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  Terra Obscura:

  Casebook Two

  Falling Against Gravity

  Michelle & Geoff Genge

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  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 written permission from the authors.

  Cover and Illustrations Copyright © 2019 Five Crow Road Publishing Company. Cover design and illustrations by Greg Webster Designs.

  Ink used in this publication is chlorine-free, and the acid-free interior paper stock is supplied by a Forest Stewardship-Council-certified provider that is made from 30% post-consumer waste recycled material.

  Copyright © Five Crow Road Publishing Company

  PO Box 274

  Murray River PE

  C0A1W0 Canada

  [email protected]

  www.terra-obscura-chronicles.com

  www.fivecrowroad.com

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-9993957-4-2

  Contents

  Title Page

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE: 1936

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  EPILOGUE: 1936

  WANT MORE TERRA OBSCURA?

  ABOUT THE AUTHORs

  DEDICATION

  We would like to dedicate this novel to Berry and Gideon. You have graciously put up with parents who spend far too much time with laptops in the evenings. But no matter how great the adventures are in these pages, they are nothing compared to how much fun it is to hang out with you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We would like to thank Greg Webster for the amazing artwork and cover. Sincere gratitude extended to Berry Genge, Chelsey Vankeymeulan, Kirstin Lund, Helen Kristmanson, and Eric Edwards for their fantastic and thoughtful feedback. Special thanks to Rex McCarville. We truly appreciate the eagle eyes of Shaun MacNeill and Tom Defusco. Their ability to see what others can’t is beyond impressive. Kudos to our copy editor Colleen McKie from Savvy Fox for helping us meet our tight timelines. Novels are made by communities, not just authors. Thanks to everyone involved.

  PROLOGUE: 1936

  The journalist wanted to start earlier this time. The last interview had gotten away from him and it was far too late when he left. He didn’t want that to happen again. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t chasing a dead story, but his gut nagged at him to keep going. Something had caught his attention in his research and he couldn’t leave it alone. Who was Charles Fort? Or more accurately – who was the real Charles Fort?

  Cursory groundwork investigation depicted Charles Fort as a mousy man who haunted the back recesses of local libraries in New York as well as a few in London before he died. He spent years obsessively scrawling notes on tiny strips of paper about weird things and strange occurrences that no one ever took seriously. He wrote a few books on the paranormal that the journalist had tried to read, but truthfully couldn’t make it through to the end. But while delving into several stories about the paranormal, the journalist noted that Charles Fort’s name kept being mentioned in obscure foreign newspaper clippings and exotic settings around the turn of the century. It didn’t make sense. It seemed like two different men, as if Charles Fort had lived a second, secret life. The reporter was keen to rectify the two versions, or at least find out which one was real. This was what brought him to the very elderly watchmaker. He wanted to tease out the truth from the cautious and cryptic clock smith. As a young man going through school, Fort had worked for the watchmaker and they stayed in touch over the years, so he might be a key source.

  The journalist even picked up a bottle of gin this time – as instructed – but the watchmaker would likely scoff at his choice of brand. What could he do? He didn’t drink gin himself. If fact, he couldn’t even afford alcohol most of the time. He squeezed out a living on a reporter’s wage and spent all of his earnings doing research for his own books on various supernatural phenomena. That’s where he was hoping to make a name for himself and hopefully some real money. When the old man suggested he bring a bottle of gin the next time he came by, he had been annoyed at the tiny man’s presumption, but then realized this might be his opportunity to hear the whole story. Plus, if he plied the old bugger with a couple of drinks – how many could he hold? – he might run off at the mouth all evening. It wasn’t the most honorable of schemes but as far as plans went, it seemed like a good one.

  He butted out his smoke and knocked on the derelict-looking clock shop’s door a little after five p.m. with his bottle of gin tucked neatly under his arm. He heard a number of metallic clunks before the door swung open, presenting the watchmaker’s scrunched up face. “Ahh, you again. Well, well. What kind of idiot brings gin and no pickled pearl onions? I’ve got some good dry vermouth on hand but you can’t make a proper Gibson without pickled pearl onions. Who do you think I am? Some floozy hanging around a gin joint?” The watchmaker was a diminutive man in a wheelchair but had the biting tone of an angry headmaster. “Go up to Callahan’s on the corner of Chester and Church and pick up a bottle of pickled onions or don’t bother coming back. Get the good ones and make sure no one follows you.”

  And with that, the bossy centenarian grabbed the gin and slammed the door. The journalist could hear him cursing and complaining as the heavy door bolts loudly snapped shut.

  The journalist was pretty steamed at the old codger, but he did as he was told. He needed to hear the old man’s tale of the increasingly enigmatic Charles Fort. His journalistic instinct told him he was onto something and an annoying evening watching the old man getting tipsy would be worth it to get the leads he needed and the answers he wanted. He knew the story was within his grasp – he just need to buy some pickled onions to produce it.

  It was early December and the evening air was chilly. Snow would arrive in New York any day now. The journalist’s eyes watered as he walked into the cold wind. Callahan’s Groceria was farther away than the old man made it seem, and by the time the journalist returned it was past 6:30 p.m. and he was frozen to the bone. The pickled onions had used up the last of his pocket money which he had planned to spend on cab fare to get home at the end of the night. He already disliked how this evening was shaping up.

  This had better be worth it, he thought to himself as he approached the diminutive building with a weird sense of deja vu. This time, the remotely controlled deadbolts promptly released the small door and the dainty gold bell rang overhead as the door brushed under it. He followed the old man’s voice to the workshop in the back. There was a partition and a half wall dividing the storefront and the workshop. The old man had an extra lamp turned on and the light cast a warm hue on the various metals and dusty clock faces. A heavy worn floor showed the regular paths the tiny wheelchair followed for many years. There was a short cot and a squat pot belly stove with a stool next to it. The journalist hung up his hat and coat behind the stove and took the stool as his seat, moving it closer to the warm fire. He rubbed his han
ds as he looked around at the little storefront with its multiple shelves neatly crammed with both plain and beautifully ornate timepieces. The shop mostly contained pocket watches and mantle clocks, but in the corner behind the door stood a magnificent and rich grandfather clock with a dizzying amount of fine detail. It lay still and silent, covered with a thick layer of dust. The air was stale and for the first time, the journalist noted how quiet the space felt for a room filled with clocks. Not a hand turned nor a pendulum swung. It was like all the time had run out of them.

  The watchmaker mixed up a couple of “proper” Gibsons and then took a long slow sip. An almost euphoric glow came over him. His rigid little body seemed to relax and settle into the elegant handcrafted wheelchair. “Ahh,” he sighed, “that’s the ticket, my boy. Sweet nectar of the gods. What do you think?”

  Tastes like turpentine, the journalist thought. “Mmm, good,” he nodded, not wanting to insult the bartender.

  “That taste takes me back to some wild nights at the Bohemian Club out in Frisco. Let me tell you, you’ve no idea what you missed.”

  After a few mouthfuls of gin, combined with a couple awkward and uncomfortable conversations, the journalist finally got to the point of the visit. He flipped through his notebook and pulled out a photo with yellowed edges. He handed the photo to the watchmaker who propped it against the vermouth bottle and pulled his magnifying glass over to examine it. The old man’s face lightened a bit, like he was remembering something. “Ah, Charles. So young and so vital,” he uttered.

  “So, sir, last time we spoke, I mentioned this old photo I found from 1907 of Charles Fort in Cairo. He’s dressed like an adventurer of some sort with a couple of other fellows. What was he doing in Egypt back then?”

  “He flew there to do research but then ended up running into an evil mummy.” The old man finished his drink. “Toss that one back and I’ll mix us another.”

  The journalist slouched and took a stiff drink. “Ahh, sir … an evil mummy?”

  “Yeah, a horrible bugger by any standard. Come on, drink up.”

  With wide eyes and a queasy stomach, the journalist slowly poured back his remaining drink. He winced as it went down. He passed the glass back to the old man. Wiping his mouth with his hand, he stated with some exasperation, “Respectfully, sir, this story has been impossible to believe right from the start.”

  “Oh, is it now? Why’s that?” The watchmaker looked at him sideways while mixing the drinks on his workbench.

  “Well, you say he flew there. I’m pretty certain he didn’t fly there in 1907. Did you mean sail or steam over?”

  “No, I said what I meant. I’m a man of precision. He flew there.”

  “Did he flap his arms all the way? He must have been tired,” the journalist jested.

  The watchmaker grabbed the wheel of his chair and spun around to face the smirking reporter. Then he wheeled right up to the sitting man’s face and looked him sternly in the eyes.

  “Watch it with the smart mouth, pup, or I’ll throw you out of here myself. It’s only out of respect for Charles’ memory that I tolerate you.”

  Strangely, the journalist believed him. He also noticed that the watchmaker rested his hand on the grip of the Colt Peacemaker holstered on the side of his wheelchair. This drove home the message. “My apologies,” he replied.

  “Good, then.” The old man wheeled back to mixing two more proper Gibsons.

  “How did he fly there in 1907? The Wrights were just barely getting off the ground then and there was no transatlantic flight until after the war.”

  “Charles Fort built his own flying ship – the Nimbus. And he flew it all over the world, that’s how.”

  The journalist just stared at the watchmaker as he passed him another drink. “I see…” He was beginning to regret spending his hard-earned money on gin and pickled pearl onions. “And how did this Nimbus ship fly exactly?”

  “Well, that story really starts way back in 1897 in a little town in the middle of nowhere Texas named Aurora. You can look it up if you don’t believe me.”

  The journalist nodded with interest. He had heard of an incident in Aurora, way back, and wondered if it was related. “Go on,” he said, taking another sip as he opened his notepad and started scribbling notes. He wasn’t sure what was stranger, the idea that Charles Fort built a flying airship or that the Gibsons were starting to grow on him.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was breezy along the old pasture. Will had to stop for a bit so that he could get some of the flower dander out of his eye. It floated along with the wind so innocently, but once it caught under his eyelid, it scratched like an itchy sweater. Will knew his brother thought he was pokey and slow, so he had tried for a while to keep going along the path from the far pasture back to the farm, but he was starting to feel dizzy. His eye was involuntarily blinking and he couldn’t cope with it anymore; he had to stop. As he poked and wiped it, his companions impatiently waited and watched the various scenes of morning life in small town Texas in the distance below.

  The citizens of Aurora came to life the same way every day except Sunday. On this weekday morning, Milton’s barber shop already had bottoms in chairs and the produce man was showcasing his fresh, colorful wares. The livery stable and blacksmith’s shop were bustling with activity and Waylon, the local milkman, was slowly making his rounds through the side streets while homemakers hung out their Borax-white bed sheets and pillow cases. People were working and talking to neighbors. Most of the townsfolk were sweaty, even though it was still quite early in the day.

  The sun shone fiercely over the ridge and treetops. Black flies started to wake up and find the boys. Will plaintively followed his older brother, his friend, and the family cow. He wiped the back of his neck as he toddled along. It’s going to be another scorcher, he thought. The spring of 1897 came early and was the warmest anyone in Aurora could remember. The rain had been sparse and people were already worrying about drought and what the summer would bring.

  “Hurry up, Ruthie!” Georgie smacked the dairy cow’s hind haunch with his stick. “Pa said we don't git breakfast til yer home in the barn. And I'm starving now.”

  Will rubbed his eye again. “Don’t hit her, Georgie,” he called out with disdain. “She’s our best.”

  “Best at getting lost, ya mean.” Georgie looked back, wiping his sweaty, furrowed forehead. “Pa says that the coyotes is gonna get her one of these nights.” He pressed his dirty finger to his chest. “And guess who’s gonna be out in the gulch fixing the fence again?” The boy swatted the animal again. “Stupid cow!”

  Will shook his head and after a few minutes looked over to Garfield, “Thanks for coming out ta’ look for Ruthie with us.”

  “I don't mind. Nothing much going on at my house,” Garfield muttered as he shooed a fly away from his face. He took a deep breath of the warm, fragrant air. “Haven't had any boarders in at least three weeks. Ma seems awful sad lately, too.” He kicked the fluffy head off a dandelion and Will quickly ducked to avoid the parasol-looking invading floaters.

  Will smiled as he looked over at Garfield. “Well, at least it’s a nice morning for a walk,” he said, trying to sound mature and comforting. Garfield appreciated Will’s efforts at distraction. Garfield’s home life was a bit tense lately. No father and no money made things challenging, so he tried to find ways to keep himself otherwise occupied. The boys had big plans to go fishing at their secret hole once the cow was home, safe and sound.

  The three companions strolled along for another couple of minutes, feeling the heat and the long grass tickling at any torn parts of their clothing that exposed skin and scraped knees. It was the making of another typical day until Garfield yelled, “Geez, you two! Lookit way over there ... in the sky!”

  The boys all looked past Garfield’s pointed finger, towards their town. Aurora was set in a shallow valley, with the homes of the few wealthy families perched high on the northern ridge looking down over the houses below. The peacefu
l pasture land went on for miles, idyllically fanning out from the town. The brothers couldn’t figure out what Garfield’s fuss was about until they both noticed something strange in the blue sky off in the distance. Far above the pastures and buildings and townsfolk, a slow moving, silver-circled shape rose out of the south. It was as if their eyes were playing tricks on them. Were they out in the heat too long? Were they seeing things? Something didn’t make sense.

  “What is it, Gar? It’s in the sky. What could it be? I-i-is it Jesus?”

  “Reverend Hackett never described anything like that,” Garfield whispered.

  “Angels, maybe?” Will questioned as he rubbed his eye, this time with disbelief.

  Garfield took a moment to respond. “Possibly. I-I-I honestly don’t know,” he stammered.

  Georgie stepped forward past the two younger boys. He squinted hard and put both his hands to his brow, shadowing his eyes. The trio stood there, frozen for a moment, until Georgie solemnly stated, “That’s not frigging angels…”

  An object was in the sky but it wasn’t a bird and it wasn’t a cloud. It was like someone shot a shiny piece of metal in the air and it just stuck there. It looked like two tin pie pans smashed together or maybe even bottle caps, but smoother, with sunlight reflecting off its polished exterior. Occasionally, the saucer-shaped object crackled with electricity and then abruptly dropped altitude, belching puffs of gray smoke. Were angels or devils going to land in their town? Was this the rapture? All three boys were frozen, their mouths agape. This was something that few humans had ever seen before. There were no words to describe it. Somehow, they were looking at the impossible.

  Below, the townsfolk were having a similar nonsensical experience. Collectively, they stared and pointed at the perplexing object, not really knowing what else to do. Some dropped to their knees in prayer, some fainted. Everyone else was completely stunned, too enraptured to be afraid, but increasingly getting to the cusp of sheer panic. A slow-building frozen terror mesmerized all who could see the approaching phenomenon. Without clouds, it was impossible to even estimate its size as the strange object moved closer and closer toward them. Bewilderment at the unfathomable gripped the good people of Aurora as constructs and paradigms were being shattered. No one moved and hardly anyone spoke; they simply stared with hearts filled with a profound fear of the unknown.