The 11th Percent E-Book

T.H. Morris

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Jonah Rowe is looking for meaning for his life. He finally gets his wish, as sudden visions and a spectral visitor warn him of danger. Overnight, Jonah transforms from an overworked accountant to the centerpiece of an otherworldly battle.

Soon, Jonah has to accept that everything he knows about life and death is completely wrong. But can he rise to the occasion and harness the power of the mysterious 11th Percent?

Leseprobe

The 11th Percent

T.H. Morris

Copyright (C) 2014 T.H. Morris

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

Edited by Nadene Seiters

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my lovely wife, Candace. If it weren't for her, this book would have remained a wild dream that I had one random night in 2011. Her tireless editing didn't hurt either! Thank you for all your support, darling, and also for never letting me give up. Thank you, also, for being my very first fan and one-woman cheerleading squad.

1 Blue

Jonah Rowe killed the ignition in his car and shook his head. To call this routine stressful would be a compliment.

He had just parked at the office complex where his job was located, but he remained as stationary as the car. He had no desire to drag himself the twenty feet it took to get to the front door. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and sighed at what he saw. The hazel eyes that stared back at him already drooped. The slightly round face with the persistent stubble already looked worn out. He slowly ran a hand through the brown hair he also saw in the mirror. He was in need of a haircut, but that was a worry for a different day.

The question in his mind at the moment was the same one that had been there since the very first day he'd parked in this very same spot several months ago: Was it possible to feel this down this early in the morning? Before he had even set foot into the office? He found it increasingly difficult to convince himself each morning that his job was worthwhile. Come to think of it, he found it hard to convince himself that his life was worthwhile.

When he completed graduate school with a Master's Degree in Accounting, his favorite instructor, Professor Rohn, gave him what he must have thought was sage advice: “Jonah, you have always said that you wanted to assist people. This diploma is your pass into a very highly chosen and polished fraternity of people who do just that. These next years will be exciting and fulfilling for you.”

God, if that hadn't turned out to be a joke.

Jonah's days usually consisted of everything but assisting people. So far, his accounting job at Essa, Langton, and Bane, Inc. included being a gopher, transporting files, printing copies, correcting and re-correcting errors in the files, and more billing reports than he cared to tolerate. Jonah's experiences in this “high-chosen” field proved to be nothing more than a waste of time. He should have read the fine print.

It doesn't matter, he thought to himself. This day can't be that bad. Just coast through the staff meeting, finish all of your work, and be happy that 5 p.m. will be here before you know it. That'll be the end of the day.

“Five p.m.,” he said aloud. “The best part of the day. Just make it to 5 p.m.”

“Excuse me?” said Jonah. “What did you just say?”

Jonah's boss, Anders Langton, smiled. “I know that it's a shock, Mr. Rowe, but you heard me. The office will be open until 6 p.m.”

“For how long?” asked Jonah's friend and co-worker Nelson Black. He scratched at his stubble, which he always did when he was irritated. He scratched his stubble a lot at this job.

“I don't think we should restrict ourselves to a timeframe, Mr. Black,” said Mr. Langton with that stupid smile still on his face. He didn't seem to realize that his announcement about extending the office hours by one was about to incite a small-scale riot.

“Business is down,” he continued. “We need to build up the business that we have coming in, and the board does not see that occurring with the normal eight-hour format. As such, we have agreed that acceptable gains can be achieved only if we all hunker down and implement a longer work day. I know that it will be an adjustment, but this is something that will benefit everyone.”

Jonah looked at Nelson and saw that the grimace on his face mirrored his own. He knew that most of his other colleagues thought the same thing they did: Mr. Langton was overselling this. Everyone knew that when he used the term “we,” that meant him almost exclusively. Langton was surrounded by yes-men (and women), and they usually went along with anything he said because if they voiced their own opinions, it would likely stunt their career growth. Jonah didn't even want to focus on Langton's point about business being down. That was a very difficult thing for him to believe when Langton's burgundy Lexus, visible through the blinds, gleamed in the morning sun and caused an unpleasant glare in the meeting room.

“These changes will rejuvenate the company,” declared Mr. Langton, oblivious to the mutinous eyes that glared lasers through him. “Do not believe for one second that this doesn't inconvenience me as well.”

Again, Jonah locked eyes with Nelson and made a wry face.

“We are all in this together,” Langton continued. “I would not ask anything of you that I wouldn't do myself. Meeting adjourned, and thank you all in advance for your cooperation!”

The staff rose from the tables and didn't dare grumble about this new foolishness. They didn't have to because their opinions were written on their faces. Jonah couldn't blame them; everyone knew that Langton would check out at 3 p.m., if he even bothered to wait that long. He was just about to reach for Nelson's shoulder when he felt a tap.

“Mr. Rowe, a quick word if you please!” It was Mr. Langton.

Jonah turned to him slowly, using as much time as he dared to make his face an impassive mask. “Sir?”

“Do sit down!” said Langton, still so jovial that Jonah wanted to vomit. He lowered himself into his chair and interlocked his fingers, prompting Jonah to make himself comfortable. If the man locked his fingers, this word was going to be anything but quick.

“I must ask you something, Jonah,” said Langton, some of the heartiness fading out of his voice. “How do you like your job?”

Jonah's brain immediately went to work attempting to conjure the most acceptable answer to Langton's inquiry. The obvious answer of, “Which part? The making copies or the hours hidden in the file room?” was on the tip of his tongue, but he settled on a much more respectable one. “There are good days and not so good ones, sir,” he said. “One has to roll with the punches and be willing to adapt. I believe that I manage myself well with every ebb and flow.”

Mr. Langton knit his brow, obviously trying to find something in Jonah's statement to criticize. He must not have succeeded because his expression cleared, and he resumed that ridiculous smile. “I must agree with you, son,” he said, “which is why I had to speak with you. I've noticed recently that you have appeared to be coasting through your work.”

“Excuse me?” said Jonah, frowning.

“You don't appear to be pleased with your responsibilities,” said Langton. “I've seen you going to your cubicle, appearing very glum and, dare I say, miserable. This brings down office morale, Jonah. I'm not the only one who thinks so.”

Jonah had no idea what to make of that. He was fully cognizant of the fact that the company was rife with Langton's informants. Snitches, if one called a spade a spade. There were several times he had seen people complain about their job only to have an impromptu staff meeting where Langton repeated, almost verbatim, what had been said. Jonah had picked up on this rather quickly and had begun to keep his opinions to himself. Since there were no verbal weapons with which to arm themselves, it appeared that Langton's rats were attempting to criticize Jonah's mood.

“Mr. Langton,” he said with caution, “I was not aware that my demeanor had been bothering anyone. I keep my head down. I come here, I do my work, and I go home. I have never heard of anyone having a concern with my mood, whatever you have been told.”

“I never said anyone told me anything,” said Langton, who must have forgotten that he had just said that he wasn't the only one who thought so. “I'm simply saying that we must support each other with a kind word, a congratulatory pat on the back, or with a pleasant smile. Positivity is infectious, after all. You never know who is watching!”

Amen to that one, thought Jonah, irritated. Apparently his face betrayed him yet again because Mr. Langton looked reproachful. “See that face there? That could be remedied with a nice smile! You might benefit from improving your posture as well, and a little exercise could take care of that! It isn't like it would kill you to lose about ten pounds.”

Jonah eyes narrowed. “I'm sorry?”

Mr. Langton flashed that stupid grin. “Sorry is not a good way to be either, son!”

Jonah had to get out of there. Langton's comments had pissed him off. That man had some nerve to say that someone was overweight when he probably hadn't seen his own toes in years. The ones going on about his “miserable” demeanor were revealed the minute he exited the conference room as they were the ones that stared hungrily at him before they looked in opposite directions: Jessica Hale, an unabashed sycophant who successfully distracted people from her snarky and devious nature with her perfect figure, and Anthony Noble, a useless slacker who couldn't seem to grasp the fact that the fun-loving, devil-may-care days of high school and college were behind him, no matter how youthful his wavy hair, boyish features, and slim frame made him look. In Jonah's opinion, his looks didn't make him appear ageless. They made him look immature, vapid, and precocious. What was worse was the fact that Anthony might have actually been tolerable if he didn't cater to Jessica's every whim. He did whatever she asked in a fruitless hope to obtain a date, a compliment, or simply an acknowledgment of existence.

“Hello, Jonah!” said Jessica with false brightness. She brushed her strawberry-blonde hair out of her face and stood to meet him. “He didn't tear you down too badly, did he?”

Remembering that he was under tight scrutiny, Jonah replied, “Nah, Jess … he didn't. Just got some pointers.”

“Nothing wrong with getting a leg up, man,” chimed in Anthony, eyes toward Jessica and nowhere near where he spoke. “We all need to remember when to put on a happy face.”

“How do you—?” Jonah began, but Nelson appeared behind him.

“How about the new hour, Jonah? Guess we will have to need an extra hour of sleep to balance out the universe!”

Even though he was still annoyed at Anthony and Jessica's nosiness, Jonah couldn't help but smirk at Nelson's joke. It was just like him to diffuse a situation, and Jonah didn't want to bother with the snitches. He allowed Nelson to steer him away. When they reached their cubicles, Nelson's smile faded, and he suddenly looked tense.

“You know better than to let those two get to you, Jonah,” he told him. “What did the big man want, anyway?”

Jonah told him Langton's ridiculous remarks. Nelson glared at the conference room and scratched his stubble again.

“You don't need to worry about that, man,” he told him, “nor do you need to worry about his little stooges either. What you need to do is ditch this place and finish up your books!”

Jonah merely smiled. He was an aspiring novelist and loved to write from a very early age. A few people said he had a way with words, but in his own mind, his largest problem was that he could never bring any books to completion. He never could understand why his ideas would start out white-hot in the beginning and then always fizzle out somewhere near the halfway point. In his apartment right now, there were four “novels” that had been all but abandoned. Out of all the people who were privy to his writing aspirations, Nelson was the one who was the most supportive and actually entertained the notion that Jonah could go somewhere with it. This opinion, however, was not shared by all. Several detractors had described his talents as “amateur” and said he needed to focus on a “real” job. For that reason, Jonah couldn't bring himself to be too vocal about it and usually kept it close to the chest.

“I would love to complete a novel, man,” he told Nelson, “but I can't seem to make it work. Maybe it's just a pipe dream. Not reality, you know?”

Nelson shrugged. “Who knows, Jonah? You could be a great author. And I don't mean one of those who are lost in the shuffle. I mean one that changes the world.”

Jonah looked at Nelson, who was worked up with excitement just thinking about possibilities for Jonah's future. Jonah couldn't help but allow glimmers of the same vision to permeate the negative cloud that shrouded his mind. It'd be great to have the safe haven of a padded chair, a comfortable table, and mounds of paper just waiting to be covered with spellbinding tomes, all-encompassing verses, and thrilling tales that would etch their place in history and remain undeterred in the annals of time.

The exhilarating fire was extinguished when he saw the portly figure of Langton, who heartily inquired about people's days in a thinly veiled attempt to determine how much work they had done. He plopped down into his chair, refreshing the page on his computer.

“It's a nice thought, Nelson, believe me,” he said. “But until 6 p.m. tonight, these reports are the only things I'm authoring.”

At 5:54 p.m., Jonah could swear that the clock had slowed simply to spite him. He had finished all of his work but kept the page up on his laptop to maintain the facade of working. He had learned early on that if you finished your duties early, it did not result in gratitude. It resulted in further work. And he did not want another chore added on, lest he suffer further time in this hell hole. He chanced a glance at the clock once more.

5:55?! Seriously? He knew for a fact that it had been at least five minutes since he last looked at that thing!

He closed his eyes and recited the alphabet with three breaths in between each letter. It was a trick he started in elementary school. It always worked wonders for making time pass, and better yet, he rarely ever finished. It was sure to work. Sure enough, before he had even reached the letter P, Langton called, “Alright, my friends! The workday is now completed! I would like to thank you all for being troopers. Remember, you are helping ALL of us keep our jobs! Good evening.”

Jonah packed his laptop gratefully. That tactic worked every time. He headed for the door, grateful to hear the exit signal's rhythmic chimes.

It was on the third chime that it happened.

Jonah blinked, a natural occurrence that he had done a billion times. Only in this momentary closing of his eyes, he opened them to bear witness to a very strange phenomenon. The world around him—the office, the parking lot, the cars, everything—looked blue.

They were perfectly normal in every other regard, but it seemed as if someone had shaded his vision with cerulean. Alarmed, he glanced around and blinked hard. It made no difference. The blue veil remained.

His eyes shot up to the sky, which now had an even darker hue because of the blue veil over his eyes.

What the hell is going on? he wondered wildly. What had happened? Had he damaged his eyes? Had he suddenly contracted some rare disease that had polarized his eyes and resulted in a permanent tinge of blue?

“Jonah Rowe,” said a voice.

He whirled around. A woman stood there, swaddled in what looked like fading lights. Her hair was dark, made darker by the bluish tinge. Her eyes were wide set and full of fear. She might have been pretty if she didn't look so horrified and desperate.

“Jonah Rowe,” she repeated again.

“What is going on?” demanded Jonah. “Why is everything blue? Who are you?”

“Jonah Rowe,” she said for a third time. Her voice was as strange as her appearance; it sounded like a two or three-part harmony. She also sounded like she spoke to him from several yards away, though she stood right in front of him. “You must help us all. You have the power. Help us. Please.”

Jonah was more confused than ever. “What power? What are you talking about, lady? And tell me why everything is blue!”

“You are the one,” said the woman. “You must help us cross on. He has blocked the path.”

Jonah backed away from her. “Lady, I don't know who you are or who he is, and I don't know anything about any paths! Now tell me what's going on!”

“You must help us! Please, Jonah Rowe! You have the power. Please—!”

She disappeared. It looked as though it had been against her will, like she'd been yanked into thin air. The silence left in her absence seemed even more frightening than her disconnected voice.

Then a cat's meow whipped Jonah around once more, almost like his body was moved in response to the sound.

He now saw, if possible, an even stranger sight. A calico stared at him while pawing at the shin of a tall man that Jonah could have sworn had not been there moments before. He looked to be in his late thirties and was as calm as could be. He looked like this scene was entirely normal. Although the blue color shaded everything, Jonah could tell the man had a ruddy complexion and brownish black hair. His penetrating eyes looked like they could be grey. He had aquiline features and a demeanor that was almost regal. His casually dressed and cloaked form appeared to be shrouded in lights, just like the woman's form had been.

“Yes, Bast,” he said quietly, “I see now. It is indeed him. You have done well.”

His eyes rose to Jonah. “Jonah Rowe,” he said in an ominous tone, “I will be seeing you again. Go home now. Do not leave. I know who you are now. Unfortunately, he does too.”

Jonah stared. Was this some kind of joke? Who was this man? What was the deal with the cat? Why was the man talking to it? And where did he get off telling Jonah to go home and stay there?

“Look, man,” he said, fear and incomprehension blending to form a high-pitched voice most unlike his own, “I don't have a clue what's going on—”

“You do not,” interrupted the man. “But you will, son. You will. Heed my warning.”

Jonah opened his mouth to retort, but the man disappeared in a swirl of light. The calico gave him one more look of appraisal and then dashed into a nearby alley. Jonah blinked again.

Everything was normal. The deep blue sky was the only thing that was that color as the late afternoon gave way to evening. Incoherent chatter, passing cars, and bustling people once again dominated the scene.

Jonah looked around. There was no weird woman, no cat, and no tall, regal-looking man. He blinked again, just to make sure, but nothing had changed. Normalcy was evident in every detail of his environment.

“Um, Jonah,” said an annoyed voice, “if you don't mind, some of us actually have lives to live.”

Jessica was behind him; he was blocking her path. With a jolt, he realized he was back at the threshold of the office, at the exact spot where the weirdness had begun. How was he back where he started? He had moved at least five feet from the door when the world went blue, yet here he was like nothing had happened at all.

“Jessica,” he breathed, “didn't you see that? Didn't you see that blue?”

Jessica rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “I don't know what you've been using, Rowe, but the only thing blue out here is my car.”

She headed to her car, leaving Jonah bewildered and confused. He had barely even registered her snide comment. The only thing blaring in his mind was one question:

What the hell had just happened?

2 The Danger Zone

The drive home was a blur. Jonah's mind went in twenty different directions, none of which had a suitable or even understandable destination.

The world had gone blue, and it had made absolutely no sense. Then, some woman showed up and asked him for help. Then, the creepy man with the Garfield lookalike came into the picture and told him to go home and stay there.

Had it been a hallucination? Had he finally cracked under the stress of that stupid job? That wouldn't be a surprise. But that occurrence hadn't felt like a hallucination. It hadn't seemed like a figment of his imagination. He had never experienced his vision going blue. He couldn't begin to fathom what it could have meant.

And then that weird lady … “You must help us all. You have the power.”

What?

He tried to fit what had happened into some kind of logical compartment of his mind as the elevator opened on his floor. He felt the need to get to his apartment quickly so he could think. He was in such a mental overload that he didn't register the things he normally would have, like the flyer that advertised the biweekly tenant's meeting where they attempted to make the residents more sociable or the crack in the wall that the super always stated was “damaging to the décor,” yet he was too cheap to actually fix. He didn't even bother to register the slender and beautiful woman from 7D who walked by him in the hallway. She didn't seem to own any attire beyond form-fitting exercise gear, so the fact that he barely noticed her let him know that his current state of mind was indeed messed up.

He paused, gave her a tiny nod, and then he entered his apartment. The scattered nature of his belongings reflected his cluttered mind.

The only difference was that his mind was not proving as simple to organize as his apartment was.

The couch, television, and kitchen table seemed to cast eerie shadows. One flick of the light switch illuminated the scene. That was the solution to one problem, at least.

It had simply been a very vivid, imaginative event, he told himself. It was no secret that he hated his job and dealt with significant stress. He had heard somewhere that going through prolonged periods of stress without adequate rest would have detrimental effects, such as erratic behaviors, nausea, trouble breathing, and in extreme cases, temporary hallucinations. What had happened had to have been that. It would only make sense after that idiot Langton added an hour to work that day. He had been angry. Apparently, angrier than he'd thought.

Besides all that, he always had had an overactive imagination. His wild imagination was one of his most prized possessions, one of the reasons why he wanted to be a writer. He had always wanted to be one from the minute he developed the dexterity and strength in his hand to hold a pencil and pen. The problem (or so he had been told back then by well-meaning adults) was that his fascination with “fantastical tales” was unhealthy. In high school, he was told that his brand of writing was known as “grossly imaginative meandering” (he believed that the teacher who'd told him that, Mr. Tann, had invented that classification as he hadn't heard it before or since) and was evidence that he was “incapable of modern writing and was dedicated to imitating the writing styles of authors hundreds of years in the grave.

Despite such criticism, Jonah never truly deviated from his imaginative lore. He continued to write, but the years of unconstructive criticism eventually succeeded in taking the wind out of his sails. Something about it was missing, something that he couldn't put his finger on. He couldn't remember the number of stories and (as he got older) novels that he had begun with reckless abandon only to run out of steam around the midway point. It was infuriating. Perhaps all the stressors he'd experienced came to a head and formed that disturbing occurrence. Yes, that had to be it.

He attempted to distract himself by taking another stab at the writing. At the moment, he had about four unfinished novels on his coffee table. Wait. He rearranged some papers and realized that there was a fifth that he'd forgotten. He shook his head, put on his reading glasses, and picked up the first one. It was an epic tale that had hit a snag at page 217. He put his pen to the page and hoped for an inspiration.

He blinked hard. Right there, in his handwriting, were the words, “You are wrong. This isn't your imagination.”

And the text was written in black ink. These words, however, were light blue.

The same blue he'd seen earlier.

He closed the half-book and shoved it away. He grabbed another book he'd been working on, not even bothering to process what he'd just seen.

This one was a quick-witted and fast-paced comedy of errors. He went to the last page he was on and realized that he didn't recall the plot. He had discarded this one quite some time ago. Grimacing over the lapse in memory, he flipped some pages back to re-familiarize himself with the story.

Jonah paused on page forty-eight. Right in the middle of a dialogue between his protagonist and a potential romantic interest was a random sentence that was in blue ink: “I'm not kidding. This is real. Real as it is ever going to get.”

Jonah straightened. He was a completely rational being and perfectly sane. How could he have graduated high school, voluntarily attended school another four years, and then stay on for an additional two years if he had been insane?

“I'm not crazy,” he told himself. He tossed the comedy aside and grabbed a collection of poems and random thoughts he'd had as a teenager. He looked them over, chuckling at the thoughts he'd had in his head as a teenager. While several poems were corny, some of them were pretty cool. Profound, even. He could alter the world with his work if only someone gave him a chance, and of course, if this cursed writer's block would fade.

He turned to a page dated 7/9/2000, which put him around thirteen years old when he wrote it. He remembered the words on the page, a wonderful brainstorm of his that dealt with a reluctant hero destined to tip the balance in some fictional conflict. He thought about the fertility of his adolescent mind when the notebook felt rather tepid, and then unbearably hot.

Jonah shouted and flung the pages down. They scattered across the floor. As though they were sentient, the pages reconfigured themselves into an organized collection, with one deliberate change. The poem from 2000 was now situated at the top of the pile. The stanza that made up the center of the poem began to steam. Then the black letters burst into flames, which didn't damage the rest of the paper. The words burned for a full thirty seconds, and then the flames extinguished themselves. The page flew from the top and spun toward Jonah's sweaty palm. Reflexively, he caught it. He stared down at the formerly black letters which were now light blue on the paper. The stanza went:

“The hero had emotions to master,

Numerous talents to unearth and hone,

For the day was swiftly approaching that

He was heading for a danger zone.”

A chill went down Jonah's spine.

What the hell was this?

He threw the page down and shrank away from it like it was diseased. He went near the window. Maybe the night air would alleviate the fear that riddled his wall of certainty like a hail of bullets. As he looked out of his window, he noticed that this new anxiety that coursed through him was far more pronounced than it had been earlier that day. Not only did this not feel like it would fade anytime soon, it seemed to carry ominous threats and worries.

The silence in the alley behind his building, which he usually lauded if he'd tried to write, was now piercing and eerie as though there were some beast just waiting to let loose a wave of disconcerting sound. The darkness made him uneasy. The shadows outside seemed to hold secrets and dangers that were threats to not only Jonah but to the unsuspecting populace that made up the city nightlife.

Jonah felt a tinge of annoyance amongst his dread. Yes, this had been a weird and disturbing day, but here he was, a grown man, with qualms about the dark. Just how stupid and juvenile was that?

But, a voice in the back of his head reminded him, these are not random occurrences. The world, at least in his eyes, turned blue, and no one else seemed aware of it. Then there was the woman that cried for help, the calico, and the man who told him to lock himself down. He had tried to write it off as psychological, but then he experienced the thing with the words on the pages that changed from black to light blue. He headed toward the bathroom for a cold shower. He decided that attempting to rationalize these things might lead to something else.

A shrill sound pierced the night from somewhere outside his window. He darted back to it, afraid that a child hung off of the ledge or something. But when he looked outside, he saw that it hadn't been a child.

The sound had been made by a cat.

With a start, Jonah realized that the cat was the same cat he'd seen at the office earlier. It was at the very edge of the terrace and shied away from something he couldn't see. Then Jonah saw a man kneeling in front of the calico. He literally materialized out of thin air. He was so focused on the cat that his features appeared bestial. He was oddly shaded and pale; he resembled a character depiction from a newspaper comic strip, gray and angular with dark circles shaded in on his face, neck, and arms. Jonah looked at him in amazement and horror.

Was he looking at a spirit? And why would a spirit want to harm a cat?

Then he remembered something he'd read years ago about how cat's eyes could make out spirits and apparitions that human eyes could not. Although the bit of knowledge was rather intriguing, it did nothing to help this particular situation. It also didn't explain why Jonah could see the spirit. There was nothing feline about his eyes.

The spirit crawled toward the cat while the cat tried to shrink away. But Jonah could see that soon, there would be no more room. That cat was running out of space, and if something wasn't done, it would fall into the dark, unseen alleyway. Jonah had to do something, but what?

“Jonah.”

It was that man again. He'd just appeared. His sudden appearance startled Jonah so much that he jerked his head upward and slammed into the bottom of the windowsill. Staggered and dazed, he sank to his knees, clasping his head. It felt as though his cranium had been caved in. He slowly turned in the direction of the man, who was visible again once Jonah's jarred senses re-aligned and his eyes came back to focus.

“My sincere apologies for startling you, son,” he said. Jonah couldn't help but wonder about his crisp and formal voice, which sounded like he was using diction from an era many years removed. “But yes, that is indeed a spirit you see. He is attempting to kill my herald.”

Jonah's head was still smarting, so it took him a bit of time to process this new information. He glanced at the spirit once more. He was about to swipe at the calico, which would have surely knocked it off its perch, but then he realized he wasn't alone. He abandoned the cat completely and headed straight for Jonah.

Then a very strange thing happened.

Time slowed down. Not to a standstill, but to a speed halted enough that Jonah noticed it. The spirit still moved forward, but the time halt made his movements seem slow, deliberate, and dramatic. Jonah also noticed that the spirit, a spectral being, was making audible footsteps on the terrace. The regal-looking man sighed, and Jonah looked back at him.

“I'm sorry about this, but fighting him personally will exert too much of my essence at this time. You must do something about it. Consider this a crash course. Again, I apologize.”

He looked at Jonah. “You have been endowed,” he said. And then he vanished.

Instantly, Jonah felt different. His head didn't throb anymore. The fatigue and fears of the day evaporated like water droplets in heat. He was aware of his surroundings in a manner that was most surreal. He could tell that the alleyway below was lined with six dumpsters that did very little to accommodate the heaps of rotting garbage spilling out of them. He was on the terrace himself now, but he didn't recall when he'd climbed out of the window. He felt as if he had had twenty hours' sleep and then supplemented that rest with caffeine. It felt like a cross between a sugar high and an adrenaline rush.

He hadn't even noticed that the environment had resumed real time. The spirit was quickly approaching, heavy footsteps and all.

Somehow, Jonah was ready. He looked at his television through the apartment window. Strangely aware of what to do, he inhaled deeply and tensed. The television moved slightly, began to tremble, and then a shapeless mass of bluish-white current extracted itself from the set and hovered several feet from it. Somehow, Jonah understood that the current needed transport. He raised his left hand to keep the current in place. The murderous spirit noticed these activities as well, and his eyes widened in shock.

Jonah paid no attention to the spirit's reactions and used his right hand to harness portions of the night air. He hadn't realized it until that moment, but he was able to see the wind gusts and spurts. What was usually an invisible act of nature was now a valuable tool. It made bluish gray outlines against the backdrop of the velvety night sky.

Feeling an adequate portion of wind in his hands, Jonah formed it into a net, which he then guided toward the stationary current. It caught and then headed at the spirit, who gaped at Jonah.

“You … you're this powerful already?” he sputtered, aghast. “But how can that be?!”

The current collided with the spirit. He shouted in agony; his form was utterly overwhelmed. Jonah watched in awe as the voltage seemed to be increasing in intensity. The very air smelled of heat…

Then the spirit's form shattered. The remnants caught on the breeze and were scattered into the night. The remaining ones flickered white for a moment and then faded. The calico looked Jonah right in the eye, and Jonah could swear that the look in its amber eyes was one of gratitude. It meowed and hurried off.

Then Jonah nearly collapsed. He certainly would have if he hadn't had the frame of mind to balance himself against the wall. The boundless energy he'd just been in possession of was now completely gone. It had faded as immediately as it had come. He was now so tired he was almost beyond rational thought. His legs felt wobbly and numb, as though he'd run thirty miles at full speed and hadn't bothered to pace himself.

He also noticed that his mind, which had just been so clear and alert, was now back to its normal state. That was not a good thing as the normal state was always muddled. Every trace of clarity he'd had minutes before was gone.

With extreme difficulty, Jonah managed to sling his weight into the open window and drag himself to the couch. He could go no further. This was going to have to do for the night. He knew that if he tried to make it to his bed, he would likely fall down and bang his head against something.

Despite the heavy fatigue, Jonah wondered about the night's occurrences. Had he really seen a spirit? Two spirits, if he counted that strange man that had just appeared again? And strangest of all, did he just channel Zeus and summon wind and electricity? Had all that truly happened just now?

The answering machine jarred him out of his sluggish reverie. “Hey, Jonah? This is Jim Ogilvie, your neighbor in 7G. I was wondering if you could fill me in about the tenant's meeting? I can't make it because I've got PTA tonight. I'd almost rather go to the meeting, because at PTA, I'm probably going to sleep like the dead!”

“Not words I want to hear right now,” slurred Jonah. He managed to position his body into a comfortable position on his couch and instantly fell asleep.

3 Space and Time

It was the stiffness in his neck that awakened Jonah.

Morning sun rays had cast a glow against the wall of Jonah's living room, which gave him enough light to make out how to maneuver himself. The dream he'd had the evening before had been interesting, albeit disturbing. He'd dreamed that a normal day at work (which was to say, miserable) ended in the world around him being shrouded in blue. Then there was a muddled collage of memories that involved cats on the ledge, spirits with murderous intent, and guys that looked like misplaced nobility who spiked him with some kind of sugar high.

The dream had been so vivid, but that didn't spark his interest. He'd had plenty of wild dreams that involved some literary spark for a book. And those sparks were nothing to brag about. The last thing he needed was another beautiful idea that would fizzle out before he'd even edited or shaped it.

The call of nature forced Jonah off the sofa. Shaking his head again at his literary limitations, he made his way to the bathroom. The sounds of his footsteps were welcome against the silence in his apartment, plus Jonah didn't object to the extra jolt that the noise gave him.

He threw some cold splashes of water on his face to finish the wakeup process, dried his face, and stared at his reflection. He lowered his eyes to his torso, and remembered Mr. Langton's crackpot advice: “It wouldn't hurt to lose ten pounds or so.”

Jonah had never really cared about his weight. He ate what he wanted but made a point to never gorge. His grandmother had told him that his father had had hypertension, and she hadn't wanted him to eat his way to the same risk. So he never really overdid it. What he noticed in the mirror was neither a six-pack nor a trim waistline. But it was still laughable for Langton, who resembled a bald, badly-tanned Santa, to criticize him.

“Idiot,” muttered Jonah to himself, and exited the bathroom. He went into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice when he saw a random page on the floor near his laptop bag.

“How did you get down there?” he said aloud. He picked it up and turned on the kitchen light so he could see it. He dropped it.

On the page, in blue ink, were the words danger zone.

All desire for juice was forgotten. He backed away from the page. Last night had not been a dream. The blue, the spirits, the power … it had all been real. Each memory came back into focus, and he found it increasingly more difficult to breathe.

His cell phone vibrated loudly. He yanked it from the counter, thankful for a distraction. Any distraction. “Hello? Who is it?”

“Mornin', friend!” It was Nelson. Thank God. If Nelson called, it was validation that he was at least on the right planet if nothing else.

“Good morning,” returned Jonah. “What's up?”

“I was just calling to make sure you were all right,” said Nelson. Something in his voice made this seem as though it should have been obvious.

“Yeah?” asked Jonah. “Why?”

“Um … because it's a quarter after ten, and you aren't at work,” said Nelson.

Jonah glanced at the microwave clock. Sure enough, Nelson was right. He was officially late for work. He swore loudly.

“Has anyone been running their mouth about it?”

An irritated intake of breath on Nelson's end confirmed his suspicions. “As you know, Jess and Tony made a big stink about it. Langton started his vacation yesterday.”

Jonah swore again. Great. Just great.

“Jonah, the big man isn't here, so you know he has his snitches on high alert. Jess and Tony have already been grumbling to anyone who will listen, and they are just the obvious snitches. The sooner you get here, the better.”

Despite their friendship, there was a trace of sternness in Nelson's voice, which caused Jonah to jump to his own defense. “Nelson, don't you think I know I'm in trouble? I understand what type of situation it is. It is not my fault I'm late. I had a very long night last night and didn't sleep well.”

The silence on the opposite end now had an intriguing ring to it. “Long night? Really? And here I was, just thinking you overslept because you hate this place!”

It took a second to figure out what Nelson meant, which further annoyed Jonah. After the freaky occurrences of the previous night, he assumed Jonah had had an escapade? “It was not like that, Nelson,” he said through gritted teeth. “My night involved, uh, more serious matters.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Nelson, obviously bemused. “Is it something that you want to discuss?”

“No,” said Jonah quickly, his hands on his keys and his eyes on that page with the blue ink. “Since it was what made me late, I don't care to think about it. Just run some damage control for me, will you?”

Nelson snorted. “You know I have your back, friend,” he said, and they hung up.

Jonah knew that the last thing he needed was a speeding ticket, but he floored the gas until he was within minutes of the office. He slung his bag over his shoulder and broke into a light run. The last time he'd checked his clock, it had been a quarter to eleven. Damn.

He walked in the door, cursing those wretched entrance chimes that betrayed his presence and nullified any hope of sneaking in. Strangely, though, everyone appeared to be settling in themselves.

That was weird. There must have been a fire drill or something.

Inches away from his cubicle, he saw Jessica, who was wearing her usual strategically-buttoned blouse and short skirt. She caught his eye and made to say something, but he decided he didn't want to hear it.

“I already know, okay?” he said, venom in his voice to mask the fatigue he felt. “It happens to the best of us. You're not a perfect employee either, Hale. Just let it go and let me get to my cubicle.”

Jessica blushed. “What are you babbling about, Rowe?” she demanded.

Jonah's eyes narrowed. Was she really going to do this? “Jessica,” he said slowly, “I know what time it is. I know you were probably chomping at the bit to see me get here so that you could scold me in front of everyone. Well, I've taken your steam. Everyone knows it's eleven a.m., and I showed up just now. That's what you were going to say. You know it, and I know it.”

Jessica frowned at him. “I was going to ask whether you had your head on straight this morning,” she said. “After your 'blue' thing yesterday, I wanted to make sure you were fit to work. But given what you just said, I can only assume not.”

A trace of caution dulled his irritation, if only mildly so. He'd forgotten that he'd mentioned the blue to Jessica. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

She glanced over at Anthony, who had snaked over so quickly that Jonah hadn't noticed him. “What it means, Rowe,” she said, her voice terse, “is that it is not eleven a.m.”

She pointed a French-tipped nail at the nearest clock, which read EIGHT a.m.

Jonah stared. That couldn't be right. The shift had just started? If that were the case, why had Nelson called him to see what had been going on? Why had his oven clock read 10:15 when Nelson called? Why had the clock in his car read 10:47 before he stepped into the office?

“Is this some sort of joke?” he asked. “I overslept and got up at ten something. Nelson gave me a call and wanted to see if I was sick. I got here just now and was accosted by you. Nelson!”

Thankfully, Nelson had watched the situation unfold and was already on his way over. But his expression didn't look like one of greeting; he looked confused as he walked their way. “Yeah?”

“Tell them you called me this morning,” said Jonah.

“Yeah, I did.”

Jonah exhaled in relief. “And you called at 10:15, right?”

A truly pronounced look of confusion settled on Nelson's face this time, but he recovered beautifully. “Come on and have a seat, man,” he muttered as he steered Jonah away from the piercing eyes of Jessica and the curious ones of Anthony. “Langton's vacation started today, so we can finish our work in peace, at least from him.”

Once they had privacy, Nelson said, “You all right, man?”

Jonah's eyes narrowed. “Of course I'm all right. I'm just trying to figure out why all the clocks say eight-something when it's eleven-something!”

Nelson, to Jonah's surprise, was beginning to look worried. “Jonah, where did you get that? It's 8:06; the workday just started. We all got here on time.”

Jonah couldn't understand why Nelson kept up this pretense, especially after he corroborated the morning call. “Nelson, stop pretending. You called me this morning. You just said so over there.”

“Yeah, I did,” said Nelson, more quietly because Anthony still watched them. “But I didn't call you about being late. I called you because I was going on a breakfast run this morning, and I wanted to know if you wanted anything.”

Jonah blinked. “When was that?”

“About five after seven,” said Nelson.

Frowning, Jonah took out his phone and checked the call history. There was a missed call from Nelson that corroborated the early a.m. time. There was no record of a call from 10:15.

Jonah nearly dropped the phone. All these things were too much. First, there were the things that happened yesterday, and today, time jumped back three hours.

“Jonah, are you okay?” repeated Nelson, concerned.

Jonah glanced at the computer screen, which now read 8:12 a.m. “I'm all right, friend,” he said, though he wasn't so sure anymore. “Just fine. Rough night of sleep just threw me off. That's all.”

* * *

Over the next two weeks, no further strange occurrences happened to Jonah. His senses were on higher alert than usual, but after a few days, he believed that everything was all right. Jonah was normally a curious person and desired to know how things ticked. There had been a time when he would have wondered why such strange things had happened in such rapid succession, but his curiosity was nonexistent this time. He was grateful that his life was once again uneventful. No frightened spirits asked for help, no weird cats were around except the usual strays, and no freakish winds or currents. He decided that that damned job pushed him to the edge. But the weirdness was over now.

That didn't stop the dreams, though.

Under normal circumstances, Jonah's dreams were a muddled collection of ideas and thoughts, riddled with inspirations that needed no further exploration since they would come to naught anyway. His dreams would also be teeming with fractured visions brought on by stressors from work. Many nights, he had either grumbled himself awake about reports or had snapped himself awake talking to Jessica.

But his dreams had changed. While the jumble was as present as ever, some aspects of his mind had a new dimension to them. They now contained various people of all ages, and they seemed to be afraid of something. They were all shackled and fettered and had the physical builds of broken slaves. The shackles would fall away, and their bodies would transform to upright, robust, and strong. Then the chains would return, and their bodies would devolve to the subjugated forms once more. The piteous expressions would return as well, but when he moved to help them, the chains would tighten, and the figures would disappear from sight. These dreams would always be bathed in blue which would immediately change to a dismal gray once the chained individuals were extracted from his line of sight.

Thankfully, Jonah didn't linger on these dreams when he was awake. His mood and mind were assuaged when he looked at his manuscripts and saw that the blue in his dreams had not leaked out of his subconscious and onto the ink of his texts. Life, again, was normal.

Unfortunately, there was a price to pay for that too. With normalcy came all the usual trappings and the usual stress. Once again, being an author was a pipe dream, and his creative stores were as dry as the ink in which he'd recorded his quotes and partial manuscripts. Work was worse than ever. Langton had returned from his vacation more obnoxious, more overbearing, and more rotund than ever. Nelson had confided in Jonah that the day he steered him from Jessica, he had done so in an attempt to deprive her of the ammunition he would surely have provided for her snitching and gossip. While that had been a very kind thing for his friend to do, he needn't have bothered. Not only had Jessica informed Langton of Jonah's “blue” question and the time miscommunication, she'd also, from what Jonah had heard from tidbits at the water cooler, twisted it to make it seem like he spouted weird things like that the entire time Langton had been gone. What followed were two private conversations with Langton where Jonah diligently tried to undo the damage Jessica had caused, but to his frustration, it seemed to sound like further ramblings. Now Langton kept an even closer eye on him, aided by his faithful office spies, most notably Anthony and Jessica. Anthony was easy enough to blow off as he was only present when he wasn't doing some degrading, dignity-sacrificing deed that furthered his status as Jessica's unrequited love slave, but Jessica herself put Jonah in a real bind. If he said something to her, it would immediately be taken to Langton and twisted, but if he ignored her, then he would hear some trash from Langton about him being eremitic (Jonah was certain that Langton heard that term on his vacation and had waited for a situation to use it).

“You need to leave this place behind, Jonah,” said Nelson seriously one day as they finished lunch. “Yes, I've said it. You should quit.”

Jonah took a sip of soda. “And go where?”

“I don't know! Somewhere!” said Nelson unhelpfully. “You don't belong here, Jonah.”

Jonah raised his eyebrows indignantly, which prompted Nelson to wave a hand.

“You know what I mean, Jonah. Don't even try thinking that way. You have more sense than just about anybody in the office, me included.”

“That's not true—” Jonah began, but Nelson chuckled and lifted a hand.

“I'm fine with it. You just could stand to do better. Your writing—”

“Is a work in progress, with a hundred percent work and zero percent progress,” interrupted Jonah. “Nelson, I would love to write. Nothing would make me happier than to have people around the world sitting and contemplating the meaning of something I wrote. I don't know why I can't finish my works. I don't know why I keep losing steam. You know, my grandmother used to always say I had a spark. Seems like that spark only has a half-life.”

Nelson nodded. Jonah was so appreciative of that. Nelson would never try to diminish or belittle his grievances. It was such a refreshing change from some of the other people he knew.

“Don't think I don't hear you, Nelson,” he said. “I appreciate the praise. But my writing isn't working out, and my degree is in this field. I'm not qualified to do anything else. I'm ashamed to say I'm stuck.”

Nelson stood, having finished his food. “I disagree,” he said. “Your major is not a limitation, and you are not stuck. The door to opportunity is never locked, friend. It might be jammed and warped sometimes, sure, but never locked. You've just got to put some extra force behind your foot when you kick it down.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “If that's how you feel, then why are you here?”