Chapter Text
II
Somewhere forgotten on CA-49, January 1986
Rain. It hadn't stopped raining since he decided it would be a good idea to walk back through the thick forests of the Sierra.
The rain might not have been a problem if it hadn't been winter. The layers of woolen clothing he was wearing were completely wet, frozen, and heavy, making it difficult for him to walk along the dark stretches of the desolate highway.
Finn thought he would get hypothermia if he kept walking in the rain, but in such a lonely place... not even the trees could serve as shelter.
“This is what I get for talking too much,” he muttered shakily. Winters in Denver were horrible, but California's sleety winters had proven to be the worst.
His lips were already a pale purple when he found a call box illuminated by a dim street lamp. Encouraged and still shivering, he began desperately dialing the number he thought he had forgotten long ago.
First ring.
Second ring.
Third ring.
Nothing.
Second attempt.
First ring.
Second ring.
Third ring.
Nothing.
Third attempt.
First ring...
“Who is it? You must be really annoying because you've been bothering me for a while.” He never thought his father's voice would make Finn so happy.
With trembling, dry lips, the young man spoke. “Dad?”
“Finney, what the hell?” The surprise was evident. “Are you okay?” he asked more cautiously. “Did something happen?”
The college student wanted to cry, but he refrained because if the rain didn't stop, he was sure the cold would freeze his tears. “Dad... I need your help.” He knew that lying was not an option in a situation like this. “I... well, I was at a party with some classmates, and I had too much to drink. I know. I know I was an idiot and I relapsed, but the gathering ended in an argument and...” It hurt to say what came next. “They left me alone somewhere in the Mother Lode.”
“Finney,” his father interrupted, sounding dejected and somewhat disappointed. “Do you see anything in the distance? Any gas stations?”
“No.”
“Any signs?”
“No. Just... trees and trees somewhere in the mountains.”
“John, walk north until you find the first sign and check for whatever is closest.”
He didn't want to lie to his father, but he had been walking for half an hour and there was no sign in sight. Impossible due to the weather and on the verge of freezing, he decided to be honest once again. “It's raining here and... I've been walking for half an hour in what I think is the north.”
“John Finney Blake, you must walk until you find shelter,” he growled, "walk, damn it, or you'll freeze. You need to stay warm. It will take me a while to get there. Do you have any money?
I spent it on benzos—about... ten dollars? Ugh, forget it, seven.
"Walk to a damn gas station and ask for clear directions, understand? If you need to buy something, buy it, but let them let you stay there while you wait, or if you see a truck heading to Sacramento, take it.
“Odysseus didn't travel as far to get to the island of Ithaca as I did to get to a stupid gas station,” he thought, not knowing why he had started to feel angry, perhaps because the endless instructions his father was giving him had the undesirable effect of causing him undue frustration.
He reluctantly agreed and hung up as he set off on his journey back north. Guided by an instinct submerged in narcotics and a hunch on the side of the highway, accepting a ride was not in his plans, after placing his trust in a pedophile kidnapper.
As he walked, a black van pulled up beside him, and a man inside invited him in with a genuinely maniacal smile.
Before they kicked him out of the car for being a bad passenger and for... destroying the radio in a fit of rage, he briefly recalled the comments of one of his colleagues who talked about how this highway was used by serial killers.
With that little bit of knowledge, he, with experience in his veins and in his body, simply replied, in a calm and somewhat disturbed voice. "You know, I survived the madman of Galesburg, I think a scarf is the same as a telephone cord when it comes to necks.
The truck drove away, and that brought Finn a certain calm in the face of the fire within him.
Rummaging through his inside pockets, he pulled out the small envelope before popping a pill into his mouth. The experience was nothing more than the dry sensation of a pill stuck in his throat, but shortly afterward, the effect made him forget the sensation and focus on two things: not losing his way and staying warm.
At some point, the plaid scarf he wore around his neck caught his interest. The squares looked like scraps of fabric from other scarves that had been joined together into one, reminding him of a philosophical problem he had seen at university a few weeks ago, something about Theseus and his ship of changing parts.
The scarf had once belonged to Robin. It was oatmeal-colored, but over time, scratches, tangles, and many trips through the washing machine caused it to lose its color, and little by little, Gwen had to cover the holes with different yarn.
At this rate, she wondered if the scarf would still belong to Robin because technically it would be hers, but it had once belonged to Robin, and to forget its previous owner would be to forget the memory of Robin's life. He may have lived a short life, but he lived it like...
No, Robin still had a lot to live for, while he... wasted his life on drugs and excess.
If they ever saw each other again, he hoped he could switch places with him.
…
..
.
.
..
…
Elsewhere...
Cold
This place was cold.
Here, it didn't burn like meat on hot coals; it burned like snow on skin.
Finney didn't recognize the place. Everything was gloomy, dark, and covered in snow. It looked like a town, like his neighborhood, but it felt different, like a prick in the back of his neck warning him of the danger in his surroundings. He woke up in the middle of the street, not knowing what he had done to get there other than an unpleasant taste of garbage on his lips.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” he asked, confused.
But he received no answer.
Without realizing it, he began to walk in search of an answer, but just trying to remember anything from before that moment brought him a sharp pain in his temple.
It seemed as if his own mind was blocking his memories in search of the truth, because the more he tried to investigate, the more mental blocks he encountered, causing the pain to spread until he collapsed from exhaustion.
When he realized that remembering was not a good option, he kept walking in search of someone or something that would help him solve the mystery. There was no sign of life beyond a perpetual silence that his cries seemed to fight for control of the place. He shouted for someone, for help, for a solution, for a memory, but his cries fell on deaf ears.
The street phones were off the hook, some booths were destroyed, even the home phones were destroyed or ripped out, leaving Finney cut off from possible 'spiritual help.' “I think I've inherited the same curse from my mother,” he once confessed to his sister. "While you see a ‘mystical gift,’ I just... feel... like it's a curse hanging around my neck."
Finney still remembers the look on his sister's face when he said those words, the initial shock turning to compassion. “It wasn't your fault, Finn...”
“I never said it was,” he replied.
Right now, as he walked, he realized that... probably 50% of the blame for why he was there was his own.
The other half was in that rotten gaze that watched him from the darkness and, even though it didn't want to reveal itself, felt no fear for him.
He walked and walked, not knowing if his steps would take him anywhere.
He was desperate, he needed an answer, a truth, something... because he didn't want to admit it, but beneath layers and layers of plastic security lay vulnerability, the kind that was about to make his heart burst with nerves and cause his fingers to tremble.
All his conjectures led to the same conclusion.
“Shit! I'm dead!” he shouted without restraint.
Because if his hypothesis was true, that place could be nothing less than hell. Finney was not a believer. He attended Mass and religious sermons at a very early age because of his mother, but after her death, the only one who continued her legacy was his sister. He took after his father, an agnostic thinker, and remained so until his kidnapping, because that was when he stopped seeing God as a helping entity and began to see him as someone who had abandoned him.
“You only say that because of the trauma you survived,” said Gwen, “because if it weren't for that... I don't know where you'd be right now.”
Armando used to say that God's call didn't come with a trumpet or a divine light, but as a breath to the heart, a warm one in the winter. Finney completely rejected that idea. For four years, he had suffered a stormy coldness in his heart that seemed never-ending until...
The mere thought made him gag.
He couldn't leave Gwen, or his father, who had decided to give up his addiction.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
He wasn't a coward.
“I'm not a coward,” he repeated to the air, “I never will be, I couldn't be capable of...”
That thought gave him enough courage, the necessary push to move forward into the unknown. His steps were calm, but hurried to get out of this mental hell, as he decided to call it, a renewed faith that soon slowed down when a silhouette in the middle of his path stood in his way. At first, curiosity made him distort the figure into something unknown, a normal, ordinary person, but as Finney got closer, he realized the horns it wore and the wide, fake smile that covered its face.
Fear paralyzed him for a moment, but he needed to go back the way he had come. Without thinking twice, he turned around and went back, only to realize that a few meters away, the figure was standing in front of him. He thought about going into one of the houses, sneaking around until he found another way, but when he looked to his sides, he noticed the large white tree trunk that adorned the facade of that home.
7741
No.
No.
No!
“I didn't expect to see you in these parts, my dear friend,” said the grabber with a simplicity that terrified the young man. Why was he waiting for him?
“Where am I? What the hell is this place?”
“Don't you recognize it?” The falseness of his intrigue exasperated him. “Bah, what does it matter what this place is? The exciting thing is to know who is here and, better yet, why.”
Without letting him answer, the Grabber from Galesburg continued, “I expected a less flashy destination, Finney, but you...” He laughed. “I always knew that beneath layers and layers of seriousness and meekness was someone perfect for flashy shows. In another life, you must have been a magician, right?”
Little by little, it drew closer, stalking him like a predator seeking revenge on its escaped prey. Finnay believed that fighting back was the best option. He had already done it once, he could do it a second and third time, even a fifteenth time. If that was his way back, he would take it.
"I wonder how much fun we'll have in this place?
“Why am I here?” The question had the desired effect. The ghost stopped rambling so that he would pay enough attention. "You said it wasn't the ‘what’ that mattered, but the ‘why’.
“Because you died, my dear friend.” The words left him frozen. It was impossible. It was even more impossible for Finney to remember what had happened that day to end up in that gloomy place.
“Oh, stop trying to break down invisible walls, my friend,” he said with a harmonious resignation that contrasted with the figure he had been in life. “It was an accident if you want to see it that way, or suicide if you're realistic.”
“I didn't kill myself!” he exploded.
“Not at all,” he began, mocking his misfortune with malicious empathy. “You just got to take an eternal bath. I used to take one of those too when I wanted to get rid of the abuse from my friends.”
Unable to believe him, the young man looked around for help. If he was dead, he figured, there would be more dead people. Why such a large space for two simple souls?
And with that thought, a slight reflection in one of the windows gave him the answer to his question: he was not alone, and it was not a closed world.
He cautiously took a step back, knowing that it was moving behind him. He took a second step, then a third and a fourth, until with the fifth step he could no longer see the grabber in front of him but felt it behind him.
With that closeness that should have paralyzed him, Finney was propelled forward, running nonstop until he crossed one of the courtyards and entered the neighboring courtyards until he found a place he could feel safe.
“You really are an idiot, Major Tom.”