Kinesis

Two men come to a house to interview a mother about her son and his strange abilities

Kinesis                                     

 

     George's mother stood in the middle of the tidy-yet-cluttered lounge. Her worn face was deeply lined with tiredness, shadows showing beneath eyes that had once long ago glimmered with hope and joy and love. There was only worry there now. And fear.

She was in her mid-forties, auburn hair lying loose and long over skinny shoulders. There were more grey hairs there than had been a month before. Many more. The plain green house dress she wore hung limply upon her frame as if she'd lost weight recently.

     “He's just upstairs in his room.” she was telling the two men.

     “He doesn't come down much, just stays up there. Playing video games mostly. Sometimes I get him to read, when he listens.”

     The two men were dressed the same, and even looked similar in many of their features, as though produced from the same mold. Each wore an expensive looking black tailored business suit, though cut a little wide in the shoulder. Both had dark, neatly cropped short hair in a tidy side-part on the left side, as though part of a uniform they shared. Even though it was dimly shaded in the lounge and through the windows the sky showed overcast, each wore a pair of plain black square sunglasses. Almost the same black as their suits and ties.

     There the similarities ended. The one standing closer to her was slightly older and taller than the other, with lines showing at the corner of his eyes and his hair winged with a sprinkling of grey. The other, behind him and nearer to the door was youthful, hands thick and strong where they hung from his shirt sleeves at his sides. He was tanned a hair darker shade, and his nose was straighter than the elders, whose looked broken and improperly reset. In all, a very official looking pair. Though she supposed they would be.

     “Ma'am, can you tell us a little about the time when the events began? In what frequency and magnitude did they begin?”

The woman sighed heavily.

     “Look I've been over this with everyone you people send in, a hundred times then a hundred more.” she looked beyond tired.

The leading man nodded in a sympathetic manner.

“Of course, ma'am, we understand. Me and my colleague here are… specialists. It would help our understanding greatly to hear the events from you directly,  rather than reports.”

     She raised an eyebrow.

“Specialists? Yeah that's what they all said too.”

     She sighed heavily and looked around, as if lost for a moment, then sat heavily down onto the overstuffed leather couch behind her knees.

     “Alright. Alright. Sit if you want.”

     Again, the older man, perhaps the senior of the pair spoke. He nodded politely.

     “Thank you, ma’am, we'll stand.” His partner near the door didn't move.

     “Suit yourself. Okay. It started four weeks ago I think. I'm not sure. It's… hard to remember sometimes.”

     He nodded again in his sympathetic way.

     “Try for us. Please.”

     “Yes. Yes alright. Four weeks ago, he came home from school. George. Usually he's a good boy, quiet. Does what he's told, chores and the like. He comes into the kitchen and said he wanted cereal. I said no, but he was… insistent. Forceful. Not like him at all. He started making it himself, and when I tried to stop him…” her voice shook with the last words and she gestured wordlessly at the coffee table just in front of her. There was a silvery metal spoon there, inconspicuous. The kind that would be found in any household cutlery drawer. It was bent around, nearly doubled over in two.

     “And he did this without using his hands?” The man asked.

     Her eyes began to water but she blinked furiously until it subsided.

     “Yes.” she whispered. “it just… bent right over like it was putty. He didn't even look at it. I'm not even sure he knew he did it.”

     The man turned his head slightly to the other, who came in further from the door, into the room. For the first time he spoke.

     “And then what happened?  There were obviously more events leading up to the… incident.?”

     She choked a humorless laugh.

     “Incident? If that's what you call it sure. I would have gone with ‘shitstorm’ but hey, you're the specialists.”

     Their silence in reply stretched, lacking any response to the humor. The older one frowned slightly.

     “Sorry. Sorry.” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Yeah there were more. A lot more.”

     “First the spoon. Then things started becoming damaged inexplicably. I'd come home from work, he'd be up in his room again. There'd be a broken vase, or plates still in the cupboards and shattered. Then I started seeing them happen while I was home. The kettle boiling by itself when no one turned it on. The TV changing channels by itself. Small stuff. Enough to make us think nothing much about it. Then once I was sitting in the lounge, with my husband. The coffee table - not this one - it just… up and flew straight through the front window. Smashed right through it, glass everywhere.”

     She gave a small, strained laugh.

     “It was stupid. We thought we were being haunted. I even called in a priest from the church down the way to bless the house. He was nice, said this kind of thing happened a lot. He thought we were jumping at shadows like normal people. We had no idea then that it was Georgie.”

     Hurriedly she flicked a finger under her left eye, across its shadows, banishing a single solitary tear.

     “It got worse. Much worse.”

     “We'd sent him to bed early. He was… misbehaving. Which wasn't like him. I was doing the dishes at the time. The house started vibrating. Then shaking, like really trying to tear itself down. We thought it was an earthquake. I went upstairs to get George, get him out of the house. It's an old building, not earthquake proofed like those newer ones. He was still asleep through it, so I carried him down. The shaking settled, and I was in the lounge with him, just there.”

      She raised a single bony finger and pointed just to the left of the older of the two men, at the carpet. Both were listening intently now, neither even looked where she pointed.

     “He woke up. Looked at me. Everything started… floating.” she blinked again.

     The older suit man frowned again.

     “Floating? “he asked.

She nodded.

     “As in levitating. In the air. The coffee table, the couch, the snow globes on the mantle over there. Everything that wasn't bolted down just kind of rose up.”

     “How high?” interjected the younger man. He seemed to be paying a keen attention now, as if this detail was of specific importance.

     She gave him an odd look.

     “I don't know exactly, I didn't have a tape measure. Maybe three, five inches?”

     “Sorry. Every detail is important.” apologized the one who'd queried. “when would you say this was?”

     Her brow furrowed. “Maybe two weeks ago. I'm not sure. Like I said, it's hard to remember sometimes. When I try think about the events, the memories get… fuzzy.”

     The older man nodded solemnly, in understanding.

“Of course, ma'am, it's alright. Please continue from there. You said it got worse?”

     Tears then filled her eyes. Tears she could not stop. They spilled down her face as she clasped hands over her mouth to keep from sobbing. Finally, voice cracking and eyes running she removed them.

     “Yes.” she croaked.

     “Things like that kept happening. The floating. And things moving suddenly. I don't know how he does it or even if he's in control, but they seem to happen when he gets emotional. Or when he has nightmares.”

     She breathed heavily for a moment, composing herself or readying for what was about to be uttered. From somewhere in the house, likely the kitchen came the soft chiming of an antique clock as the hour turned.

“My husband’s name is Steven. Was his name. He-he used to…” her water-leaden eyes flicked across the two men and then down at the carpeted floor.

     “He used to get rough. Only sometimes. Only w-when he was drunk, or I'd done something wrong. Something to upset him. I'm such a clutz sometimes.” She nervously prattled on.

     “Then. One night. This week, or the last I think. I was loading the washing machine. I-I knocked the bottle of washing detergent into the machine. It all spilled out. It's expensive you see. He was walking past and he-well he…” she trailed off and gave them that scared look again. As if talking about it was shameful somehow.

     “Anyway. I didn't hear George coming. I don't think Steven did either. He was just standing there. Watching us. I don't know how much he saw, then-” she broke off mid-sentence, though tried to continue through the sobs as they wracked her shoulders.

     “It made him upset. He-Steven-he’s not George's father. I remarried. When he saw what he was doing… there was blood. Blood everywhere, all over me. All over the walls. Steven was gone. It was if he'd just… exploded!” she broke down into more crying, beginning to rock in her seat on the couch. The two men could make out muffled words between her hands as she held them over her face to cry.

     “Everywhere. Blood everywhere… pieces of him… clothes… in my hair… police cleaned up… everywhere. Everywhere…” she broke down incoherently before them.

     Slowly, expressionless, the two men turned to each other. They said nothing.  Not even their faces changed in any form of communication. Just as slowly they turned back to the oblivious, crying woman before them.

      “Ma'am. Ma'am. We need to see the boy.”

     She looked up at them, sniffing heavily.

     “You-you won't take him will you? You won't hurt him? He's just a child. He's a good boy, none of this is his fault. Please.” That last came out pleading, the exhausted bereft woman leaning forward earnestly, begging.

     The older man nodded.

     “You have my word, ma'am. We will not hurt him or take him away.”

     She sniffed again and nodded. Without a word she rose from the couch and made around the coffee table, towards the door leading from the living room the younger of the two men was positioned by. She went out, into a hallway papered in white, faded floral patterns. The two men followed close behind, leather dress shoes slightly scuffing on the old carpet. The hallway led from the Livingroom straight for the front door, and the trio headed directly towards it, the bright light of day showing through the frosted glass laid inside it's wooden frame. They turned, and each tromped up the set of stairs leading up the left side of the hallway from the entrance to the house. There were two pairs of shoes stacked neatly in a rack in the entranceway.

     At the top of the stair she halted, hand upon the doorknob to a room at the beginning of a dim landing. Two other doors led off it, both also closed. The white floral wallpaper up here was water stained in one corner of the landing.

     “Just… try not to upset him. He's really a very good boy. Really.” she raised a hand and rapped smartly on the door.

     “Georgie? I've brought some people to see you. We're coming in to say hello.” she called loudly towards the door. Then opened it.

     The room was dim and shadowy, the slanting ceiling following the slope of the shingled roof outside. It rolled away from them and opposite them where it met a low interior wall there was a small single bed with a ruffled duvet and a slanted pillow. Both were deep blue emblazoned with brightly colored rocket ships and grey UFOS.   Across from it against the right wall was a tall bookcase laden with Lego toys, action figures and other such objects, only fulfilling it's intended purpose on the bottom shelf where large tomes about space and geography and sciences sat covered in dust. Looking unopened.

     Against the left wall there was a black TV cabinet upon which sat a boxy set, the screen rolling with color and flashes of light as an animated figure darted and dashed upon it. In front of the television sat a young boy, his hands curled around a game controller, black with thumb sticks jutting out and many bright buttons. He could've been no more than ten years old, perhaps younger with a shock of auburn hair which looked shiny but too long. Beneath an encroaching fringe his eyes stared, focused at the screen. He didn't look up at the intruders.

     “Georgie dear? Come now say hello to our guests.” Tutted his mother, stepping into the room and over to the focused child. He gave a sharp exhale of air through his nose. The game on the TV screen froze mid-action and he turned to look at the two men still in the doorway, half out in the hall.

“Hello.” he said simply, studying them with bored eyes.

     His mother fussed, ruffling his hair.

     “Come on, introduce yourself properly. You're being rude.”
     The boy got up. He paced across the room towards the two and extended a small, pale hand.

“Hello.” he said again. “I'm George. George Palten, nice to meet you.”

     The older man slowly extended his hand and gently took the much smaller one in it to shake.

     “It's nice to meet you too George. My name is Eli. Can I ask, how old you are?”

     The boy nodded.  “I'm nine years old. Ten next month though.”

     “I see. What are you playing?” The same man gestured at the television set with its frozen character on it. The youth’s face before him lit up.

     “Space invaders!” exclaimed the boy. Do you want to play too? I only have one controller, but we can take turns.”

     The man's face turned in the first expression he'd shown since entering the house. He smiled.

     “Thank you, George, but no. In fact, we had better be going. Again though, it was nice to meet you.” he looked up at the mother, serious again. She got the message.

     “Okay Georgie say goodbye. Keep playing your game and I'll be up soon with a snack.”

     “Goodbye.” piped the boy, already turning back to his game. He plonked back down on the floor in front of the TV and the picture resumed moving.

     The two suited men in the door turned and trooped back down the stairs, the younger leading the way this time. He went right for the door, opening it wide and turning to wait expectantly for his partner who remained just inside. George's mother stood a few steps up from them.

     “Mrs Palten. Thank you. This has been very helpful to our… investigation.” said the one named Eli, the elder of the two.

     “We will of course, be in touch with you further.”

     She nodded solemnly from the stairway.

     “Yes of course. Thank you. If there's anything you can do for him… please. Just let me know what I need to do.”

     Eli turned toward the door.

     “We will. Thank you for your time.”

     With that the two strode from the door, the younger closing it softly behind them with a soft click.

     They stepped forward across the wooden porch just outside. It was ramshackle, vines growing up the painted white trellis sides, dust and leaves inhabiting every crevice and corner. Cobwebs were slung above their heads, and the loveseat to their left hung slanted on its weathered chains.

     The pair stood there for a while, looking out at the bright sunlight upon the patchy green-brown lawn. It was an ugly house, to be sure, but it was a home.

     “Did you hear what she said?” The younger one muttered softly to the other.

“Mass levitation in two weeks. Two. weeks.”

     Eli sighed heavily.

“Let alone everything else.”

     “We've never encountered one this strong before. I'm not sure anyone has. What do we do?” asked his partner, still staring straight forward.

     “You know what we have to do, Jason. Bureau policy is absolutely clear. Nothing above a category five is to be allowed to remain.”

      The pair was silent for a while again before Eli spoke again.

     “When did her son die?” he asked.

     “Two weeks ago, was one year.” replied Jason.

      “Manifesting a physical entity. That's something on one has ever seen before, that's for certain.” Eli looked troubled.
     “He-it was solid. Real. I felt its hand, its heartbeat. It responded to us. Semi-sentient at least.”

     “Did you see what he was playing? Space invaders he called it. Definitely no space invaders I've ever seen.”

     Eli nodded. “No indeed. She's modelled him on her memories. Projecting. It's likely she has no concepts about video games at all, other than that he used to play them. A lot it seems. She’s using him as an explanation, a target for the events she creates. She gets upset, he gets upset. Things happen.”

     “So. what do we do?”

     Eli unbuttoned his jacket, slowly. The black immaculate material hung free. The suits they both wore, tailored but official looking. Cut too wide in the shoulder. He reached up with his right hand into the folds of his breast pocket and drew out a pistol. A compact black Glock seventeen 45.cal.

     “Policy leaves no room for interpretation, Jason.”

     Eli turned back towards the house, the glass paneled door still closed fast in front of him,and stopped. He breathed heavily.

     “I really hate this part.” he said.

     “If you don't want to come… I won't think any less of you. You're a new transfer. This is a bit out of your league.”

     Jason shook his head, and slowly drew his own pistol from his jacket holster in a fluid, practiced motion, holding it two-handed, barrel down.

     “Like you said, I'm a new transfer. I have to show the others I'm up for anything.”

Eli grunted. It had been a test, of course.

     “Good man.” he reached up with his free hand and grasped the door handle.

     “Oh, and Jason. I hope you fall well.”

     He opened the door.

     The house was a weatherboard two-story building painted sky blue what seemed like a decade ago, the paint peeling in many places and weeds growing in the lawn and garden immediately around it. It had drab brown tiles upon its roof with green lichen growing in places. Unkempt but not entirely delipidated. The entire house and a sizeable chunk of earth, torn and crumbling beneath it, hung suspended in mid-air. Fifty meters down, a great earthen chasm where it'd been torn form the ground yawned like a gaping maw. The pipes protruding from under the mass still dribbled water to fall, splattering into the crater below.

     Two dark black helicopters circled the scene, rotors thumping, windows tinted. Menacing.
     There were a series of gunshots.