everything the same color as the sky above a mid-August forest fire.
I’m standing in a meadow, unkempt grass brushing the middle of my calves, the blades swaying with the lukewarm breeze that smells like high humidity and cotton candy. Trees surround the meadow on all sides, but they don’t look like any trees I’ve ever seen before—sort of like a weeping willow with the trunk of an aspen. Beyond the trees, who knows?
A thin layer of perspiration starts to trickle down my face as I turn around, taking in the extraordinary sights. I’ve got to be hallucinating. A few seconds ago, I was on the sidewalk downtown, surrounded by light traffic and skyscrapers. And a weird burnt door. Now, the roads and pavement have been replaced by grass and flowers, the buildings by trees, and the door is nowhere to be found even though I couldn’t have moved more than a couple feet since walking through it.
Another gentle gust of wind brings that sticky-sweet smell into my nostrils. I forget about the door, along with everything on the other side of it. I take a deep breath, inhaling the beautiful world around me. Hallucination or not, this place is wonderful. So calm, so still, so perfect. A smile flirts with the corners of my mouth as I begin walking toward the trees.
There’s a trailhead between a couple of the trees. I pause when I reach it, looking back over the open meadow. What is this place? I think to myself, letting out a half-laugh of disbelief and rubbing my hand over a tree trunk.
And then a phrase pops into my head.
Soggy Karen.
I know that thought means nothing. It’s nonsense. But it also feels like it’s almost something important.
Before I can try to figure out what that might be, Michelle’s voice speaks up again. Soggy Karen? What, did she fall into the pool? You’re a moron.
Not here, not in this place. Real or not, I won’t let her ruin it for me. I try to shake her voice, and that strange phrase, out of my head. When I turn back toward the trail, it’s like the canopy of intertwined branches and leaves has untangled itself, just for me. The orange-yellow glow that was blocked out only a moment ago now sets the path alight.
Michelle is still calling me an idiot inside my head as I leave the meadow, and the world as I know it, behind.
With each step, the trail behind me falls into darkness again and more of the path forward lights up. If I’m not imagining this whole place, someone wants me to keep going. I have no idea what I’m walking toward, or into, but I can’t stop myself. It’s like something is pulling me farther into the trees. Or muscle memory.
I’ve been here before, haven’t I?
I have no sense of direction in this thick forest. No sense of time, either. My brain wants it to be cold, but if I had to guess I’d say it’s probably somewhere around seventy-five degrees. Maybe even eighty. My eyes sting with sweat. For the first time, the thick, sweet-smelling air feels heavy.
The quiet that surrounded me in the meadow has been replaced with the steady buzz of insects, though I still haven’t seen any. The picture-perfect color of this world now seems more creepy than beautiful. And the Michelle in my head is laughing at me. So, at least something is the same.
Ahead of me, the trail forks. And both paths seem to be glowing.
My feet start to carry me toward the path on the right and I am struck with that sense of déjà vu again.
A sound from the right stops me in my tracks. I think I must be imagining things but—
Come to me
—it’s a voice.
The Michelle voice in my head stops laughing. Whoever said that sounds like they are right behind me.
“Come to me,” the voice says again, only slightly louder than a whisper.
Whipping my head around, I see only the other path.
“Come to me.”
That’s it, I don’t care if I hate her, Michelle is right. I’m an idiot. And I’ve got to get out of here.
The tree branches above my head shift, wrapping themselves around each other and blotting out the light that had been illuminating the trail for me.
Without it, I can’t see anything at all. In the darkness, I hear the branches continue to rustle, even though I can’t feel the wind. The buzzing sounds in the trees rise to a crescendo and then stop.
And that disembodied whisper calls out again. “Come to me. Come to . . .”
My eyes open to shadows of tree branches dancing along my ceiling, backlit by the streetlamp outside my window. I’m on my bed, blanket and sheet kicked to the foot, pillow on the floor near the door on the other side of my bedroom.
Only a dream, I tell myself. But I know it’s a lie. The last whiff of cotton candy air still lingers in my nose.
Chapter 4
Then
I don’t hesitate at all to go through that strange door to nowhere. No matter what is on the other side, it has to be better than staying here and waiting for Alan, Bryce, and Geoffrey to decide which part of me they want to reshape like Play-Doh today.
I walk through it backward, making sure that they aren’t going to follow me, and slam the door closed as soon as my body is clear of the frame. As soon as the door catches, the entire thing—frame and all—disappears.
I take a few seconds to let my racing heart coast back to normal and then notice where I am. I’m standing in a grassy field in a place that looks like a picture-book sunset.
“This can’t be real,” I say aloud, blinking hard and rubbing my eyes. The scenery remains the same.
“But it is,” says a voice I don’t recognize. It’s quiet, like someone right behind me is whispering.
I spin around, raising my arms to my face to block a punch, sure that one of the goons must have somehow found this place before I did, but no one is there.
Then that whisper becomes a laugh behind me.
I whip around, swinging my arms this time. “This isn’t funny, guys.” No response. “Alan? Geoffrey? Bryce? Whichever one of you is doing this, you better stop.”
